Queen—­on all the earth
    Unmatched for beauty—­spake he piteously;
    Then breaks away once more, by Kali driven. 
    But yet another and another time
    Stole back into the hut, for one last gaze—­
    That way by Kali dragged, this way by love. 
    Two hearts he had—­the trouble-stricken Prince—­
    One beating “Go,” one throbbing “Stay”; and thus
    Backwards and forwards swung his mind between,
    Till, mastered by the sorrow and the spell,
    Frantic flies Nala, leaving there alone
    That tender-sleeper, sighing as she slept. 
    He flies—­the soulless prey of Kali flies;
    Still, while he hurries through the forest drear,
    Thinking upon that sweet face he hath left. 
      Far distant (King!) was Nala, when, refreshed,
    The slender-waisted wakened, shuddering
    At the wood’s silence; but when, seeking him,
    She found no Nala, sudden anguish seized
    Her frightened heart, and, lifting high her voice,
    Loud cries she:  “Maharaja!  Nishadha’s Prince! 
    Ha, Lord! ha, Maharaja! ha, Master! why
    Hast thou abandoned me?  Now am I lost,
    Am doomed, undone, left in this lonesome gloom. 
    Wert thou not named, O Nala, true and just? 
    Yet art thou such, to quit me while I slept? 
    And hast thou so forsaken me, thy wife—­
    Thine own fond wife—­who never wrought thee wrong
    When by all others wrong was wrought on thee? 
    Mak’st thou it good to me, now, Lord of men,
    That love which long ago before the gods
    Thou didst proclaim?  Alas!  Death will not come,
    Except at his appointed time to men,
    And therefore for a little I shall live,
    Whom thou hast lived to leave.  Nay, ’t is a jest! 
    Ah, Truant, Runaway, enough thou play’st! 
    Come forth, my Lord!—­I am afraid!  Come forth! 
    Linger not, for I see—­I spy thee there;
    Thou art within yon thicket!  Why not speak
    One word, Nishadha?  Nala, cruel Prince! 
    Thou know’st me, lone, and comest not to calm
    My terrors, and be with me in my need. 
    Art gone indeed?  Then I’ll not mourn myself,
    For whatso may befall me; I must think
    How desolate thou art, and weep for thee. 
    What wilt thou do, thirsty and hungry, spent
    With wandering, when, at nightfall, ’mid the trees
    Thou hast me not, sweet Prince, to comfort thee?”
      Thereat, distracted by her bitter fears,
    Like one whose heart is fire, forward and back
    She runs, hither and thither, weeping, wild. 
    One while she sinks to earth, one while she springs
    Quick to her feet; now utterly overcome
    By fear and fasting, now by grief driven mad,
    Wailing and sobbing; till anon, with moans
    And broken sighs and tears, Bhima’s fair child,
    The ever-faithful wife, speaks thus again:—­
    “By whomsoever’s