So hideous was the tumult,-all three worlds
    Seemed filled with fright; and one was heard to cry:—­
    “The fire is in the tents! fly for your lives! 
    Stay not!” And others cried:  “Look where we leave
    Our treasures trodden down; gather them!  Halt! 
    Why run ye, losing ours and yours?  Nay, stay! 
    Stand ye, and we will stand!” And then to these
    One voice cried, “Stand!” another, “Fly! we die!”
    Answered by those again who shouted, “Stand! 
    Think what we lose, O cowards!”
                                    While this rout
    Raged, amid dying groans and sounds of fear,
    The Princess, waking startled, terror-struck,
    Saw such a sight as might the boldest daunt—­
    Such scene as those great lovely lotus-eyes
    Ne’er gazed upon before.  Sick with new dread—­
    Her breath suspended ’twixt her lips—­she rose
    And heard, of those surviving, some one moan
    Amidst his fellows:  “From whose evil act
    Is this the fruit?  Hath worship not been paid
    To mighty Manibhadra?  Gave we not
    The reverence due to Vaishravan, that King
    Of all the Yakshas?  Was not offering made
    At outset to the spirits which impede? 
    Is this the evil portent of the birds? 
    Were the stars adverse? or what else hath fall’n?”
      And others said, wailing for friends and goods:—­
    “Who was that woman, with mad eyes, that came
    Into our camp, ill-favored, hardly cast
    In mortal mould?  By her, be sure, was wrought
    This direful sorcery.  Demon or witch,
    Yakshi or Rakshasi, or gliding ghost,
    Or something frightful, was she.  Hers this deed
    Of midnight murders; doubt there can be none. 
    Ah, if we could espy that hateful one,
    The ruin of our march, the woe-maker,
    With stones, clods, canes, or clubs, nay, with clenched fists,
    We’d strike her dead, the murderess of our band!”
      Trembling the Princess heard those angry words;
    And—­saddened, maddened, shamed—­breathless she fled
    Into the thicket, doubtful if such sin
    Might not be hers, and with fresh dread distressed. 
    “Aho!” she weeps, “pitiless grows the wrath
    Of Fate against me.  Not one gleam of good
    Arriveth.  Of what fault is this the fruit? 
    I cannot call to mind a wrong I wrought
    To any—­even a little thing—­in act
    Or thought or word; whence then hath come this curse? 
    Belike from ill deeds done in by-gone lives
    It hath befall’n, and what I suffer now
    Is payment of old evils undischarged. 
    Grievous the doom—­my palace lost, my lord,
    My children, kindred; I am torn away
    From home and love and all, to roam accurst
    In this plague-haunted waste!”
                                   When broke the day,
    Those which escaped alive, with grievous cries