Departed, mourning for their fellows slain. 
    Each one a kinsman or a friend laments—­
    Father or brother, son, or comrade dear. 
      And Damayanti, hearing, weeps anew,
    Saying:  “What dreadful sin was that I wrought
    Long, long ago, which, when I chance to meet
    These wayfarers in the unpeopled wood,
    Dooms them to perish by the elephants,
    In my dark destiny enwrapped?  No doubt
    More and more sorrow I shall bear, or bring,
    For none dies ere his time; this is the lore
    Of ancient sages; this is why—­being glad
    If I could die—­I was not trampled down
    Under the elephants.  There haps to man
    Nothing unless by destiny.  Why else,
    Seeing that never have I wrought one wrong,
    From childhood’s hours, in thought or word or deed,
    Hath this woe chanced?  May be—­meseems it may!—­
    The mighty gods, at my Swayamvara
    Slighted by me for Nala’s dearest sake,
    Are wroth, and by their dread displeasure thus
    To loss and loneliness I am consigned!”
      So—­woe-begone and wild—­this noble wife,
    Deserted Damayanti, poured her griefs: 
    And afterwards, with certain Brahmanas
    Saved from the rout—­good men who knew the Veds—­
    Sadly her road she finished, like the moon
    That goeth clouded in the month of rain. 
    Thus travelling long, the Princess drew at last
    Nigh to a city, at the evening hour. 
    The dwelling-place it was of Chedi’s Chief,
    The just Subahu.  Through its lofty gates
    Painfully passed she, clad in half a cloth;
    And as she entered—­sorrow-stricken, wan,
    Foot-weary, stained with mire, with unsmoothed hair,
    Unbathed, and eyes of madness—­those who saw,
    Wondered and stared, and watched her as she toiled
    Down the long city street.  The children break
    From play, and—­boys with girls—­followed her steps,
    So that she came—­a crowd encompassing—­
    Unto the King’s door.  On the palace roof
    The mother of the Maharaja paced,
    And marked the throng, and that sad wayfarer. 
    Then to her nurse spake the queen-mother this:—­
    “Go thou, and bring yon woman unto me! 
    The people trouble her; mournful she walks,
    Seeming unfriended, yet bears she a mien
    Made for a king’s abode, and, all so wild,
    Still are her wistful eyes like the great eyes
    Of Lakshmi’s self.”  So downwards went the nurse,
    Bidding the rude folk back; and to the roof
    Of the great palace led that wandering one—­
    Desolate Damayanti—­whom the Queen
    Courteous besought:  “Though thou art wan of face,
    Thou wear’st a noble air, which through thy griefs
    Shineth as lightning doth behind its cloud. 
    Tell me thy name, and whose thou art, and whence. 
    No lowborn form is thine, albeit thou com’st