A sash is gently opened; the figure of a man appears against the light.  Alas! it is Nagendra’s figure.  Nagendra, what if you should discover the flower, Kunda, under the trees?  What if, seeing you in the window, the sound of her beating heart should make itself heard?  What if, hearing this sound, she should know that if you move and become invisible her happiness will be gone?  Nagendra, you are standing out of the light; move it so that she can see you.  Kunda is very wretched; stand there that the clear water of the pool with the stars reflected in it may not recur to her mind.  Listen! the black owl hoots!  Should you move, Kunda will be terrified by the lightning.  See there! the black clouds, pressed by the wind, meet as though in battle.  There will be a rainstorm:  who will shelter Kunda?  See there! you have opened the sash, swarms of insects are rushing into your room.  Kunda thinks, “If I am virtuous, shall I be born again as an insect?” Kunda thinks she would like to share the fate of the insects.  “I have scorched myself, why do I not die?”

Nagendra, shutting the sash, moves away.  Cruel! what harm you have done.  You have no business waking in the night; go to sleep.  Kunda Nandini is dying; let her die!—­she would gladly do so to save you a headache.  Now the lightened window has become dark.  Looking—­looking—­wiping her eyes, Kunda Nandini arose and took the path before her.  The ghost-like shrubs, murmuring, asked, “Whither goest thou?” the fan palms rustled, “Whither dost thou go?” the owl’s deep voice asked the same question.  The window said, “Let her go—­no more will I show to her Nagendra.”  Then foolish Kunda Nandini gazed once more in that direction.

Oh, iron-hearted Surja Mukhi, arise! think what you have done.  Make the forlorn one return.

Kunda went on, on, on; again the clouds clashed, the sky became as night, the lightning flashed, the wind moaned, the clouds thundered.  Kunda!  Kunda! whither goest thou?  The storm came—­first the sound, then clouds of dust, then leaves torn from the trees borne by the wind; at last, plash, plash, the rain.  Kunda, with thy one garment, whither goest thou?

By the flashes of lightning Kunda saw a hut:  its walls were of mud, supporting a low roof.  She sat down within the doorway, resting against the door.  In doing this she made some noise.  The house owner being awake heard the noise, but thought it was made by the storm; but a dog, who slept within near the door, barking loudly, alarmed the householder, who timidly opened the door, and seeing only a desolate woman, asked, “Who is there?” No reply.  “Who are you, woman?”

Kunda said, “I am standing here because of the storm.”

“What?  What?  Speak again.”

Kunda repeated her words.

The householder recognizing the voice, drew Kunda indoors, and, making a fire, discovered herself to be Hira.  She comforted Kunda, saying, “I understand—­you have run away from the scolding; have no fear, I will tell no one.  You shall stay with me for a couple of days.”