Dushm. As you judge right.—[Mátali goes out.—Dushmanta feels his right arm throb.]—Why, O my arm, dost thou flatter me with a vain omen?—My former happiness is lost, and misery only remains.
Behind the scenes. Be not so restless; in every situation thou showest thy bad temper.
Dushm. [Listening.] Hah! this is no place, surely, for a malignant disposition.—Who can be thus rebuked?—[Looking with surprise.]—I see a child, but with no childish countenance or strength, whom two female anchorites are endeavouring to keep in order; while he forcibly pulls towards him, in rough play, a lion's whelp with a torn mane, who seems just dragged from the half-sucked nipple of the lioness!
Boy. Open thy mouth, lion's whelp, that I may count thy teeth.
First Atten. Intractable child! Why dost thou torment the wild animals of this forest, whom we cherish as if they were our own offspring?—Thou seemest even to sport in anger.—Aptly have the hermits named thee Servademana, since thou tamest all creatures.
Dushm. Ah! what means it that my heart inclines to this boy as if he were my own son?—[Meditating.]—Alas! I have no son; and the reflection makes me once more soft-hearted.
Second Atten. The lioness will tear thee to pieces if thou release not her whelp.
