lonely place, and there, to my infinite grief, saw a certain girl, called Sacontalá, the daughter of a hermit; from that moment not a word of returning to the city!—These distressing thoughts have kept my eyes open the whole night.—Alas! when shall we return?—I cannot set eyes on my beloved friend Dushmanta since he set his heart on taking another wife.—[Stepping aside and looking.] Oh! there he is.—How changed!—He carries a bow, indeed, but wears for his dia-dem a garland of wood flowers.—He is advancing; I must begin my operations.—[He stands leaning on a staff.]—Let me thus take a moment's rest. [Aloud].
Dushmanta enters, as described.
Dushm. [Aside, sighing.] My darling is not so easily attainable; yet my heart assumes confidence from the manner in which she seemed affected: surely, though our love has not hitherto prospered, yet the inclinations of us both are fixed on our union.—[Smiling.]—Thus do lovers agreeably beguile themselves, when all the powers of their souls are intent on the objects of their desire!—But am I beguiled? No; when she cast her eyes even on her companions, they sparkled with tenderness; when she moved her graceful arms, they dropped, as if languid with love; when her friend remonstrated against her departure, she spoke angrily—all this was, no doubt, on my account.—Oh! how quick-sighted is love in discerning his own advantages!
