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.
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