only is this hero unterrified, but he even appears almost delighted. There is no lassitude seen in him, though most of his blood is drunk up. His face, through its heroic endurance, even when he is suffering the pangs from the tearing of his flesh, seems serene as in ecstacy. Every limb, which is not actually destroyed, bristles with rapture. His glance falls on me, whilst doing him an injury, as though I were doing him a favour. Hence, by his heroism, my curiosity is excited. I will not eat him. I will ask who he is.
Jímútaváhana.
There is yet flesh in my body, whose blood pours forth from every vein; and you, O magnanimous one, do not seem satiated. Why, then, O Garuda, do you stop eating?
Garuda (to himself).
Wonder of wonders! How! Even in this state does he still speak thus stoutly! (Aloud.) This heroism of thine seems to call back the heart's blood that has been poured out by my beak. I wish, then, to hear who thou art.
Jímútaváhana.
It is not fit that you should hear, while tormented by hunger. Satiate yourself, then, with my flesh and blood.
Śankhachúda (coming up in haste).
O Garuda, not indeed, not indeed should this cruelty be done. This is no Nága. Let him go. Eat me. I am sent by Vásuki for thy food.
