Mitrávasu (looking upwards).
Prince, hasten, hasten! It is time for the flow of the tide.
Jímútaváhana (listening).
You are right. An ear-deafening noise arises, made by the repeated flappings of the ears of the sea-monsters as they emerge, and causing the interiors of all the mountain caves to re-echo. Here comes the tide, white with the innumerable shells which it tosses on its waves.
Mitrávasu.
It is indeed come. See! this ocean tide is brilliant with its many-coloured gems, and has its waters scented by the eructations of the sea-monsters, who have fed on the young shoots of the clove-trees.[1]
Jímútaváhana.
O Mitrávasu! see again. These slopes of Malaya have all the splendour of the peaks of the snow mountains, by reason of the veils of white autumnal clouds.
Mitrávasu.
These are not the slopes of Malaya. These are heaps of the bones of Nágas.
Jímútaváhana (sorrowfully).
Alas! wherefore were they thus slain by wholesale?
- ↑ Compare the passage in Indumati's Swayamvara, Raghuvanśa, vi. 57, where Sunandá recommends the princess to choose the King of Kalinga or Coromandel: "Wander with him on the banks of the ocean, resonant with the murmurs of the palm groves, while the summer heat is cooled by the breezes which bear the flowers of the clove-tree, wafted from other lands."
