Śankhachúda.
O mother, why do you harass me yet more by weeping?
Old Woman (looking at him and stroking his limbs).
Alas! my son! how will pitiless Garuda devour thy beauteous body, that has never felt the sun's rays?
Śankhachúda.
Enough of lamentation. See here—since mortality as the nurse first clasps the new-born child to its bosom, and the mother comes only second—what room is there for sorrow?
Old Woman.
O son, stay for a moment whilst I look on your face.
Servant.
Come, Prince Śankhachúda, never mind her words. Infatuated by affection for her son, she forgets the duty to our king.
Śankhachúda.
I am coming.
Servant (to himself, looking in advance).
I have brought him to the rock of execution; so I will now give him the distinguishing badge of one condemned to death.
