glancing in all directions, pitifully repeats—"My child, who will deliver thee?"
Śankhachúda (checking his own tears).
O mother, where is the use of excessive grief? Do I not keep saying, "Cheer up," "Cheer up?"
Old Woman (with tears).
How can I cheer up, seeing that thou, my son, my only son, art banished by the compassionate king of the Nágas! Alas? why in the universal world was my son thought of? I am utterly unfortunate.
Jímútaváhana (dolefully).
If I do not protect this wretched one, who is at the very point of death, abandoned by his relations, then what good is there in my body? So I will go up to them.
Śankhachúda.
O mother, be comforted.
Old Woman.
Alas! my son, when you are given up by Vásuki, the protector of the Nága-world, who else will be your protector?
Jímútaváhana (going up).
Shall not I?
Old Woman (on seeing him, having hid her son with her
upper garment, goes up to him and falls upon her knees).
O son of Vinatá, destroy me. I am prepared for thy food by the Nága king.
