Thus he would stand unmoved for days on one foot, with arm upstretched, feeding on nought but air. In the fiery heat of summer he would sit in the midst of four kindled fires, the sun, a fifth, blazing overhead. In the furious rain-storms of his land, both day and night, no canopy save the heavy clouds shadowed his head, while the wet grass was his only couch. Thus for another thousand years he persevered, and the gods trembled as they watched. But the sage abated his rigours not a jot. Leaving the Himalayan slopes, he journeyed eastward, and with unheard-of strictness spent a new thousand years in utter silence. With the fierceness of his penances his body became shrivelled and dry as a log of wood; but nought could bend the intention of his steadfast heart.
Then, when the thousand years were past, Viswamitra sate him down to a humble meal, when, lo, Indra in Brahman guise drew near to beg a dole. Faint and spent with hunger, Viswamitra yet uttered no word, but, silent and self-controlled, gave every crumb to him that asked. As he passed triumphant through this last bitter test, the fires of his gathered merit, as it were, blazed forth, and thick clouds of smoke rolled round his brow. Utter dismay seized the denizens of all three worlds; gods and saints, Daityas and Nagas, came in terror to the Lord of all, to beg him to stay the dire results of still withholding the boon for which Viswamitra practised such austerities.
"Against him, Lord," they cried, "nor lure nor threat prevails—his vow he keeps with unfaltering purpose. If his boon be not granted, then doubtless
