over the bright waves of the river. Ravana stood for awhile looking at his victim, as she sat weeping and musing over the unknown cry; but soon he approached, saying, (we quote the metrical translation here,)
“O thou that shinest like a tree
With summer blossoms overspread,
Wearing that woven kusa robe,
And lotus garland on thy head,
Why art thou dwelling here alone,
Here in this dreary forest's shade,
Where range at will all beasts of prey,
And demons prowl in every glade?
Wilt thou not leave thy cottage home,
And roam the world, which stretches wide—
See the fair cities which men build.
And all their gardens and their pride?
Why longer, fair one, dwell'st thou here,
Feeding on roots and sylvan fare.
When thou might'st dwell in palaces,
And earth's most costly jewels wear?
Fearest thou not the forest gloom,
Which darkens round on every side?
Who art thou, say! and whose, and whence,
And wherefore dost thou here abide?”
Even a lady alone is not supposed to be necessarily alarmed at meeting “a holy Brahmin,” and the fiend's disguise was so complete that only a temporary flush of excitement followed his sudden address. So the poet continues:
“When first these words of Ravana
Broke upon sorrowing Seeta's ear.
She started up, and lost herself
In wonderment, and doubt, and fear;
But soon her gentle, loving heart
Threw off suspicion and surmise.
And slept again in confidence,
Lull'd by the mendicant's disguise.
‘Hail, holy Brahmin!’ she exclaimed;
And, in her guileless purity.
She gave a welcome to her guest,
With courteous hospitality.
Water she brought to wash his feet,
And food to satisfy his need.
Full little dreaming in her heart
What fearful guest she had received,”
