Katha Sarit Sagara : Chapter 15

 225. Katha Sarit Sagara : Chapter 15

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The Serpent in the Ashes: A Vatsa King's Sacrifice 

1. Invocation and Praise

The capital city of Kausambi slept under a blanket of velvet darkness, pierced only by the distant, hypnotic clang of temple bells announcing the hour of Brahma. The air, cool and heavy, carried the perfume of night-blooming jasmine and the faintest echo of a holy man's chant. It was in this sacred hush that the storyteller began, his voice a resonant whisper.

"Let our reverence first ascend to the Conqueror of Obstacles, the Lord Ganesha, whose massive elephant head symbolizes wisdom and whose favor, it is said, was implored even by the Creator Brahma himself, lest the primordial act of world-making be hindered by discord or delay. His blessing clears the path for destiny."

"And let us also pay homage to the irresistible, all-consuming power of love, embodied by the five-arrowed God of Love, Kama. His is the subtle, unseen force that commands the world. His arrows can pierce even the icy armor of the ascetic. For at his will, the mighty Lord Shiva himself trembles, lost in ecstatic abandon when locked in the fierce, cherished embrace of his beloved goddess. It is this very power, beautiful and terrifying, that governs the fortunes of King Udayana."

2. The King's Devotion and Minister's Burden

Inside the royal palace, a sanctuary of carved ivory and cool, polished marble, the King of Vatsa, Udayana, lay with his Queen. Vásavadattá was a vision of radiant beauty, her hair a cascade of black silk against the white linen, her face serene and utterly adored. Udayana was a man transformed by love, his crown and scepter merely distant symbols of a world he preferred to ignore.

He propped himself up on one elbow, gazing at her as if memorizing a divine text. "My Queen," he murmured, his voice thick with devotion. "Vásavadattá. The scholars speak of the four great goals of life: duty, wealth, desire, and liberation. I have found my singular, supreme goal in you. This kingdom, the legacy of the great Pandava lineage, the claim to the whole earth—it all fades to dust when compared to the simple joy of watching you sleep."

He kissed her brow tenderly. "You are my entire world. Nothing outside these walls holds any meaning for me."

But the fate of the earth rarely waits for a man lost in a lover's spell.

In a house far from the palace walls, where lamps burned late and maps were spread, the two pillars of the Vatsa empire wrestled with the burden their King had abandoned. The Prime Minister, Yaugandharáyaṇa, his face a mask of worry carved by decades of statecraft, spoke to the General, Rumaṇvat.

"General, look at this map," Yaugandharáyaṇa said, his finger tapping the small, isolated territory of Vatsa. "The King is descended from heroes who claimed the entire sweep of the land, yet he is content to confine his kingdom to this one small corner of the earth."

Rumaṇvat, a man whose life was dedicated to the pragmatic reality of military strength, shifted uneasily. "He spends his days devoted to women, wine, and the hunt. He has completely relinquished the weight of empire, delegating all thought and duty to us."

"And that, Rumaṇvat," the Minister concluded with heavy finality, "is a path to ruin. A king’s self-indulgence breeds weakness, and weakness invites predators."

3. Yaugandharáyaṇa's Anxiety and Plan

Yaugandharáyaṇa paced, his shadow flickering like a disturbed spirit. "We must not merely manage the kingdom, we must expand it! We must, by our own intelligence and cunning, achieve for him the empire of the whole earth, which is his birthright. Only then will his legacy, and our loyalty, be secured."

He stopped, his eyes burning with fierce resolve. "If we succeed, we will have exhibited the truest devotion. If we fail through timidity, we are nothing more than complacent servants. We must recognize that every great accomplishment in history, Rumaṇvat, is ultimately achieved by intellect, not just brute force. I have conceived a painful, yet brilliant, path forward."

4. The Goal: A Strategic Marriage to Padmávatí

"Let us define our enemy," the Minister continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The only true obstacle to our expansion is Pradyota, the King of Magadha. He is a relentless foe, always attacking our exposed rear. We cannot advance eastward while he threatens us from the south."

"How do we neutralize such a powerful enemy?" Rumaṇvat asked.

"By turning the blade of enmity into the knot of alliance," Yaugandharáyaṇa replied. "We must secure a strategic marriage for our sovereign. We must ask for Padmávatí, the pearl of princesses, King Pradyota’s daughter."

5. The Deceptive Scheme

Yaugandharáyaṇa then revealed the chilling core of his design. "I have already requested her hand once. Pradyota flatly refused. He said—and these words must haunt us—'I will not give my daughter to the King of Vatsa, for he is passionately attached to his wife, Vásavadattá.' It is the Queen's very presence, her power over the King's heart, that is the single obstacle to our survival and glory."

He leaned in closer. "The King will never take another wife while Vásavadattá lives beside him. Therefore, we will employ a necessary deceit. We will conceal Vásavadattá in a secure place. Then, we will set fire to her house and spread the report, everywhere, that the Queen is tragically burnt to death."

Rumaṇvat recoiled, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "A false death! Minister, this is madness!"

"It is the only path to sanity," Yaugandharáyaṇa insisted. "When Pradyota hears the Queen is gone, he will no longer fear for his daughter's status and will grant the marriage. Padmávatí secured means Magadha becomes our marriage connection and ally. The rear is safe. We march to conquer the east and the rest of the world. It is the only way for the King to claim the dominion long ago predicted by a divine voice."

6. Supporting Tale: Story of the Clever Physician

Seeing Rumaṇvat’s profound moral anguish, Yaugandharáyaṇa softened his tone and reached for an analogy. "You fear the lie, General, but consider that sometimes the lie is the only cure. Listen to the tale of the physician."

"There once lived a King named Mahásena. He was forced by a far superior power to pay a humiliating tribute. This shame, this grievous submission to an enemy, afflicted him more deeply than any physical wound. His intense sorrow festered and caused a terrible abscess in his vitals. He grew thin, pale, and lay on the brink of death."

"The court physicians offered every remedy, but the King's illness was spiritual. One truly wise physician, seeing that medicine was useless against despair, resolved to combat sorrow with a greater, sudden grief. He rushed into the royal chamber, feigning distress, and falsely announced, 'O King, your beloved Queen is dead!'"

"The King, struck by this unbearable calamity, collapsed, crying out in a wrenching fit of despair. The shock, the sheer violence of his grief, caused the physical abscess to burst of itself. His physical malady was instantly cured! The physician then revealed the Queen was alive. The King recovered, long enjoyed the pleasure of his living Queen, and, invigorated by life, eventually conquered his enemies in turn."

Yaugandharáyaṇa let the silence settle. "That physician performed a good service by his wisdom and temporary cruelty. We, Rumaṇvat, must do the same. We must wound our King's heart briefly to save his life and secure his eternal empire."

7. Rumaṇvat's Caution and Fear of Ridicule

Rumaṇvat felt a cold dread at the thought of such a sweeping deception. "I understand the necessity, Minister, but I fear the deception practiced for the sake of Padmávatí might some day be to the utter ruin of us both. We are playing with the heart of the kingdom and the integrity of the truth. If we are exposed, or if the plan falters, we will be disgraced. We will be laughing-stocks."

He felt compelled to share a counter-narrative, a tale of vanity exposed. "My instincts warn me of hubris. Please, Minister, hear the tale of the ascetic, and consider the fate of those who rely on a cruel lie."

8. Opposing Tale: Story of the Hypocritical Ascetic

"On the bank of the Ganges, near the city of Mákandiká, there resided a revered ascetic. He had taken a solemn vow of silence and lived in a monastery, surrounded by his many earnest pupils. He was held up as a paragon of virtue."

"One afternoon, this ascetic entered a merchant's house to beg for alms. He saw the merchant's daughter, a maiden of astonishing beauty, coming out with the food. The rascal, struck by a sudden, profane surge of lust, instantly forgot his vow and gasped aloud, 'Ah! Ah! Alas!'"

"The merchant, who overheard this strange outburst from a man of silence, was deeply astonished. He followed the ascetic back to the monastery and demanded an explanation for the broken vow."

"The scheming ascetic, a picture of fraudulent sorrow, put on a performance. 'Alas, my dear adherent,' he lamented, 'Your daughter bears inauspicious marks. When she marries, you, your wife, and your sons will all undoubtedly perish. I spoke out of pity for you. To save your family, you must place your daughter at night in a basket, with a light upon its top, and set her adrift on the Ganges.' The merchant, timid and unreflecting, went away and did exactly as he was told, out of sheer, unthinking fear."

"The ascetic then told his own pupils, 'Go to the river and retrieve the basket with the light. Bring it here secretly, and do not open it, even if you hear a sound.' The pupils departed, eager to serve their master."

"But before the students reached the river, destiny intervened. A certain handsome prince, bathing in the Ganges, saw the light bobbing in the distance. Curious, he ordered his servants to fetch the basket. He opened it and found the heart-enchanting maiden. Recognizing fate, he married her on the spot by the Gándharva ceremony—the marriage of love."

"To protect his bride and play his own trick, the prince then set the basket adrift again, exactly as it was, with the lamp lit, but he replaced the girl with a fierce, horrible-looking monkey."

"The ascetic’s pupils finally arrived, found the basket, and carried it back to their delighted master. 'I will take this upstairs and perform incantations with it alone,' the rascal declared, eager for his private reward. He carried the basket to the monastery roof and, trembling with lust, tore open the lid."

"A monkey of terrible countenance sprang out! It lunged at the astonished ascetic, a monstrous incarnation of his own immoral conduct. The infuriated animal immediately tore off the wicked man's nose with its teeth and his ears with its claws. Screaming, the mutilated ascetic ran downstairs. When his pupils saw their revered master, they could barely suppress their laughter. The next morning, the whole city heard the story and roared with mirth. The merchant was delighted that his daughter had secured a good husband."

Rumaṇvat met the Minister’s gaze. "Minister, even as that ascetic made himself ridiculous, so too may we become a laughing-stock if we employ deceit and fail after all. The potential separation of the King from Vásavadattá is fraught with too many disadvantages, not least of which is our own reputation!"

9. Yaugandharáyaṇa Defends the Necessity of the Plan

Yaugandharáyaṇa listened patiently, acknowledging the wisdom of the tale, yet his resolution remained absolute. "Rumaṇvat, your concern is noble, but misplaced. We are not driven by lust or greed, but by the necessity of statecraft. I agree: the deceit must succeed, or we fail entirely."

"However," he continued, "in no other way can we conduct our enterprise successfully. If we do not undertake the enterprise, it is certain that with this self-indulgent King, who relies on us completely, we shall lose even the territory we possess. And the hard-won reputation which we have acquired for statesmanship will be tarnished. We shall cease to be known as men who show true loyalty to their sovereign."

He stood taller, his voice gaining strength. "When a King is one who depends on himself for success, his ministers are merely the instruments of his wisdom. But when a King depends on his ministers, as ours does, it is their wisdom that achieves his ends. If we lack enterprise, he bids a long farewell to all hope of greatness. Do not fear Chaṇḍamahásena, the Queen's father. I assure you, by my own careful planning, he and his son and the Queen also will do whatever I bid them."

10. Rumaṇvat's Concern for the King's Grief

The Minister's conviction was unshakeable, but Rumaṇvat could not discard his deeper, emotional fears. "I believe in your strategy, Minister, but I cannot forget the human cost. Even a discerning prince, well-trained in resilience, is afflicted by the pain of being separated from a beloved woman. Our King of Vatsa is so thoroughly consumed by his love that this sudden loss will be like a blade in his vitals. His very life will be at risk."

11. Opposing Tale: Story of Unmádiní

Rumaṇvat then presented his most compelling argument on the tragic power of love. "In proof of what I say, listen to the tale of Unmádiní, which speaks to the fragility of the royal heart when faced with overwhelming desire and loss."

"Once upon a time, there lived a King named Devasena, the best of wise men, whose capital was Shravasti. In that city, a wealthy merchant had a daughter of such unparalleled, devastating beauty that every man who beheld her fell instantly and helplessly in love. They named her Unmádiní—literally, 'She Who Drives Men Mad'."

"The merchant, knowing his daughter was a unique jewel, went to the King: 'My Lord,' he said, 'I have a daughter who is a pearl. Take her, if she finds favour in your eyes.' The King sent his trusted Bráhmans, his confidential ministers, to examine her for auspicious marks."

"When the ministers beheld Unmádiní, a sudden, blinding love was born in their souls. They became utterly bewildered. When they recovered their senses, they spoke to one another in hushed, fearful tones: 'If the King marries this maiden, he will think only of her, neglect the affairs of the State entirely, and everything will go to rack and ruin. What good is her beauty then?'"

"They returned to King Devasena and told him the terrible lie: that the maiden possessed inauspicious marks. The King refused her."

"Full of proud resentment at the rejection, the merchant gave Unmádiní to the King's own Commander-in-Chief. One day, while her husband was on duty, the lady ascended the roof, knowing the King would pass that way. The moment the King beheld her, resembling a beautiful, world-bewildering drug employed by the God of Love, distraction seized him."

"Returning to his palace, King Devasena realized the terrible truth: he had rejected the woman who was now the wife of his general. He was filled with profound regret and fell violently ill with fever, consumed by love's burning fire."

"The Commander-in-Chief, seeing his lord wasting away, earnestly entreated him. 'My Lord, take her. She is a slave, or if you wish, I will repudiate her in the temple, and then you may take her for your own.' The King, though dying of desire, was firm in his dharma. 'I will not take unto myself another man’s wife, and if you repudiate her, your righteousness will be at an end, and you will deserve punishment at my hands.' "

"The King, though of firm soul, was slowly but surely consumed by love's burning fever for the woman he could not possess. And so, he died."

"That King perished, Minister, over the love he rejected," Rumaṇvat whispered, his voice shaking with conviction. "What, then, will be the fate of the King of Vatsa without Vásavadattá, the woman he possesses and cherishes above all else? We are risking his life, and with it, the empire."

12. Yaugandharáyaṇa Cites a Divine Example

Yaugandharáyaṇa’s expression revealed the profound weight of his decision. He knew the risk, yet his loyalty demanded he look beyond mortality. "Your tale is tragic, Rumaṇvat, but our King is not without heroic resilience. Affliction is bravely endured by kings who have their eyes firmly fixed on their duty. Look to the eternal models."

"Did not Ráma, the perfect King and incarnation of duty, endure the devastating pain of separation from Queen Sítá? He was commissioned by the gods, forced to resort to that cruel contrivance to kill the demon Rávana. He bore the burden of separation for the sake of a higher moral and divine purpose. Our King, too, must be capable of a similar sacrifice."

13. Rumaṇvat's Counterpoint on Human Fragility

Rumaṇvat sighed, his shoulders slumped. "Such as Ráma, Minister, are gods. Their souls are vast and can endure the cosmic forces. They know the end of the story. But this agonizing separation, this sudden loss, is intolerable to men, whose minds are finite and whose hearts are ruled by passion. We must tread carefully."

14. Final Opposing Tale: Story of the Loving Couple who Died of Separation

"If you doubt the lethal power of human grief, hear one final, devastating truth," Rumaṇvat implored, his voice low and urgent. "The Story of the Loving Couple who Died of Separation."

"In the great city of Mathurá, rich in jewels and commerce, lived a young merchant named Illaka and his dear wife. Their love was absolute; her mind was devoted to him alone."

"One day, due to the exigencies of his affairs, Illaka determined he must go to a faraway country. His wife, who was passionately attached to him, begged to accompany him. Illaka, concerned for her safety on the treacherous journey, set out, offering the usual prayers for success, but did not take his wife."

"She watched him go, tears streaming from her eyes, standing and supporting herself against the door of the courtyard. When he finally passed out of sight, she could endure her grief no longer. Yet, she was too timid to follow, too paralyzed by separation to act. And so, her breath left her body where she stood."

"When Illaka came to know of this, he returned with haste. To his horror, he found his dear wife a corpse—her complexion pale, yet lovely, framed by her locks, like the spirit of beauty that tenants the moon, fallen to earth during a dream. He took her in his arms and wept over her body."

"The vital spirits, the prana, left his own body immediately. The sheer heat of his grief-fueled fire was so intense that his life force fled, as if afraid to remain in a body consumed by such sorrow. That married couple perished by mutual separation."

"Minister, we must take every care that our King, a man of such deep passion, is not separated from his Queen in a way that risks a similar tragedy."

15. Yaugandharáyaṇa's Justification of Strategic Necessity

Rumaṇvat ceased, his mind full of apprehension. Yaugandharáyaṇa, the ocean of calm resolution, answered with the cold logic of survival. "You paint a heartbreaking picture, General. But I have reflected on everything. The grief will be terrible, but the King's heroic spirit, coupled with a flicker of hope, will sustain him. I have arranged the path back for him."

"The affairs of Kings, Rumaṇvat, often require such necessities to be taken, steps that appear cruel but are essential for the survival of the state. We must act."

16. Final Supporting Tale: Story of Puṇyasena

"To prove that the deception can be managed with success and honor," Yaugandharáyaṇa said, "listen to my final, most relevant tale: the Story of Puṇyasena."

"Long ago in Ujjayiní, a King named Puṇyasena was attacked by a powerful sovereign who was impossible to defeat in open battle. Puṇyasena’s resolute ministers, seeing this necessity, spread a false report that their own sovereign was dead."

"They placed Puṇyasena in deep concealment and then burnt another man’s corpse with all the full royal ceremonies. They then sent an ambassador to the hostile King, proposing that since they were now without a leader, the enemy should come and be their King."

"The hostile monarch was pleased and consented. As he relaxed, believing he had won, the ministers assembled a surprise force, brought Puṇyasena out of concealment, and proceeded to storm the enemy’s camp. The enemy army was destroyed, and they put the hostile King to death, restoring their true ruler to power."

"Such calculated necessities will arise in a monarch’s affairs," Yaugandharáyaṇa concluded, his voice unwavering. "Therefore, we must resolutely accomplish this business of the King’s by spreading the report of the Queen’s having been burnt. It is our duty, not our desire, that compels this act."

17. Consultation with the Queen's Brother

"If this is the final, resolved course," Rumaṇvat agreed, allowing himself to be guided by the confidence in his colleague's wisdom, "then we must proceed with absolute prudence. We must send for Gopálaka, the Queen’s respected brother. He is the head of her house. We must take all our measures duly, only after consultation with him, for his cooperation will prevent a war with his own kingdom, Avanti."

"So be it," Yaugandharáyaṇa confirmed.

18. Gopálaka's Acceptance and Rumaṇvat's Last Worry

A trusted messenger was immediately dispatched on the pretext that Gopálaka’s relations longed to see him. Gopálaka, who had only departed previously on urgent business, returned the very next day, seeming like an incarnate festival to those who greeted him.

That night, Yaugandharáyaṇa brought Gopálaka and Rumaṇvat together in his private house and laid out the entire, daring scheme. Gopálaka listened, his face a study in inner conflict. He knew the grief it would bring his sister, yet he understood the geopolitical imperative. His mind, like his father's, was ever fixed upon the highest duty. He ultimately consented to the scheme, though it brought sorrow to his heart.

"All this is well-planned," Rumaṇvat repeated, still agonizing over the emotional risk. "But when the King of Vatsa hears that his wife is burnt, his nature is such that he will be inclined to yield up his breath. How is he to be prevented from doing so? This is a matter which must be considered, for the principal element of sound state-craft is the averting of misfortune."

19. The Minister's Plan to Control the King's Grief

Yaugandharáyaṇa, having reflected on every contingency, smiled grimly. "There need be no anxiety about this. The Queen is your sister, Gopálaka, dearer to you than life. When the King of Vatsa sees how little afflicted you are—how controlled your grief appears—he will think to himself, 'Gopálaka, her brother, seems to bear this with heroic stoicism. Perhaps the Queen may be alive after all.' This one subtle doubt, this thread of hope, will allow his heroic disposition to control his feelings."

"Moreover," the Minister reasoned, "he is a hero. The marriage of Padmávatí will be quickly got through, securing the realm, and then we can soon bring the Queen out of concealment. His sense of duty and the prospect of reunion will be his salvation."

20. The Action Plan - Going to Lávánaka

Yaugandharáyaṇa, Gopálaka, and Rumaṇvat, now a three-fold cord of strategy, deliberated on the practical steps.

"We must adopt the artifice of going to Lávánaka," Yaugandharáyaṇa proposed. "It is a border-district near the kingdom of Magadha. It contains admirable hunting-grounds, which will naturally tempt the King to absent himself from the palace. This gives us the perfect window to set the women's apartments there on fire and carry out the plan."

"And the Queen's safety?" asked Gopálaka.

"By an artifice, we will secretly take her and leave her in the palace of Padmávatí herself," Yaugandharáyaṇa confirmed. "The physical presence of Vásavadattá, even in concealment, will be a potent guarantee. Padmávatí, the future Queen, must be a witness to the Queen's virtuous behavior in this state of confinement. This ensures her respect, and the future Queen's honorable place, when she is finally brought forth."

21. The King's Decision to Travel

The very next day, the dexterous ministers entered the King’s palace. Rumaṇvat, acting the part of a concerned General, made the representation to the King.

"O King," he said, bowing, "it has been too long since we have gone to Lávánaka. It is a delightful place, and you will find capital hunting-grounds there. More importantly, the King of Magadha is so near that he afflicts all that district. We must go there for the sake of defending it, as well as for your own enjoyment."

The King, his mind always set on pleasure and the prospect of a new hunting thrill, readily agreed. He determined to go to Lávánaka, accompanied by Vásavadattá, never suspecting the cruel fate that awaited them both.

22. Arrival of the Sage Nárada

The journey was decided, the auspicious hour fixed by the astrologers. But as the preparations reached their zenith, a sudden, blinding celestial light enveloped the region. From the midst of the heavens, the great divine sage, Nárada, descended.

He illuminated the region with his sheer splendor, a living feast for the eyes of all spectators. He seemed like the moon itself come down, driven by affection towards his descendants, the lunar line of the Pandavas.

After accepting the respectful, humble attentions of the court, the hermit graciously gave the King, who bowed low, a sacred garland from the Párijáta tree, the wish-fulfilling tree of the gods.

23. Nárada's Prophetic Warning and Advice

Nárada then turned his radiant attention to the Queen. He congratulated Vásavadattá, who politely received him, and prophesied a glorious future: she would have a son who would be a portion of Cupid and, eventually, a king of the celestial Vidyadharas.

He then turned back to King of Vatsa, his eyes knowing, settling on the Minister Yaugandharáyaṇa. "O King, the sight of your wife Vásavadattá has strangely brought something to my recollection. In old time, you had for ancestors Yudhishthira and his brothers. Those five had one wife between them, Draupadí by name. And she, like Vásavadattá, was matchless in beauty."

"Fearing that her beauty would do mischief, I offered them a vital warning: 'You must avoid jealousy, for that is the seed of calamities.' In proof of this, listen to the tale I related to them."

24. Nárada's Cautionary Tale: Sunda and Upasunda

Nárada's voice rang with the power of ancient memory, telling the tale of fatal, mutual passion.

"There were two brothers, powerful Asuras (demons) by race, named Sunda and Upasunda. They were so hard to overcome that they surpassed the three worlds in valor. Brahma, wishing to destroy them, gave an order to the celestial architect Vishvakarman, who fashioned a heavenly woman named Tilottamá."

"Her beauty was so transcendent that even the mighty Shiva became four-faced just to look four ways at once while she devoutly circumambulated him."

"She, by the order of Brahma, went to Sunda and Upasunda, who were deep in merriment in the garden of Kailasa. Her mission was to seduce them and turn them against each other. Both those Asuras, instantly and madly distracted with love, seized the fair one at the same time, each grabbing her by an arm."

"As they dragged her off in mutual opposition, their boundless passion instantly turned into boundless rage. They soon came to furious blows, and in their madness, both of them were destroyed."

"To whom is not the attractive object called woman the cause of misfortune?" Nárada asked, the rhetorical question hanging heavy in the air. "Your ancestors, O King, accepted my counsel. They established a rule to prevent quarreling: when Draupadí was with the eldest, she was considered a mother by the younger, and when she was with the youngest, she was considered a daughter-in-law by the eldest. They had their minds fixed on salutary counsels."

25. Nárada's Final Prophecy

Nárada fixed his benevolent gaze upon the King. "I have come to visit you through love for your ancestors. Do you follow the counsel of your ministers, as they followed mine, and in a short time you will gain great success."

He then added the crucial, heart-wrenching condition, looking directly at the King, who was about to lose his Queen. "For some time, you will suffer grief, O King, terrible and profound, but you must not be too much distressed about it. For this grief is merely a passage, and it will end only in happiness and complete fulfillment."

26. Ministers' Zeal and Confirmation

The moment the hermit Nárada, so clever in indirectly intimating the inevitable future prosperity through temporary pain, had finished his speech, he immediately vanished back into the heavens.

Yaugandharáyaṇa and all the other ministers exchanged a look of profound, shared understanding. The speech of the great hermit, predicting a period of grief followed by great success, was the final, divine sanction of their scheme. The painful deception was not an act of human wickedness, but a necessary passage ordained by the gods.

The ministers, now auguring certain success, became exceedingly zealous about carrying the scheme into full and final effect. The fate of Vásavadattá was sealed, not by malice, but by the relentless, divine logic of empire.

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