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when the morning had come, and Rama and Lakshmana, ranging the forests, had found some of the flowers and jewels of Sita, it appeared as if Rama, calling up his divine energy, would annihilate the world. Filled with rage, girding himself tight with bark and deerskin, his eyes red with anger and his matted hair pulled up short, he stood in the forest, shortening his bow and taking out flaming arrows with which to shoot, even as Siva, the Destroyer, in the act to destroy. But Lakshmana, overcome with pity for a sorrow that could so move his brother to a wrath never shown before, soothed him, and spoke to him words of patience and encouragement. Let him first try caution and energy. Let him strive for the recovery of Sita. Only if he should fail in this, would there be need, with his arrows of celestial gold, flaming like the thunderbolt of Indra, to set himself to uproot the world from its foundations, scattering its fragments amongst dead stars.

Being thus calmed, and following the marks of conflict, — drops of gore, jewelled arrows, and