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 is at her side. The day  passes away, and the night. Again the day comes, and again passes away, and again comes the night. The glory of the Rajput race sits by the bed-side of Tilottama, and is engaged in tending her; he is incessantly assisting the bereaved, silent widow. Whether the suffering girl look on his face, and whether her countenance, (resembling the tender lotus weighed down by 'the dews of Heaven refined,') again sweeten with her former laugh, to ascertain this, Jagat Singha sits fastening his look on her face.

Where's the encampment? Where's the army? They broke up their encampment and are now in Patna. Where are Jagat Singha's own followers? They are expecting their master's return on the shores of the Darukeshwara river. Where's the master? He is reviving with the 'eye-offending brine,' the tender floweret that had been dried up to the point of death by the fierce, cruel rays of the mid-day sun.

The floweret did revive. Love is the only magician in this world; in curing love-sickness, your only physician is Love himself. Who else can cure it?

As a lamp gradually brightens up by a fresh supply of oil, as by degrees the creeper shrivelled by the summer sun, again puts forth bud and blossom by the fresh showers of autumn, Tilottama began to recover in the company of Jagat Singha. She attained strength to sit up on the couch. During the intervals when Bimala was out of sight, she opened her heart to the Prince and related many an incident. She told him many things; she confessed to many faults on the score of unjust surmises; she told of many unjust hopes which had arisen and died in her mind; she related many a fair dream which she had