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Alas! my desire has become fruitless through the arrival of Śankhachúda.

Both of you wear the distinctive badge of victims. Which is really the Nága I know not.

The error is a likely one, forsooth. Not to mention the mark of the Swastika on the breast, are there not the scales on my body? Do you not count my two tongues as I speak? Nor see these three hoods of mine, the compressed wind hissing through them in my insupportable anguish? While the brightness of my gems is distorted by the thick smoke from the fire of my direful poison.

Who, then, is this that I have destroyed?

It is Jímútaváhana, the ornament of the race of Vidyádharas. How was this done by thee, O merciless one?

Ah! How, indeed, was it done? This, then, is that