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Alas! This noble-minded one is dead. What shall I now do?

Oh revered guardians of the world, bring my son to life by sprinkling him in some way with ambrosia.

Ah! The mention of ambrosia reminds me opportunely. I think I may yet wipe out toy disgrace. I will pray to Indra, and persuade him by a shower of ambrosia to restore to life not only Jímútaváhana, but all those lords of Nágas that have heretofore been eaten by me, and who are now merely skeletons. If he will not grant it, then,—having drunk up the ocean with my wings, and borne along by mighty winds of ever-increasing violence, while the twelve suns fall fainting, bewildered by the flaming fierceness of my eyes,—I will break to pieces with my beak the thunderbolt of Indra, the club of Kuvera, and the staff of Yama, the lord of the dead, and, having conquered the Gods in battle, will at once by my own might let fall an ambrosial shower. Here, then, I go.

[Exit, after walking round haughtily.

O child, Śankhachúda, why do you still delay? Collect wood, and build a funeral pile for my son, that we too may go with him.