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Dushm. Even thy denial of me gives me delight.

Sac. [Aside.] Having heard that my child's amulet has proved its divine power, I must either be strangely diffident of my good fortune, or that event which Misracési predicted has actually happened.

[Advancing.

Dushm. [With a mixture of joy and sorrow.] Ah! do I see the incomparable Sacontalá clad in sordid weeds?—Her face is emaciated by the performance of austere duties; one twisted lock floats over her shoulder; and with a mind perfectly pure, she supports the long absence of her husband, whose unkindness exceeded all bounds.

Sac. [Seeing him, yet doubting.] Is that the son of my lord grown pale with penitence and affliction?—If not, who is it, that sullies with his touch the hand of my child, whose amulet should have preserved him from such indignity?

Boy. [Going hastily to Sacontalá.] Mother, here is a stranger who calls me son.

Dushm. Oh! my best beloved, I have treated thee cruelly; but my cruelty is succeeded by the warmest affection; and I implore your remembrance and forgiveness.

Sac. [Aside.] Be confident, O my heart!—[Aloud.] I shall be most happy when the king's anger has passed away.—[Aside.]—This must be the son of my lord.