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Ah! though her bracelets of lotos are bright as moonbeams, yet they are marked, I see, with black spots from internal ardour.

Sac. [Half raising herself.] Oh! say what you suspect to have occasioned it.

Anu. Sacontalá, we must necessarily be ignorant of what is passing in your breast; but I suspect your case to be that which we have often heard related in tales of love. Tell us openly what causes your illness. A physician, without knowing the cause of a disorder, cannot even begin to apply a remedy.

Dushm. [Aside.] I flatter myself with the same suspicion.

Sac. [Aside.] My pain is intolerable; yet I cannot hastily disclose the occasion of it.

Pri. My sweet friend, Anusúyá, speaks rationally. Consider the violence of your indisposition. Every day you will be more and more emaciated, though your exquisite beauty has not yet forsaken you.

Dushm. [Aside.] Most true. Her forehead is parched; her neck droops; her waist is more slender than before; her shoulders languidly fall; her complection is wan; she resembles a Mádhaví creeper, whose leaves are dried by a sultry gale: yet, even thus transformed, she is lovely and charms my soul.

Sac. [Sighing.] What more can I say? Ah! why should I be the occasion of your sorrow?

Pri. For that very reason, my beloved, we are