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[Sacontalá walks with solemnity round the hearth.]—Now set out, my darling, on thy auspicious journey.—[Looking round.]—Where are the attendants, the two Misras?

Both. Holy sage, we are here.

Can. My son, Sárngarava, show thy sister her way.

Sárn. Come damsel.

Can. Hear, all ye trees of this hallowed forest; ye trees, in which the sylvan goddesses have their abode; hear, and proclaim, that Sacontalá is going to the palace of her wedded lord; she who drank not, though thirsty, before you were watered; she who cropped not, through affection for you, one of your fresh leaves, though she would have been pleased with such an ornament for her locks ; she whose chief delight was in the season when your branches are spangled with flowers!

May her way be attended with prosperity! May propitious breezes sprinkle for her delight, the odoriferous dust of rich blossoms! May pools of clear water, green with the leaves of the lotos, refresh her as she walks! and may shady branches be her defence from the scorching sunbeams!

[All listen with admiration.

Sárn. Was that the voice of the Cócila wishing a happy journey to Sacontalá?—Or did the nymphs, who are allied to the pious inhabitants