[123.11. S.
Courtier. Certainly. Anything, unless it be a sin.
Sansthānaka. There's not a shmell of a shin in it, shir. Not a perfume!
Courtier. Speak, then.
Sansthānaka. Murder Vasantasenā.
Courtier. [Stopping his ears.]
A tender lady, gem of this our city,
A courtezan whose love was stainless ever—
If I should kill her, sinless, without pity.
What boat would bear me on the gloomy river?23
Sansthānaka. I'll give you a boat. And beshides, in thish deserted garden, who'll shee you murdering her?
Courtier.