VETRAVATÍ.—Your Majesty's proclamation was received with acclamations of joy, like grateful rain at the right season.
KING [drawing a deep sigh].—So then, the property of rich men, who have no lineal descendants, passes over to a stranger at their decease. And such, alas! must be the fate of the fortunes of the race of Puru at my death; even as when fertile soil is sown with seed at the wrong season.
VETRAVATÍ.—Heaven forbid!
KING.—Fool that I was to reject such happiness when it offered itself for my acceptance!
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—He may well blame his own folly when he calls to mind his treatment of my beloved Śakoontalá.
KING.—Ah! woe is me? when I forsook my wife—
My lawful wife—concealed within her breast
There lay my second self, a child unborn,
Hope of my race, e'en as the choicest fruit
Lies hidden in the bosom of the earth.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—There is no fear of your race being cut off for want of a son.
CHATURIKÁ [aside to Vetravatí].—The affair of the merchant's death has quite upset our royal master, and caused him sad distress. Had you not better fetch the worthy Máthavya from the Palace of Clouds to comfort him?
VETRAVATÍ.—A very good idea. [Exit.