KING.—Alas! the shades of my forefathers are even now beginning to be alarmed, lest at my death they may be deprived of their funeral libations.
No son remains in King Dushyanta's place
To offer sacred homage to the dead
Of Puru's noble line: my ancestors
Must drink these glistening tears, the last libation
A childless man can ever hope to make them.
[Falls down in an agony of grief.
CHATURIKÁ [looking at him in consternation].—Great King, compose yourself.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Alas! alas! though a bright light is shining near him, he is involved in the blackest darkness, by reason of the veil that obscures his sight. I will now reveal all, and put an end to his misery. But no; I heard the mother of the great Indra, when she was consoling Śakoontalá, say, that the gods will soon bring about a joyful union between husband and wife, being eager for the sacrifice which will be celebrated in their honor on the occasion. I must not anticipate the happy moment, but will return at once to my dear friend and cheer her with an account of what I have seen and heard. [Rises aloft and disappears.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Help! help! to the rescue!
KING [recovering himself. Listening].—Ha! I heard a cry of distress, and in Máthavya's voice. What ho there!
VETRAVATÍ [entering].—Your friend is in danger; save him, great King.
KING.—Who dares insult the worthy Máthavya?
VETRAVATÍ.—Some evil demon, invisible to human eyes, has seized him, and carried him to one of the turrets of the Palace of Clouds.