Thus spake Kálí, in tones of sorrow, for she feared that the king should lose his life by one of these three calamities. The minister prostrated himself on the ground, and said that if the goddess would but grant him her favour he was confident he could contrive to avert all the threatened evils from the king. Kálí smiled and disappeared; and the minister, taking her kind smile as a token of her favour, returned home and slept soundly.
As soon as morning dawned, the First Minister arose, and, having made the customary ablutions, proceeded to the palace. He took care to reveal to no one the important secret communicated to him by the goddess—not even to his three colleagues. The sun was not yet two ghatikas[86] above the horizon when several carts containing the finest paddy grains, specially selected for the king’s use, came into the courtyard of the palace. Alakésa was present, and ordered a measure of it to be at once husked and cooked. The coming in of the carts and the king’s order so exactly coincided with Kálí’s words that the minister began to fear that he was quite unequal to the task of averting the fatality; yet the recollection of the smile of the goddess inspired him with fresh resolution, and he at once went to the palace-kitchen and requested the servants to inform him when the king was about to go to dinner. After issuing orders for the storing of the grain, King Alakésa retired to perform his morning ablutions and other religious duties.
Meanwhile a carriage containing the pots of sweetmeats sent by the king of Vijayanajara drove up to the palace, and the emissary who accompanied the present told the royal servants that his master had commanded him to deliver it to King Alakésa in person. The First Minister well understood the meaning of this, and, promising to bring the king, went into the palace, caused one of the servants to be dressed like Alakésa, and conducted him to the carriage. The officer of the Vijayanajara king placed the first pot before the supposed Alakésa, who at once opened it, when, lo! there darted forth several arrows, one of which pierced his heart, and he fell dead on the spot.[87] In an instant the emissary was seized and bound, and the officers began to lament the death of their good king. But the fatal occurrence spread rapidly through the palace, and soon the real Alakésa made his appearance on the scene. The officers now beheld one Alakésa dead and fallen to the ground, pierced by the arrow, and another standing there alive and well. The First Minister then related how, suspecting treachery, he brought out a servant of the palace dressed like the king, and how he had been slain in place of his royal master. Alakésa thanked the minister for having so ingeniously saved his life, and went into the palace. Thus was one of the three calamities to the king averted by the faithful Bodhaditya.
When it was the hour for dinner, the king and his courtiers all sat down, with the exception of the First Minister, who remained standing, without having taken a leaf for his own use.[88] The king, observing this, with a smile pointed out a leaf to him, but Bodhaditya would not sit: he wished to be near the king and to abstain from eating on that occasion. So the king allowed him to have his own way. The food having been served on the leaves, the hands of all, including the king, were mingling the rice, ghí, and dhal for the first course. Near the king stood his faithful minister Bodhaditya, and when the king raised the first handful to his mouth, “Stop, my master,” cried he; “I have long hoped for this handful as a present to me from your royal hands. I pray you give it to me, and feed upon the rest of the rice on your leaf.” This was uttered more in a tone of command than of request, and the king was highly incensed at what he naturally considered as insolence on the part of the minister. For such a request, especially when made to a king, is deemed nothing less than an insult, while to refuse it is equally offensive. So, whatever thoughts may have passed through Alakésa’s mind, recollecting how the minister had that morning saved his life, he gave him the handful of rice, which Bodhaditya received with delight, feeling grateful for the favour of the goddess in being the means of averting this second calamity. Far different, however, were the sentiments of the king and the assembled company. One and all declared Bodhaditya to be an insolent, proud fellow; but the king, while secretly blaming himself for having allowed him to use so much familiarity, suppressed his anger, in consideration of the important service the minister had rendered him in the affair of the arrows.
On the approach of night the heart of the First Minister throbbed violently, for the third calamity predicted by the goddess was yet to be encountered. His watch being ended, before retiring to rest he went to examine the royal bedroom, where he saw the light burning brightly, and the king and queen asleep side by side in the ornamented swing-cot, which was suspended from the roof by four chains. Presently he perceived with horror a fierce black snake, the smell of which is enough to kill a man, slowly gliding down the chain near the head of the queen. The minister noiselessly went forward, and, with a single stroke of his sharp sword, cut the venomous brute in two. Bodhaditya, to avoid disturbing any person at such an hour of the night, threw the pieces over the canopy of the bed, rejoicing at having thus averted the third and last calamity. But a fresh horror then met his eyes: a drop of the snake’s poison had fallen on the bosom of the queen, which was exposed in the carelessness of slumber. “Alas, sacred goddess!” he muttered, “why do you thus raise up new obstacles in my efforts to avert the evil which you predicted? I have done what I could to save the king, and in this last trial I have killed his beloved queen! How can I remove the poison from her bosom? How can I profane that sacred spot with my hand? But I regard her even as my own mother; and do not children draw their nourishment from the breasts of their mothers?” Having thus briefly reflected, he wiped off the poison from the queen’s bosom with the tip of his little finger, and in case the contact of the venom with his finger should endanger his own life he cut the tip of it off and threw it on the canopy. Just then the queen awoke, and perceiving a man hastily leaving the room she cried: “Who are you?” The minister respectfully answered: “Most venerable mother, I am your son Bodhaditya,” and at once retired. Upon this the queen thought within herself: “Alas, is there a good man in this world? Hitherto have I regarded this Bodhaditya as my son; but now he has basely taken the opportunity of thus disgracing me when my lord and I were sound asleep. I shall inform the king of this affair, and have that wretch’s head struck off before the morning.” Accordingly she gently awakened the king, and, with tears trickling down her beauteous face, she told him what had occurred, and concluded with these words: “Till now, my lord, I considered that I was wife to you alone; but this night your First Minister has made me doubt it, since to my question, ‘Who are you?’ he answered, without any shame, ‘I am Bodhaditya,’ and went away.” On hearing of this violation of the sanctity of his bedchamber. Alakésa was greatly enraged, and determined to put to death such an unprincipled servant, but first to communicate the affair to his three other ministers.
When the Second Minister’s watch was over he went to inspect the guard at the royal bedchamber, and Alakésa hearing his footstep inquired who was there. “Your servant, Bodhachandra, most royal lord,” was the reply. “Enter, Bodhachandra,” said the king. “I have somewhat to communicate to you.” Then Alakésa, almost choking with rage, told him of the gross offence of which his colleague the First Minister had been guilty, and demanded to know whether any punishment could be too severe. Bodhachandra humbled himself before the king, and thus replied: “My lord, such a crime merits a heavy requital. Can one tie up fire in one’s cloth,[89] and think that, as it is but a small spark, it will do no harm? How, then, can we excuse even slight deviations from the rules of propriety? Therefore, if Bodhaditya be really guilty he must be signally punished. But permit me to represent to your majesty the advisability of carefully inquiring into this matter before proceeding to judgment. We ought to ascertain what reasons he had for such a breach of the zanána[90] rules; for should we, carried away by anger, act rashly in this affair, we may repent when repentance is of no avail. As an example I shall, with your majesty’s permission, relate a story.” The king having at once given his consent, the Second Minister began to relate the
Story of the Hunter and his Faithful Dog.
There dwelt in a certain forest a hunter named Ugravira, who was lord of the woods, and as such had to pay a fixed sum of money to the king of the country. It chanced once that the king unexpectedly demanded of him one thousand five hundred pons.[91] The hunter sold all his property and realised only a thousand pons, and was perplexed how to procure the rest of the required amount. At length he bethought him of his dog, which was of the best kind, and was beloved by him more than aught else in the whole world. He took his dog to an adjacent town, where he pledged him to a merchant named Kubéra for five hundred pons, at the same time giving the merchant his bond for the loan. Before going away, the hunter, with tears in his eyes, thus addressed the intelligent animal: “Mrigasinha[92]—O my faithful friend! do not leave thy new master until I have paid him back the money I have borrowed of him. Obey and serve him, even as thou hast ever obeyed and served me.”
Some time after this, the merchant Kubéra had to leave home and proceed with his goods to foreign countries; so he called the hunter’s dog to his side, and bade him watch at his doors and prevent the intrusion of robbers and other evil disposed persons. The dog indicated, both by his eyes and his tail, that he perfectly understood his instructions. Then the merchant, having enjoined his wife to feed the dog three times every day with rice and milk, set out on his travels. The dog kept his watch outside of the house, and for a few days the merchant’s wife fed him regularly three times a day. But this kind treatment was not to continue. She had for her paramour a wicked youth of the Setti caste,[93] who, soon after the departure of Kubéra, became a constant visitor at the merchant’s house. The faithful dog instinctively surmised that his new master would not approve of such conduct; so one night when the youth was leaving the house Mrigasinha sprang on him like an enraged lion, and, seizing him by the throat, sent that evil-doer to the other world. The merchant’s wife, hearing the scuffle, ran to the spot to save her lover, but found him dead. Though extremely grieved at the loss of her paramour, she had the presence of mind to immediately carry the body to the garden at the back of the house, where she concealed it in a great pit, and covered it with earth and leaves, vainly thinking that she had thus concealed her own shame. This was not done, however, without being observed by the watchful dog; and henceforth the merchant’s wife hated him with a deadly hatred. She no longer gave him food, and the poor creature was fain to eat such grains of rice as he found adhering to the leaves thrown out of the house after meals, still keeping guard at the door.
After an absence of two months the merchant returned, and the dog, the moment he saw him, ran up to him and rolled himself on the ground at his feet; then seizing the merchant’s cloth he dragged him to the very spot in the garden where the youth’s body was hidden, and began to scratch the ground, at the same time looking into the merchant’s face and howling dismally, from which Kubéra concluded that the dog wished him to examine the place. Accordingly he dug up the spot and discovered the body of the youth, whom, indeed, he had suspected of being his wife’s paramour. In a great fury he rushed into the house and commanded his wife, on pain of instant death, to relate the particulars of this affair without concealing anything. The wretched woman, seeing that her sin was discovered, confessed all, upon which her husband exclaimed: “Disgrace of womankind! you have not a fraction of the virtue possessed by this faithful brute, which you have, out of revenge, allowed to starve. But why should I waste words on thee? Depart, and let me see your face no more!” So saying, he thrust her out of the house. Then the merchant fed the dog with milk, rice, and sugar, after which he said to that lion of beasts: “Thou trusty friend! language fails to express my gratitude to thee. The five hundred pons which I lent thy old master the hunter are as nothing compared with thy services to me, by which I consider the debt as more than paid. What must be the feelings of the hunter without thy companionship! I now give thee leave to return to him.” The merchant took the hunter’s bond, and tearing it slightly at the top as a token that it was cancelled, he placed it in the dog’s mouth, and sending him back to his former master, the dog set off to the forest.