After wandering hither and thither they came at sunset to a hill town, and there they took up their quarters in an empty temple. That same evening there came five hundred robbers in order to plunder the town. But its inhabitants perceived this, and overcame the robbers. The robber chief, on whom they failed to lay hands, escaped into that same temple. The townsmen surrounded it, but the chief closed the door. When the townsmen asked who was dwelling there, Āśuga replied that some travellers were there. The townspeople threatened to make an end of him if he did not give up the robber. The robber chief said to Suśroṇī, “Why should you have to do with a blind man? We will turn him out and then live together.” She agreed to this. The robber chief flung the blind man down from the wall, and the townspeople struck off his head.
Next day Suśroṇī and the robber chief reached the river Karada, and found no boat in which to cross it.[2] The robber chief bade her lay aside her finery, saying that she must swim across the river, and he would bring her things after her. She handed over to him all her [[233]]clothes and ornaments, and went naked into the water. When she reached the middle of the stream, there arose in her mind the fear that he might run off with her things, and she uttered this śloka—
“The Karada is full of water. The fair one gave thee all her things. Fear has arisen within me. Deceive me not, O evil-doer!”
He likewise replied in a śloka—
“For the sake of one unknown hast thou slain one known of old, considering the man useless. Therefore is it difficult to put trust in thee. Me also mightest thou kill.”
He went off with her things, but she crawled naked into the thick grass. There came by an old jackal carrying a piece of flesh.[3] Just at that spot a fish, driven on to the shore from the stream of the river Karada, was lying on the dry land. The jackal dropped the piece of flesh and made a dash at the fish. But the fish sprang back again into the stream, and the flesh was carried off by a vulture, so that the jackal, deprived of both, was left standing there mournfully, with drooping ears. Seeing that, Suśroṇī uttered the following śloka—
“The vulture has carried off the piece of flesh, the fish has slipped into the water. Wherefore grieves not the jackal, of both those things bereft?”
The jackal looked around on every side, and, seeing no one, uttered the following śloka—
“She who dances not before the robber, who herself has no joy in song, who now abides in the grass, who is she, who chides and scoffs at me?”
She replied, “I am Suśroṇī, uncle.” The jackal reflected with vexation that this yoginī was mocking him, and said—