The swift white one, youngest among his kind, moved with remarkable speed, supporting the very measure of all things. As the sacred ritual unfolded, the call went out to the deities—the Ādityas, Rudras, and Vasus—inviting them, along with Angiras, to accept this all-pervading, mighty, and generous gift, vast and broad in its reach. A prayer was offered: let the gods be given the demon, may this be your wise discernment, held firmly day by day, always within your grasp. Indra, the mighty protector, was invoked to carry the offering even to the distant ones, to bring wealth to the worthy sage who praises, and to drive away misfortune from those of ill repute. Indra’s compassion extended even to the pigeon with broken wings, to the deceived and the downtrodden; for them, he provided abundance—ripe black millet and pīlu fruit to sustain them through the day. Among those assembled, one who made no sound uttered “vāvadīti,” bound by threefold straps. He praised food, while those without drove it away. Within the sacred space, when the testicles, meant to be split, struck the thick part, they trembled and moved like bird eggs nestled in a cow’s hoof. When, with a heavy tool, she struck the testicles on the stone, they wobbled unsteadily, like donkeys treading on sand. The small ones, mingling among the small, moved as if toward a spring festival, while the wind scattered them. At that moment, the gods entered the ornament, revealing a woman, marked out with her companions, as clear and evident as the eye-sockets of truth. Yet, even the great fire could not satisfy the greedy one; the bones remained unmoved, and the sharp-toothed ones ate the flour by foot, each with their own mouth. The great fire, crossing the mortar, declared, “Just as they strike you, O tree, so may it be.” Having fallen and risen again, the fire spoke: “Just as your fruits, O tree, fall, so may it be.” Again, the fire proclaimed: “Just as the birds are burned in the sky, so may they be burned here.” Regarding the pressed juice, the fire said, “Let us separate husk from fruit with a winnowing basket.” The great fire chased the rooster with a staff, yet none could know which animal would seize the grain by its head. The fire pursued its own kind as it ran, and a plea rose up: “Protect these cows, O Yabha; do not strike me, O Udana.” The good god, the great fire, pressed upon those present; the pounding of the great one was good, and the kusa grass was fat and fresh. The sacrificial cow, having been burned, released her finger forward and beyond; truly great and auspicious was Yabha—again, the plea: “Do not strike me, O Udana.” The wise god, the great fire, pressed on; the pounding was good, and the maiden—the tawny and the black one—ran to the ashes. Truly great and auspicious were the bael tree and the udumbara; the greatly anointed one pressed on with the pounding. She, the maiden, the tawny one, who obtained the fat of spring, was to take up the oil-pit, this thumb, and the weeping pure one. When the eastern ones began to move, the iron grains and the grains of dhāna stirred, and all the enemies of Indra were struck down—all the bubbling and swift ones. The call went out to all: “Raise the grinding stone, urge it onward, dig for the prize! Let the one with the pestle stir up the son, and let Indra and his company come to drink Soma.” A hymn of praise was readied for Dadhikrāvan, the victorious and swift horse, whose fragrant mouth would bring pleasantness and carry all across to long life. The Somas, pressed and sweet as honey, flowed delightfully for Indra through the filter, unstoppable in their exhilaration, meant for the gods. The gods proclaimed, “The Soma is purified for Indra!” Speech itself, lord of sacrifice, was the joy and ruler of all strength. Soma, the thousand-streamed ocean, was purified, swelling with the power of words, daily companion of Indra and lord of riches. A dark, shining drop descended into the bright one, journeying with ten thousand companions. Indra, mighty in his strength, set the pounding in motion, removing what was sticky and unclean. The drop was seen moving apart by the banks of the shining river, like a dark cloud in the sky; standing firm, the hope was that the vigorous ones would win the contest. Soon, the shining drop settled in the lap, holding its form with force. The godless hosts drew near, but Indra, yoked with Bṛhaspati, overcame them. When Indra was born from the seven, he became the enemy of all foes, discovering the hidden heavens and earth, bringing battle to the wide worlds. With unmatched strength, Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt, struck down his enemies in fury, destroying Śuṣṇa and by his might, finding the cows. All urged mighty Indra, the bull, to slay the great Vṛtra, to be the most powerful and virile of all. Indra was made for victory, vigorous and set in exhilaration, glorious and renowned, ever loving Soma. His thunderbolt, gathered by the power of speech, was mighty and unfailing, grown tall and unshaken. Great indeed was Indra by his power, like a rain-bringing cloud, strengthened by hymns for the calf. When the fires, bearers of nectar, increased the offspring of immortality, the inspired ones rode the vehicle of truth. When the Kaṇvas, with hymns, made Indra the accomplisher of sacrifice, they called upon their kin to speak the weapon into being. Finally, the Ashvins were invoked: “Come now, for the help of the calf. Grant him unfailing, wide protection and drive away all foes.” Thus, through offering, praise, and the might of gods, the cycle of sacrifice, victory, and blessing was fulfilled.