Touching her cheeks with her fingers, she turned and made her way home. Meanwhile, her sorrowful friend was gently addressed: “Listen, friend, abandon your grief,” he was told. “For your sake, my chest was struck—when will you truly become my friend? At the end of my menstruation, O friend, I kissed your face.” When three days had passed, she, now aged, went and reported all this to Padmavati. “O lovely-hipped one,” she advised, “unite with him today and make your life fruitful.” But she had been expelled through the window door, struck on her back and below. Pleased and clever, Mitra spoke up: “Listen, O friend! Arrive at midnight and enjoy me, for I am overcome with desire.” The great lover, eager, went swiftly and delighted the woman. He then spoke to his beloved Padmavati: “Hear my words, beautiful-faced one.” That friend, Buddhidaksha, asked, “Where is she now?” Upon hearing his words, which were as harsh as a thunderbolt, Buddhidaksha, devoted to the worship of Chitragupta, was shaken. At that moment, the king arrived, filled with urgency. “Why have you not eaten, friend, the food prepared by my beloved?” he questioned. Having eaten, he met his death; seeing this, the king was astonished. “Friend, go home quickly; the sinful woman has been abandoned by me,” he said. “Bring that ornament and place the trident at her knee.” Hearing this, the king went, did as instructed, and returned. Then, assuming the form of a yogi, he made that king his disciple, indeed as an ornament to him. Thinking himself crowned with a thunderous diadem, the king went to the city, following that command. Swiftly, the news was reported, and Dantavaktra spoke to him. The matted-haired one said, “O King, my guru is staying in the cremation ground.” Hearing this, the king immediately summoned that guru. “In the cremation ground, the mantra was established by me, taking the form of a yogi,” he explained. With a trident at her left knee, she gave the ornament. He, crowned with a thunderous diadem, took it and returned home. Then, the question arose: “To whom has great sin come among the four? Tell me now.” Sūta said: Hearing these words, the king named Vikrama—smiling—said to Bhārgava, “Sin has indeed come to the king.” The king’s son had accomplished the purpose, yet thus it was done by the king. A man who, seeing Rājovatī, the daughter, does not marry her—though the gāndharva marriage was performed by her, out of desire—he who, without discernment, abandons a maiden who is without visible fault, is truly at fault. Hearing thus, the Vetāla recited the verse on dharma as prompted by the king. Thus ends the first chapter in the glorious Bhaviṣya Mahāpurāṇa, in the Pratisarga Parvan, in the section called the Caturyuga-khaṇḍa-aparaparvāya. Now, the excellent twice-born Vetāla, with a clear mind, spoke again: Once, on the bank of the Yamunā, there was the auspicious city of Dharmasthala. The king, lord of virtues, ruled there over the kingdom. His wife was Suśīlā, devoted to her husband and virtuous.