Rohitāśva, the young prince with hair as dark as a raven’s wing, began to cry when he saw his mother being dragged away. Clutching her garment with his small hand, he tried desperately to hold onto her. The queen, his mother, pleaded with the priest, “Release me, just for a moment, so I may see my child. O dear one, it will be difficult for me to see him again.” Turning to her son, she said, “Look at me, my child, as I am now taken away to serve as a slave. Do not touch me, prince, for I am no longer to be touched by you.” Suddenly, the boy, seeing his mother dragged away, ran after her, calling out “Mother!” His eyes overflowed with tears. The brahmin, angered by the child’s persistence, struck Rohitāśva with his foot, but the boy continued to cry “Mother!” and would not let go. The queen, overwhelmed, begged, “Have mercy on me, lord. Buy this child as well. Even if I am bought by you, I cannot fulfill my duties without him. Be gracious to me, who am so unfortunate; unite me with my child, as a cow is joined with her calf.” The brahmin replied, “Take this wealth and give me the boy. According to the scriptures, the price has been set—be it a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand, or even a crore.” The birds, who witnessed, recounted: “The wealth was tied up in an upper garment, and taking the boy along with his mother, the brahmin bound them together as one.” The king, Hariścandra, watched his wife and son being led away and was overcome with grief. He lamented bitterly, sighing again and again. “She whom neither wind nor sun nor any man had seen before—this very wife of mine has now become a slave. This boy, born in the solar dynasty, with tender hands and fingers, has now been sold—shame on me, so misguided! Alas, beloved! Alas, child! O dear one! Because of my unrighteous actions, you have come to this state, subject to fate, and yet I do not die—shame on me!” The birds continued: “As the king lamented, the brahmin vanished, quickly taking them away through lofty trees and houses.” Then Viśvāmitra arrived and asked the king for the wealth. Hariścandra handed over the money to him. Seeing that small amount, gained from selling his wife and son, the sage Kauśika was angered and spoke harshly to the grief-stricken king. “O kṣatriya of low conduct! If you think this is a fitting sacrificial fee for me, then quickly witness my supreme power. Here is the power of my severe austerity, of my pure brahminhood, of my fierce might, and of my faultless study.” Hariścandra replied, “O venerable one, I will give you another; please wait for some time. At present, my wife has been sold and my son is but a child.” Viśvāmitra said, “O king, only a fourth part of the day remains; this alone is the time I will wait. You must not speak any further.” The birds observed, “Having spoken such harsh and merciless words to the king, the sage Kauśika departed swiftly, taking the wealth and anger with him.” When Viśvāmitra had gone, the king, submerged in an ocean of fear and sorrow, considered every possibility. He spoke aloud, his face cast down, “Let the man whom I purchased with wealth, my servant, speak quickly, before the sun sets, about the task for which he was bought.” Then, Dharma arrived in haste, taking the form of a caṇḍāla—a foul-smelling, deformed, harsh, bearded figure with protruding teeth and a repulsive appearance. He was dark, pot-bellied, with tawny, rough eyes, harsh in speech, holding a bundle of wings, adorned with garlands of corpses. With a skull in his hand, a long face, terrifying, constantly opening his mouth, surrounded by packs of dogs, staff in hand, he was dreadful to behold. The caṇḍāla said, “I am the one you bought; quickly tell me your own price—whether little or much—by which you may be obtained.” The birds recounted: “Seeing him thus—cruel in gaze, extremely harsh, and speaking most wickedly—the king asked, ‘Who are you?’” The caṇḍāla replied, “I am called a caṇḍāla here, known as Pravīra in this city, famed as an executioner and remover of corpse-clothes.” Hariścandra protested, “I do not wish for the servitude of a caṇḍāla, which is greatly condemned. Better to be burned by a curse and fire than fall under a caṇḍāla’s power.” As he spoke, Viśvāmitra, the storehouse of austerity, arrived, his eyes wide with anger and indignation. He addressed the king: “This caṇḍāla has come to give you ample wealth; why is the full sacrificial fee not given to me?” Hariścandra replied, “O venerable one, I know myself to be born of the Solar dynasty, O Kauśika. How can I, desiring wealth, become a caṇḍāla’s servant?” Viśvāmitra declared, “If you do not give me, in due time, the wealth obtained from the caṇḍāla by selling yourself, I will surely curse you.” The birds said: “Then King Hariścandra, his life caught in anxiety, trembling, clasped the sage’s feet and pleaded, ‘Be gracious!’ I am your servant, I am afflicted, I am afraid, and above all, I am your devotee. Show me your favor, O great sage; this union with the caṇḍāla is dreadful. With the wealth that remains, I shall perform all tasks under your command, O best of sages! I will be your servant, obedient to your will.” Viśvāmitra replied, “If you become my servant, then to the caṇḍāla I have given you, having received a hundred million in wealth, as one who has assumed the state of a slave.” The birds continued: “When this was spoken, the outcaste, his mind delighted, gave that wealth to Viśvāmitra and bound the king. Struck with a staff, his mind bewildered, his senses greatly disturbed, grieving from separation from his beloved kin, Hariścandra was led to the outcaste’s city.