After the birds had spoken their harsh and merciless words to the king, the sage Kauśika—Viśvāmitra—took the wealth and, angered, departed swiftly. The king, left behind, was submerged in an ocean of fear and sorrow. He pondered every possibility, his face cast down, and spoke aloud, “Let the man whom I purchased with wealth, my servant, speak quickly, before the sun sets, about the task for which he was bought.” At that moment, Dharma himself arrived in haste, taking the form of a caṇḍāla—a foul-smelling, deformed, bearded figure with harsh speech and protruding teeth, repulsive to behold. He was dark and pot-bellied, with tawny, rough eyes, carrying a bundle of wings, and adorned with garlands of corpses. In his hand was a skull, his face long and terrifying, his mouth constantly opening; he was surrounded by packs of dogs, holding a staff, and looked dreadful. The caṇḍāla spoke, “I am the one you bought. Quickly tell me your own price—whether little or much—by which you may be obtained.” Seeing him, so cruel in gaze and extremely harsh in speech, 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, distressed, responded, “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.” Just then, Viśvāmitra, the storehouse of austerity, arrived, his eyes wide with anger and indignation, and 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 king, caught in anxiety and 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.” 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. There, King Hariścandra dwelled in the city of the outcaste, and morning, noon, and evening, he sang out his sorrows. Seeing the child and the girl with sorrowful faces before him, afflicted with suffering, he remembered, “She remembers me; the king will release us.” Having obtained wealth, he had given even more to the brāhmaṇa, yet that doe-eyed one—his wife—did not know the greater sin he had committed. He lamented, “The loss of the kingdom, the abandonment of friends, the sale of wife and son, and now this state as an outcaste—alas, what a succession of sorrows!” Thus, dwelling there always, he remembered his beloved son and his noble wife, who was as dear as his own self, distressed, having lost everything. After some time, Hariścandra became one who collected shrouds from the dead, following the command of the outcaste, at the cremation ground. Instructed by the outcaste, who gathered shrouds from the dead, he remained there day and night, watching for the arrival of corpses. The outcaste told him, “This must be given to the king as well—a sixth part from the corpse; three shares are mine, and two shares are your wages.” Thus instructed, Hariścandra went to the house of the dead, where offerings are given, at that time in Vārāṇasī. The cremation ground was resounding with dreadful noise, crowded with hundreds of Śiva’s followers, filled with heaps of corpses, foul-smelling, and thick with smoke. It was teeming with piśācas, ghosts, spirits, ḍākinīs, and yakṣas, crowded with vultures and jackals, surrounded by packs of dogs. Heaps of bones lay everywhere, pervaded by a terrible stench, resounding with various cries of the bereaved, and tumultuous with dreadful noise. Cries echoed: “Alas, my son! Friend! Kinsman! Brother! Beloved! Alas, my lord! Sister! Mother! Uncle! Grandfather!” “Grandfather! Father! Where have you gone? Come, relatives!”—such was the great sound heard there from those who mourned. The ground was filled with burning flesh, fat, marrow, and heaps of half-burnt skin. Half-burnt corpses, dark in color, with rows of exposed teeth, seemed to be laughing as they lay in the midst of the fire—such is the condition of the body. The crackling sound of the fire came from the rows of bones of birds, and the cries of relatives, mixed with the delighted shouts of the outcastes, were heard. The great and terrible roar of hosts of spirits, ghouls, and demons singing could be heard, as if at the end of the world. The place was crowded with heaps of dung from buffaloes and cows, and covered with mounds of ash rising up, along with protruding bones. With various offerings, scattered lamps, and crows picking at remains, that cremation ground, full of many sounds, appeared like hell. Thus, Hariścandra, once a noble king, now dwelled in that dreadful place, performing his duty, enduring sorrow and separation, yet holding steadfast to his path.