All were armed with bows and arrows, resembling the very attendants of Yama, the god of death. Together, they journeyed to a sacred water sanctuary, accompanied by a herd of deer. Exhausted by hunger and thirst, they reached this holy place, and the power of the sanctuary was undeniable—there could be no doubt of its sanctity. It is said that whoever bathes in these waters, O King, attains success immediately. When Indra himself beheld this sacred site, renowned for removing sin, he revered it. Even today, wise people visit this place on the eighth lunar day, knowing its significance. Those who perform ancestral rites, such as śrāddha and charitable gifts here, obtain their full fruit. Thus concludes the chapter describing the power of Manuṣya-tīrtha, as told in the glorious Skanda Mahāpurāṇa. Wherever a man bathes properly in such a place, he is freed from all sins. Long ago, there was a king named Suprabha, known for vanquishing enemy heroes. But his pleasure did not lie so much in women, luxuries, or riding noble horses and elephants. Once, fond of the hunt, King Suprabha went to Arbuda. There, he saw a gentle doe suckling her young, the fawn attached to her milk. As the king drew his bow to shoot, the doe, burning with anger, addressed him. “Whether lying down, engaged in union, suckling, or suffering from disease—today, O lowest of kings, my death comes in every way. For you have slain me unrighteously, O lord of the earth.” Realizing his error, the king tried to appease the dying deer. “O gentle one, out of ignorance and cruelty, I have slain you.” Then, through their conversation, the king learned that she would return to her natural state as a cow. Having spoken thus, the doe departed from life before the king. Stricken by the event, the king’s face became fierce; in his rage, he devoured his own army. The remaining soldiers, struck down and deeply distressed, spread word of these happenings at crossroads and three-way junctions. Hearing of this, the king’s son, a man of great valor, was deeply moved. In time, within that same lineage, a cow, separated from her herd by her desire for grass, wandered alone. She was known to always graze on grass with unbroken tips. Then, a tiger with a fierce, fanged mouth approached her. Remembering her calf, bound in the cowshed and drinking milk, the cow’s thoughts turned to her child. Among foolish people, some worship a beloved deity only in memory. Kapila said: “O tiger, I do not cry out of fear for my own life. I am distressed with sorrow because my calf has not yet eaten the grass. Let me return to give my young son milk, see and speak to my people, and then, if you wish, I will return. You tell me my child will return, but I do not believe it. You speak thus out of fear, but there is no fear like that for one’s own life. If you have faith, O lord of beasts, release me. When I am certain, I will return—or perhaps not. If I do not return, I will be tainted by this sin.” Thus, the tale unfolds, revealing the power of sacred places, the consequences of actions, and the enduring bonds of duty and compassion.