With great joy and reverence, he fell at the feet of his master, offering homage and sharing the good news of the favor he had received from Hara. The slaying of Krauñca, he explained, was done for the sake of one who had sought refuge, an act that destroyed sin and increased virtue. Curiosity arose: “By whom was the lord of the Daityas struck down with an arrow?” After all, this Daitya chief was a mighty hero, undefeated in battle, and known for his fairness toward friends, Brahmins, the poor, and the destitute alike. It was Pātālaketu who was pierced in the back by an arrow, swift and slender as the crescent moon. But who was the prince who slew this Daitya with a feathered shaft? Pātālaketu, blinded by arrogance, had obstructed the prince’s penance and disturbed his meditation. In frustration, he gazed up at the sky and released a long, hot, and deep sigh. The horse that accompanied them was no ordinary steed—it could traverse thousands of yojanas in a single day. Then, standing steadfast like one absorbed in penance, the great sage confronted the Daitya, and the prince struck Pātālaketu with his arrows. “From whom did these words arise, O bodiless one?” the listener asked, his curiosity deepening. For the sake of Ṛtadhvaja’s daughter, the prince swiftly released the horse into the world. But what was the purpose of King Kuvalayāśva and the prince? The answer lay in Madālasā, a maiden of unsurpassed beauty, radiant as moonlight, her very name resounding with grace—Madālasā herself. Yet Pātālaketu, driven by desire, carried off the slender maiden, and it was for her sake that the noble horse was given. When the king’s son beheld Madālasā, her doe-like eyes and delicate form captivated him, just as Śacī was entranced upon seeing Mahendra, the lord of the gods. What, then, did the wise son of Hiraṇyākṣa do next? That slayer of the gods’ army, his mind corrupted by wickedness, was seized by rage. Emerging from the depths of the underworld, he roamed the earth. It was then that he saw Gaurī, the mountain’s daughter, standing among her companions, her form auspicious and beautiful in every limb, radiant in the forest. He wondered aloud, “Whose is this beautiful woman, flawless in every limb, wandering here in the forest?” Despairing, he thought, “What use is my life if it bears no fruit for me? What is the value of my beauty if it remains unfulfilled?” He vowed, “Whoever unites me with that black-haired, doe-eyed woman—” But then, covering his ears with his hands and shaking his head in distress, he spoke: “She is the wife of Śaṅkara, the lord of the worlds and wielder of the trident. She belongs to another, O lord—do not descend into the underworld! Let your enemies commit the sin of coveting another’s wife.” He then beheld an army devoted to the sacred cow of the Brāhmaṇas, an army true, wholesome, and beneficial to the world. He reflected, “It is better to be impotent than to covet another’s wife; better to beg for alms than to enjoy another’s wealth, even once.” Declaring, “She is the mother of enemies,” he fled. Nandī, unwavering and mighty, stood in their path with a thunderbolt raised high, blocking them with irresistible force. Struck swiftly by this thunderbolt, they scattered in fear to the ten directions. Yet, in the chaos, Pātālaketu struck Nandī with a club and brought him down. Out of fear of this wicked one, Śatarūpā took on the form of Gaurī. Like a wild, intoxicated elephant wandering among a herd of females, his gaze unsteady, so too did this Daitya wander. But there is nothing surprising here, for these four—desire, anger, greed, and delusion—never truly see. Though Andhaka gazed upon Girijā, he did not truly perceive her. At last, the goddess, whose power was like a hundred thunderbolts, rejected this evil-minded one.