As night descended upon the forest, Rāma, the noble son of Daśaratha, lay down upon the bare earth. Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted, gently washed Rāma’s feet, and together with Sītā, stood nearby beneath the shelter of a tree, keeping vigil over his beloved brother. Guha, the king of the Niṣādas, remained close as well, accompanied by his charioteer. With bow in hand, Guha conversed quietly with Saumitri—Lakṣmaṇa—and, watchful and alert, resolved to guard Rāma throughout the night. There, on the forest floor, the wise and illustrious Rāma—who had never before known hardship and was accustomed only to comfort—rested as the long hours of darkness slowly passed. The night was heavy with the weight of change and sorrow. Seeing Rāma awake and without guile, Guha, his heart tormented by sorrow for the sake of his friend, spoke earnestly to Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa. “Dear prince,” he said, “a comfortable bed has been prepared for you; rest upon it as you wish and take comfort here. We are used to hardship, but you are meant for comfort. We shall remain awake through the night to guard you, O scion of the Kākutstha line. Truly, there is no one on earth dearer to me than you, Rāma. I swear this by truth itself. By your favor, I hope to gain great fame, abundant righteousness, and pure prosperity. Therefore, I will protect you, my dear friend, as you lie here with Sītā, holding my bow in hand, together with my kinsmen, watching on all sides. There is nothing unknown to me in this forest, where I always roam; even if a great fourfold army came, we could overcome it.” Lakṣmaṇa replied, “O faultless one, since you are protecting us, we have no fear here; we see only righteousness. But how could I find sleep, or even happiness or life, while the two sons of Daśaratha lie on the ground with Sītā? He whom neither gods nor asuras could overpower in battle—see him now, lying here upon grass with Sītā. He, the only son of Daśaratha, gained through mantras, austerity, and many efforts, possessed of noble qualities—now exiled to the forest. With him gone, the king will not endure; surely, the earth will soon become a widow. The women, exhausted, have ceased their loud wailing; I think, dear friend, that the royal palace is now silent. “Kausalyā, the king, and my own mother—I do not expect that any of them will survive this night. Perhaps my mother may endure, for the sake of Śatrughna, but the sorrow that will destroy Kausalyā, the mother of a hero, is grievous indeed. That city, once filled with devoted people and joy, will perish, afflicted by the king’s misfortune. How will the king’s life-breath remain when he cannot see his eldest, beloved, noble son? When the king is lost, Kausalyā will follow, and then my mother too will meet her end. My father, having failed to fulfill his cherished wish of installing Rāma as king, will perish. When that time comes, all those whose desires are fulfilled will perform the king’s funeral rites. “Ayodhyā, with its lovely crossroads, grand roads, mansions, palaces, and the finest courtesans, crowded with chariots, horses, and elephants, resounding with music, filled with every auspicious thing and teeming with joyful, prosperous people, rich in gardens and parks, abundant in gatherings and festivals—its people will move about happily in my father’s city. If only King Daśaratha might live, and after our return from the forest, we might see that great-souled, virtuous man again. If, together with the truthful and unharmed one, we might enter Ayodhyā again after our exile is ended…” As the great-souled prince, afflicted with sorrow and lamenting thus, remained there, the night slowly passed. Guha, hearing these words of truth and devotion, was overwhelmed by grief. Out of deep affection for his noble friend, tears welled in his eyes, and he wept, like an ailing elephant tormented by pain. When the long night finally gave way to dawn, the illustrious Rāma spoke to Saumitri, Lakṣmaṇa of auspicious marks. “Dear one, the time of sunrise has come, the blessed night has passed. Listen—the dark-plumed cuckoo is calling, and the cries of peacocks resound in the forest. Gentle one, let us cross the swift-flowing Jahnavi, which journeys to the ocean.” Hearing these words, Lakṣmaṇa, ever the delight of his friends, summoned Guha and the charioteer and stood before his brother. Guha, receiving Rāma’s command, quickly called his attendants and instructed them, “Bring here a well-equipped, sturdy, and swift boat, fitted with oars and ready for crossing.” At his order, Guha’s great company of attendants brought a beautiful boat and informed their chief. Then Guha, with joined palms, spoke humbly to Rāghava, “Here is the boat, O lord; what more shall I do for you?