Guha, overwhelmed with sorrow for his brother’s sake, addressed Rāma—who was awake and guileless—and Lakṣmaṇa, pouring out his heart to them. “Dear prince,” he said warmly, “I have prepared this comfortable bed for you. Please rest upon it as you wish, and find comfort here tonight. All these people with me are used to hardship, but you are accustomed to comfort; let us keep watch through the night and guard you, descendant of Kakutstha.” With deep sincerity, Guha continued, “Truly, there is no one on earth dearer to me than Rāma. I speak this truthfully and swear by truth itself. By Rāma’s favor, I hope to gain great fame in this world, to attain abundant righteousness, and to acquire pure prosperity. Therefore, as my dear friend Rāma lies here with Sītā, I will protect him, bow in hand, together with my kinsmen, on all sides. There is nothing in this forest unknown to me, for I always roam here; 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.” Yet, his heart was troubled. “How could I find sleep—or even life or happiness—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 on grass with Sītā. He, the only son of Daśaratha, obtained by mantras, austerity, and many efforts, possessing noble qualities—now exiled to the forest. With him gone, the king will not last long; surely, the earth will soon become a widow.” Lakṣmaṇa’s sorrow deepened as he spoke, “The women, exhausted, have ceased their loud wailing; I think, dear one, the royal palace has now fallen silent. Kausalyā, the king, and my own mother—I do not expect any of them will survive this night. Perhaps my mother may live, out of concern for Śatrughna, but the sorrow that will destroy Kausalyā, the mother of a hero, is grievous indeed. That city, once filled with devoted people and bringing joy to all who beheld it, will perish, afflicted by the king’s misfortune. How will the great king’s life-breath remain, when he cannot see his eldest, beloved, noble son? When the king is lost, Kausalyā will perish afterwards; and then my mother too will meet her end. Having failed to fulfill his cherished wish—having not installed Rāma in the kingdom—my father will perish. When my father has passed away, and that time has come, all those whose desires are fulfilled will perform the funeral rites for the king.” He reflected on Ayodhyā: “The city, with its lovely crossroads, great roads, mansions, palaces, and adorned by 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—the people will move about happily in my father's royal 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 the forest exile is ended.” As the great-souled prince, afflicted with sorrow and lamenting, remained there, the night slowly passed. While Lakṣmaṇa, devoted to the people’s welfare, spoke these heartfelt words, Guha, overwhelmed by affection for his noble friend, shed tears—like an ailing elephant tormented by pain. When the night had passed and morning dawned, the illustrious Rāma spoke to Saumitri, Lakṣmaṇa of auspicious marks. “The time of sunrise has come, the blessed night has gone; look, dear one, the dark-plumed cuckoo is calling. And the cries of peacocks are resounding in the forest; gentle one, let us cross the swift-flowing Jahnavi, which goes to the ocean.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Saumitri—the delight of his friends—summoned Guha and the charioteer, and stood before his brother. At Rāma’s command, Guha, chief of the boatmen, quickly called his attendants and instructed them, “Bring here a well-equipped, sturdy, and swift boat, fitted with oars and ready for crossing.” Guha’s attendants, responding promptly, brought a beautiful boat and reported to their chief. With joined palms, Guha spoke to Rāghava: “Here is the boat, O lord; what more shall I do for you? This boat, O tiger among men, equal to the chariots of the gods, is ready to carry you across the river that flows to the ocean; ascend it, O steadfast one!” Rāma, radiant in might, replied, “My wish has been fulfilled by you; let us quickly embark.” Then, having fastened their quivers and girded on their swords, the two Rāghavas, with Sītā, moved towards the Gaṅgā. The charioteer, approaching Rāma—knower of righteousness—with humility and joined palms, asked, “What shall I do?” Thus, with the dawn, their journey pressed onward, guided by duty, love, and the bonds of friendship.