At a most pleasant hour, armed with my bow and arrows and eager for exercise, I guided my chariot along the banks of the Sarayu river. The night was still, and at the watering places I lay in wait, hoping to hunt a buffalo or an elephant that might have come to the river’s edge after dark, or any other animal whose tracks I could find. My senses were unrestrained, my mind intent on the chase. Alone in the night, I kept my bow drawn and, concealed in the brush, killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank. Then, hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened intently. In the darkness, I caught the noise of something moving in the water near a pot. The sound, within my hearing, resembled the trumpeting of an elephant. Eager for the hunt, I drew forth a sharp arrow, blazing like the venom of a serpent, and, aiming at the sound, released it, desiring to strike an elephant. But as dawn broke, a clear human voice rose from the forest, crying out in anguish. Someone, struck in the vital parts by my arrow, had fallen into the water. When the arrow struck, I heard a human voice lament: “How could a weapon fall upon one like me, devoted to austerity? At night, I came to this secluded river to draw water; by whom have I been struck with an arrow? What wrong have I done to anyone? How can one like me, a sage who has renounced violence and lives in the forest on wild food, be slain by a weapon? Who would seek my death, burdened as I am with matted hair, clad in bark and skins? What harm have I done to him? Such an act, fruitless and only bringing harm, would be condemned by all, just as one who approaches his teacher’s wife. I do not grieve so much for the loss of my own life, but for my mother and father, who are like me. That aged couple, long supported by me—when I am gone, who will care for them? My aged mother and father, and I too, are all slain by a single arrow—by a mere boy, ignorant of himself.” Hearing these pitiful words, my heart, yearning for righteousness, was overcome with anguish. My bow and arrow slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. The sorrowful cries in the night filled me with grief and agitation; I became utterly distraught. My spirit broken and my mind deeply troubled, I made my way to the place from where the cries had come. There, on the bank of the Sarayu, I saw the ascetic lying dead, struck by my arrow. His matted hair was scattered, his water pot overturned and emptied, his body stained with blood, pierced and tormented by the shaft. He looked at me with his eyes, though I stood fearful and agitated, and spoke harsh words, burning with his energy: “What wrong have I done to you, O King, as I dwelt in the forest, that you, wishing to take water for your own purpose, have struck me down? With a single arrow striking my vital spot, both my blind and aged parents—my mother and my father—are now as good as slain. Surely those two, weak and blind, are waiting for me, parched with thirst, enduring for long the cruel torment of hope. Truly, there is no fruit of asceticism or of learning, since my father does not know that I lie fallen here upon the ground. Even if he knew, what could he do? He is powerless, unable to move, just as one tree cannot save another tree being felled. Go quickly, O Rāghava, and tell my father yourself; do not let his anger burn you like a fire blazing in the forest. This is the only path, O King, that leads to my father's hermitage; go there and appease him, lest he, enraged, curse you. Draw out the sharp arrow from my vital spot, O King, for it blocks my life-breath, just as a gentle mound holds back the water at the riverbank. If I remain pierced by the shaft, I will suffer with my life; if it is removed, I will perish.” Such were his anxious thoughts as I prepared to draw out the arrow. The sage's son, afflicted and overwhelmed by grief, saw the worry in my heart. Suffering, his limbs slackening as he approached his end, he spoke to me with utmost anguish: “I steady my mind with courage, O King; remove from your heart the sin of brahmin-slaying that has been committed. I am not a brahmin, O King, so let your mind not be troubled; I was born to a śūdra mother and a vaiśya father, O lord of the land.” As he spoke these words with difficulty, his body trembled and writhed upon the earth, quivering in his final moments. As he lay there, bending low, I drew out the arrow from his body. Lamenting, my own body soaked in water, I cried out in pain from the constant wound in my heart. There he lay on the banks of the Sarayu, dear one, deeply distressed. Now, listen to the next part of my story. Lamenting over the unjust killing of that great sage, I, the righteous Rāghava, spoke again to Kausalyā. Having committed that great sin out of ignorance, my senses bewildered, I was left alone, pondering deeply how any good could come from it. Then, taking the pitcher filled with pure water, I set out for the hermitage, following the path as the sage’s son had described.