Once, there was an ascetic who, wherever he went to gather roots and fruits, never left behind a certain sword, being ever intent on guarding what had been entrusted to him. Over time, always carrying this weapon, the ascetic gradually developed a fierce and harsh disposition, forsaking his earlier commitment to austerity. Eventually, indulging in violence, growing careless and straying from righteousness, the sage—through constant association with the sword—fell from virtue and met with ruin. This, Sītā explained, was what happened in times past, showing the cause for the use of weapons; just as fire has a source, so too does the use of weapons arise from a cause. Out of deep affection and respect, she gently reminded Rāma never to act in such a way while bearing his bow. She cautioned him that to kill the Rākṣasas dwelling in Daṇḍaka without just cause or enmity would not meet with the world’s approval. For Kṣatriya heroes, she said, self-controlled and living in the forest, the true duty with the bow is only to protect the afflicted. She wondered aloud: what place is there for weapons in the forest, for a Kṣatriya’s duty alongside asceticism? These things, she said, have become mixed up for us; let the law of the land be honored. She observed that from the practice of weapons, a mean and impure mind can arise; but when Rāma would return to Ayodhyā, he could again follow the Kṣatriya’s path. She reflected that endless affection would exist between her and her in-laws if Rāma, having renounced the kingdom, devoted himself as a true sage. Righteousness, she declared, is the source of wealth and happiness; by righteousness, one obtains everything, for the world itself rests upon it. Through effort and discipline, one attains righteousness; happiness is not gained by mere pleasure. She urged Rāma to always keep his mind pure and to practice righteousness in that forest of austerities, reminding him that all knowledge—even the truth of the three worlds—is known to him. She lamented that her own situation had arisen from a woman’s fickleness, and humbly questioned who could truly instruct Rāma in righteousness. She asked him to consider, together with his brother, what course of action would please him, and to do so without delay. At this point, the tenth chapter begins. Sītā, out of devotion to her husband, had spoken these words. Hearing her, Rāma, steadfast in righteousness, replied to her with gentle affection. He told her that her words were truly beneficial, full of love, befitting her noble birth and understanding of righteousness. What more could he say, he asked, when she herself had spoken that the bow is borne by Kṣatriyas so that the cry of distress may not arise? He explained that the afflicted sages of the Daṇḍaka forest, steadfast in their vows, had come to him seeking refuge. Though they lived in the forest according to the seasons, subsisting on roots and fruits, they found no happiness because of the cruel deeds of the Rākṣasas. These fierce beings, who lived on human flesh, devoured the ascetics dwelling in the forest. The foremost among the twice-born had come to Rāma and said, “Let us rely upon you.” Hearing their words, Rāma had replied with humility, asking what he should do to help. The sages told him, “We are greatly afflicted, O Rāma; may you protect us, especially at the time of offerings and on festival days. The formidable rākṣasas, eaters of flesh, harass us and oppress those devoted to austerity. You are our supreme refuge as we seek a way out. By the power of our austerities, we could destroy the night-dwellers, but we do not wish to break the austerity we have long practiced. Austerity is always beset with obstacles and is difficult to maintain. Therefore, even when being devoured by rākṣasas, we do not utter curses. Protect us, together with your brother, for we are under your guardianship in the forest.” Having heard all this, Rāma explained to Sītā that he had made a promise to the sages of Daṇḍaka, and, having pledged his word, he could not break it while he lived. It was his cherished truth never to act otherwise toward the sages. He would even abandon his own life, or Sītā herself along with Lakṣmaṇa, but having made a promise—especially to brāhmaṇas—he could not forsake it. Therefore, he must certainly protect the sages. Even if nothing had been spoken, Rāma said, how could he again pledge? Out of affection and friendship, Sītā had spoken these words to him. He assured her that he was fully satisfied with her; for one who is not worthy is not instructed. Her words were fitting for her noble lineage. She was his companion in righteousness, dearer to him than life itself. Having thus spoken to his beloved Sītā, the daughter of the king of Mithilā, the great-souled Rāma, bearing his bow, set out together with Lakṣmaṇa to visit the delightful hermitages. Now begins the eleventh chapter. Rāma walked ahead, Sītā, radiant, was in the middle, and Lakṣmaṇa, holding his bow, followed behind. Together, they observed the varied rocky slopes, forests, and beautiful rivers, journeying on with Sītā. Along the way, they saw cranes and chakravāka birds wandering along the riverbanks, and lakes filled with blooming lotuses, teeming with waterfowl, as they continued their path through the tranquil wilderness.