After slaying yet another spotted deer and gathering its flesh, Rāghava hastened toward Janasthāna. Meanwhile, in the forest, Sītā suddenly heard a cry of deep anguish that she recognized as her husband’s voice. Disturbed and fearful, she turned to Lakṣmaṇa and pleaded, “Go and find out what has happened to Rāghava. My heart is shaken; I have heard the voice of one in great distress, and I am filled with dread.” She implored Lakṣmaṇa further, “You must save your brother, who is calling out for help in the forest. Run to him quickly—he seeks refuge in you. He has fallen into the power of the rākṣasas, like a bull surrounded by lions.” But Lakṣmaṇa, recalling Rāma’s command, hesitated and did not move. Seeing his reluctance, Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, was deeply troubled. With tears in her eyes, she accused him, “Son of Sumitrā, though you appear to be a friend, you are acting as an enemy to your brother. If you do not go to him now, it must be because you wish for Rāma’s destruction for my sake. Surely, you desire me and take pleasure in Rāma’s misfortune, showing no affection for your brother. That is why you remain here so confidently, not even seeing the radiant one. What will become of me if he, in whom I trust, is in danger? What is the purpose of your staying here, when you have come as our chief protector?” Lakṣmaṇa, seeing Sītā’s fear and tears, spoke gently to her, comparing her to a frightened deer-cow. “O Vaidehī,” he said, “do not be afraid. Your husband cannot be defeated by serpents, asuras, gandharvas, gods, dānavas, or rākṣasas. Among all beings—rākṣasas, piśācas, kinnaras, even the fiercest dānavas—there is none who could match Rāma in battle. He is equal to Indra and invincible. Do not speak such words.” He continued, “I cannot bear to leave you alone in this forest without Rāghava. His strength is irresistible, even to the mightiest. Even if all three worlds, with their lords and hosts of gods, united against him, their power could not overcome him. Set your heart at peace and put aside your sorrow. Your husband will soon return, having slain the noble deer. The voice you heard is not truly his, nor could it be any god’s; it was an illusion created by a rākṣasa, like a city of the gandharvas. You have been entrusted to me by the great-souled Rāma, and I cannot bear to abandon you, O fair-hipped one. Now, because of Khara’s death and the massacre at Janasthāna, the rākṣasas are speaking many words in the great forest. Do not dwell on these acts of violence and cruelty.” But Sītā, angered and her eyes reddened with grief, spoke harshly to Lakṣmaṇa, who always spoke the truth. “You are ignoble, pitiless in your intent, cruel, and a disgrace to your family. I believe you take pleasure in Rāma’s misfortune. Seeing him in distress, you speak such words. It is not surprising if evil arises among rivals, especially among the cruel and ever-deceitful like you. You are truly wicked, following Rāma alone into the forest, either for my sake or sent by Bharata. But this will not succeed, neither for you nor for Bharata. How could I, having taken Rāma, dark as a blue lotus and lotus-eyed, as my husband, desire another man? In your very presence, O son of Sumitrā, I will surely give up my life. Without Rāma, I cannot live even for a moment on this earth.” Hearing Sītā’s harsh, heart-piercing words, Lakṣmaṇa, composed and hands folded, replied, “O Maithilī, I cannot answer you in kind; you are as a goddess to me. It is not surprising to hear such unfitting words from women—this is their nature in this world. Women are fickle, unrestrained, sharp, and divisive. O Vaidehī, daughter of Janaka, I cannot endure such accusations. Let all the dwellers of the forest bear witness as I speak these words, painful as heated arrows. Though I have spoken justly, you have addressed me with harshness. Shame on you, who are perishing, for suspecting me thus. Because of your womanhood and stubborn nature, you remain fixed in your own view. I will go now to Rāma—may you fare well, O beautiful-faced one. May all the forest deities protect you, for dreadful omens appear to me. May I see you again, together with Rāma, when I return.” Thus addressed, Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, weeping and overwhelmed with tears, replied, “Deprived of Rāma, O Lakṣmaṇa, I will enter the Godāvarī, or else tie a noose or abandon my body in some perilous place. I will drink deadly poison or enter a blazing fire, but I will never touch any man other than Rāghava.” Overcome by grief, Sītā struck her belly with her hands and wept in sorrow, her heart filled with anguish at the absence of her beloved Rāma.