aka._ To be like me, eating another man's bread. That is
why I will do no sin.

_Sansthanaka._ Sho you won't murder her? [_He beats him with all
his might._]

_Sthavaraka._ You may beat me, master. You may kill me, master.
I will do no sin.

A luckless, lifelong slave am I,
A slave I live, a slave I die;
But further woe I will not buy,
I will not, will not sin. 25

_Vasantasena._ Sir, I throw myself upon your protection.

_Courtier._ Pardon him, jackass! Well done, Sthavaraka!

Does this poor, miserable slave
Seek virtue's meed beyond the grave?
And is his lord indifferent?
Then why are not such creatures sent
To instant hell, whose sinful store
Grows great, who know not virtue more? 26

[125.14. S.

And again:

Ah, cruel, cruel is our fate,
And enters through the straitest gate;
Since he is slave, and you are lord,
Since he does not enjoy your hoard,
Since you do not obey his word. 27

_Sansthanaka._ [_Aside._] The old jackal is afraid of a shin, and the
"lifelong shlave" is afraid of the other world. Who am I afraid of,
I, the king's brother-in-law, an arishtocrat, a man? [_Aloud._] Well,
shervant, you "lifelong shlave," you can go. Go to your room and
resht and keep out of my way.

_Sthavaraka._ Yes, master. [_To Vasantasena._] Madam, I have no
further power. [_Exit._

_Sansthanaka._ [_Girds up his loins._] Wait a minute, Vasantasena,
wait a minute. I want to murder you.

_Courtier._ You will kill her before my eyes? [_He seizes him by the
throat._]

_Sansthanaka._ [_Falls to the ground._] Shir, you 're murdering your
mashter. [_He loses consciousness, but recovers._]

I always fed him fat with meat,
And gave him butter too, to eat;
Now for the friend in need I search;
Why does he leave me in the lurch? 28

[_After reflection._] Good! I have an idea. The old jackal gave her
a hint by shaking his head at her. Sho I 'll shend him away, and
then I 'll murder Vasantasena. That's the idea. [_Aloud._] Shir, I
was born in a noble family as great as a wine-glass. How could I
do that shin I shpoke about? I jusht shaid it to make her love me.

P. 209.3]

_Courtier._ Why should you boast of this your noble birth?

'T is character that makes the man of worth;