see in which direction
the young prince had gone. The brothers and Ayasolekha were very much
dismayed at the way things had turned out, and greatly feared that
the king's anger would vent itself on them, now that Sringa-Bhuja
had disappeared. Vira-Bhuja did send for them, and asked them many
questions; but they all kept the secret of how Sringa-Bhuja had got the
arrow, and promised to do all they could to help to get it back. Again
the king thought he would go and see the mother of his dear youngest
son; but again something held him back, and poor Guna-Vara was left
alone, no one ever going near her except the gaoler who took her
her daily food. After trying everything possible to find out where
Sringa-Bhuja had gone, the king began to show special favour to
another of his sons; and as the months passed by, it seemed as if
the young prince and the jewelled arrow were both forgotten.

Meanwhile Sringa-Bhuja travelled on and on in the track of the drops
of blood, till he came to the outskirts of a fine forest, through
which many beaten paths led to a very great city. He sat down to
rest at the foot of a wide-spreading tree, and was gazing up at the
towers and pinnacles of the town, rising far upwards towards the sky,
when he had a feeling that he was no longer alone. He was right:
for, coming slowly along one of the paths, was a lovely young girl,
singing softly to herself in a beautiful voice. Her eyes were like
those of a young doe, and her features were perfect in their form
and expression, reminding Sringa-Bhuja of his mother, whom he was
beginning to fear he would never see again.

When the young girl was quite close to him, he startled her by saying,
"Can you tell me what is the name of this city?"

"Of course, I can," she replied, "for I live in it. It is called
Dhuma-Pura, and it belongs to my father: he is a great magician
named Agni-Sikha, who loves not strangers. Now tell me who you are
and whence you come?"

Then Sringa-Bhuja told the maiden all about himself, and why he was
wandering so far from home. The girl, whose name was Rupa-Sikha,
listened very attentively; and when he came to the shooting of the
crane, and how he had followed the bleeding bird in the hope of
getting back his father's jewelled arrow, she began to tremble.

"Alas, alas!" she said. "The bird you shot was my father, who can
take any form he chooses. He returned home but yesterday, and I drew
the arrow from his wound and dressed the