The frightened deer disappeared into the thick darkness of the woods. King Dushyant gave a small sigh of exasperation as he realised that he would have to get down from the chariot and follow his prey on foot. But the King of Hastinapur was a determined young man; a nimble-footed deer certainly would not be able to defeat him. Tall and imposingly built, he was lithe enough to rush quickly through the thick glades, so as to not lose sight of the frisky deer. He heard, rather than saw, some movement behind a thick, thorny bush a little ahead, and swiftly drew his arrow and shot at the rustling sound. The deer gave a small whimper and crumpled down.
Before he could reach his fallen prey, the king saw a slight figure rush towards the moaning animal. It was a girl. He quickened his steps, drawn by a curious pull. She was a beautiful girl, her face hidden by a thick swathe of her ebony mane. She heard his footsteps and turned to look at him. Dushyant held his breath, finding it difficult to exhale. She was exquisite, her fair skin almost translucent, her dark and thick hair, tied in a loose bun, the way hermits do but some tresses had come loose, framing her oval face. Her large, deep eyes were luminous and were filled with rising distress. For the first time in his short, young life, the king felt a qualm of guilt; not for hurting the deer, but for hurtingthis lovely girl instead.
