IN the town of Mithila there lived a young Bráhman who, having a quarrel with his father-in-law, set out on a pilgrimage to Banáres. Going through a forest he met a blind man, whose wife was leading him by means of a stick, one end of which she held in her hand, and her husband holding the other end was following her. She was young and fair of face, and the pilgrim made signs to her that she should go with him and leave her blind husband behind. The pro­posal thus signified pleased this wanton woman, so she told her husband to sit under a tree for a few minutes while she went and plucked him a ripe mango.* The blind man sat down accordingly, and his wife went away with the Bráhman.* After waiting a long time in expectation of his wife's return, and no person coming near him (for it was an unfrequented place), her infidelity became painfully apparent to him and he bitterly cursed both her and the villain who had enticed her from him. For six days he remained at the foot of the tree, in woeful condition, without a morsel of rice or a drop of water, and he was well­nigh dead when at length he heard the sound of foot­steps near him, and cried faintly for help. A man of the Setti caste and his wife came up to him, and inquired how he happened to be in such a plight. The blind man told them that his wife had deserted him and gone away with a young Bráhman, whom they had met, leaving him there alone and helpless. His story excited the compassion of the Setti and his wife. They gave him to eat of the small quantity of rice they had with them, and, having supplied him with water to quench his thirst, the Setti bade his wife lead him with his stick. The woman, though somewhat reluctant to walk thus in company with a man who was not her husband, yet reflecting that charitable actions ought never to be left undone, complied with her lord's request, and began to lead the blind man. After travelling in this manner for a day, the three reached a town, and took up their abode for the night in the house of a friend of the Setti, where the latter and his wife gave the blind man a share of their rice before tasting a morsel themselves.

At daybreak the next morning they advised him to try to provide for himself in some way in that town, and prepared to resume their journey. But the blind man, forgetting all the kindness they had shown him, began to raise an alarm, crying out: “Is there no king in this city to protect me and give me my rights? Here is a Setti rascal taking away my wife with him. As I am blind, she denies that I am her husband, and follows that rogue. But will not the king give me justice?” The people in the street at once reported these words to the king, who caused inquiry to be made into the matter. The fact of the Setti's wife having led the blind man seemed to indicate that the latter, and not the Setti, was the woman's husband, and the king foolishly concluded that both the Setti and his wife were the real criminals. Accordingly he sentenced the Setti to the gallows, because he had attempted to entice away a married woman, and his wife to be burnt in the kiln, as she had wished to forsake her husband, and he a blind man. When these sentences were pronounced the blind man was thunderstruck. The thought that by a deliberate lie he had caused the death of two innocent persons now stung him to the heart. By this lie he expected that the Setti only should be punished, and that the woman should be made over to him as his own wife, but now he found that she also was condemned to death. “Vile wretch that I am!” said he. “I do not know what sins I committed in a former life to be thus blind now.* My real wife, too, deserted me; and I, heaping sins upon sins, have now by a false report sent to death an innocent man and his wife, who rescued me from a horrible fate and tended to all my wants last night. O Mahámayi! what punishment you have in reserve for me, I know not!” This soliloquy, being overheard by some bystanders, was communi­cated to the king, who, bitterly reproaching himself for having so rashly acted, at once released the good Setti and his wife, and caused the ungrateful blind man to be burnt in the kiln.

“Thus you see, my lord,” added the Fourth Minister, “how nearly that king had plunged into a gulf of crime by his rashness. Therefore, my most noble king, I would respectfully and humbly request you to consider well the case of Bodhaditya, and punish him severely if he be found really guilty.” Having thus spoken, he obtained leave to depart.

The night was now over: darkness, the harbourer of vice, had fled away; the day dawned. King Alakésa left his bedchamber, bathed and made his religious ablutions, and after breakfasting summoned a council of all his father's old ministers and advisers. Alakésa took his seat in the midst of the assembly: anger was clearly visible in his countenance; his eyes had lost their natural expression and had turned very red; his breath was as hot as that of a furnace. He thus addressed them: “Know ye all, the ministers of my father and of myself, that last night, during the first watch, my First Minister, Bodhaditya, while I and my queen were asleep in our chamber, came and touched with his finger the bosom of my queen. Consider well the gravity of this crime, and express your opinions as to what punishment he merits.” Thus spake King Alakésa; but all the ministers, not knowing what answer to return, hung down their heads in silence. Among those present was an aged minister named Manuniti, who called Bodhaditya to his side and privately learned the whole story. He then humbly bowed before the king, and thus spake: “Most noble king, men are not always wise; and, before replying to your majesty's question, I beg permission to relate in your presence the story of a king in whose reign a certain benevolent action was repaid with disgrace and ignominy: