Hemchandra spent some days in the garden house. He met Janardana every day; but their conversations were limited to the gestures dictated by the Brahmin’s vow of silence. He also saw Manoroma constantly; sometimes Manoroma would approach him and speak, sometimes she would pass by without uttering a word. In truth, Manoroma’s nature was such that— On the other hand, it began to seem all the more astonishing. First of all, her age was difficult to guess; one would easily take her for a young girl, yet at times he saw in Manoroma a profound gravity. Was Manoroma still unmarried? One day, in the course of conversation, Hemchandra asked her, “Manorama, where is your husband’s home?” Manorama replied, “I cannot say.” On another day, he had asked, “Manorama, how old are you?” To this, too, Manorama had answered, “I cannot say.”

Madhavacharya, having installed Hemchandra in the garden, set out on a journey through the land. His purpose was this: at this time, the kings subject to the kingdom of Gauda should assemble with their armies in Navadwip and offer their allegiance to the Lord of Gauda; to this end, he would persuade them. Hemchandra waited for him in Navadwip. But the days passed in idleness became wearisome. Hemchandra grew restless. At times, he thought of leaving the conquest of the world to others, taking a horse, and riding to Gauda himself. But if he were to meet Mrinalini there, his vow would be broken—would any good come of journeying to Gauda without seeing her?

Though such deliberations dissuaded Hemchandra from setting out for Gauda, still, day by day, his heart remained absorbed in thoughts of Mrinalini. One evening, at twilight, he lay upon his couch in the sleeping chamber, thinking of Mrinalini. Even in thought, his heart found delight. Through the open window, Hemchandra gazed upon the beauty of nature. It was the advent of a new autumn. The night was radiant with moonlight; the sky was clear, vast, studded with stars, adorned here and there with layers of white clouds arranged in tiers. Not far from the window, the Bhagirathi could be seen; the Bhagirathi, broad-bosomed, winding far into the distance, her waves brightened by the moonbeams, appearing misty at the farthest edge, gladdened by the influx of fresh waters. Hemchandra could hear the sound of the waves, born of the new waters’ arrival. The breeze entered through the window. The wind, playing over the waves of the Ganga... Cooled by the touch of scattered water-drops, enlivened by mingling breaths, fragrant with the contact of wildflowers; the wind, having brushed against the moonbeam-struck, darkly lustrous leaves of the trees, and set the riverbank’s blooming kash-grass into motion, entered through the window. Hemchandra felt a particular delight.

Suddenly, the window-path darkened—the flow of moonlight was blocked. Near the window, Hemchandra saw a human head. The window was set somewhat high above the ground—thus, he could not see any hands or feet, only a face. The face was vast, bearded, and on its head was a turban. In that bright moonlight, so close to the window, before him, the bearded, turbaned human head—Hemchandra leapt from his bed and seized his sharpened sword.

Sword in hand, Hemchandra looked again and saw that the human head was no longer at the window.

Hemchandra, sword in hand, unbarred the door and stepped outside. He came beneath the window. There was no one there.

All around the house, along the banks of the Ganges, amidst the woods, Hemchandra searched here and there. Nowhere did he see anyone.

Hemchandra returned to the house. Then, the prince, donning the warrior’s garb bestowed by his father, adorned himself from head to toe. Like a sky darkened by the sudden rise of storm clouds, his handsome face grew shadowed. Alone, in that solemn night, armed, he set out. Having seen the human head at the window, he knew now that the Turks had come to Bengal.