Returning home, Hemachandra prepared a fine horse, mounted it, and, striking the steed with his whip, set out toward the great forest. He passed through the city; then came the open fields. He had crossed a part of the plain when suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He saw that an arrow had pierced his shoulder. Behind him, he heard the hoofbeats of horses. Turning, he saw three horsemen approaching.

Hemachandra turned his steed to face them, waiting in anticipation. He turned. As soon as he did, he saw that each horseman had fixed their arrows upon him, each one taking aim. Hemchandra, with his extraordinary skill and training, warded off the three arrows at once by deftly wielding the spear in his hand. The horsemen immediately notched new arrows to their bows, and before the previous volley could be fully deflected, they released another trio of shafts. Thus, with relentless hands, they continued to rain arrows upon Hemchandra.

Hemchandra then took up a wondrous, jewel-studded shield and, moving it with practiced ease, began to ward off the ceaseless shower of arrows. Occasionally, one or two arrows struck his horse, but he himself remained unscathed.

Astonished, the three horsemen paused, confounded. They began to consult among themselves. In that brief respite, Hemchandra loosed an arrow at one of them. His aim was true. The arrow struck one horseman in the middle of the forehead. Instantly, he toppled from his horse and lay lifeless upon the ground.

At once, the remaining two spurred their horses forward, lowering their twin spears as they charged at Hemchandra. When they came within striking distance, they hurled their spears. Had they aimed at Hemchandra himself, his remarkable training might have enabled him to parry both blows. But instead, the attackers targeted Hemchandra’s horse. In that brief moment, Hemchandra’s hand, swift though it was, could not fully deflect both weapons. One spear was turned aside, but the other found its mark, piercing the horse’s neck. Stricken by the blow, the noble steed, mortally wounded, collapsed to the earth.

Like a well-trained warrior, Hemchandra leapt from the falling horse and landed firmly on the ground. In the blink of an eye, he raised his deadly spear and declared, “My father’s spear has never returned without tasting the blood of an enemy.”

Even as his words rang out, the second horseman fell to the earth, transfixed by Hemchandra’s spear.

Seeing this, the third horseman turned his horse’s head and fled at full speed. That was Shantashil.

Hemchandra, now having a moment’s respite, drew out the arrow lodged in his shoulder. The arrow had pierced deep into the flesh—no sooner had he removed it than blood began to flow profusely from the wound. Hemchandra tried to staunch the bleeding with his own garments, but his efforts were in vain. Gradually, from loss of blood, Hemchandra grew weak. He realized then that there was no longer any hope of reaching the Yavana camp that day. His horse was dead—his own strength was failing. Therefore, with a heavy heart, he slowly began to make his way back toward the city.

Hemchandra crossed the plain. By then, his body had grown utterly numb—his whole frame was soaked in blood; his strength was ebbing away. With great difficulty, he entered the city. He could go no further. Near a cottage, beneath a banyan tree, he sat down.

By then, night had given way to dawn. The sleeplessness, the toil of the entire night, the loss of blood—all these together made the world spin before Hemchandra’s eyes. He leaned his back against the tree. His eyelids grew heavy—sleep overcame him—consciousness slipped away. In the grip of slumber, it seemed as if he heard, in a dream, someone singing,

“Fate has woven thorns for the lowly Mrinal.”