Having rested, Hemchandra had regained some of his strength. The bleeding too had somewhat abated. Leaning on his spear, Hemchandra returned home with ease.

Upon entering the house, he saw Manoroma standing at the doorway. Mrinalini and Girijaya, hidden behind the curtain, observed Manoroma.

Manoroma stood there like a painted idol. Seeing this, Mrinalini thought to herself, “If my lord is captivated by beauty, then the night of my happiness has ended in dawn.” Girijaya thought, “If the prince is enchanted by beauty, then my mistress’s fate is doomed.”

Hemchandra approached Manoroma and said, “Manoroma—why do you stand there like that?”

Manoroma said nothing. Hemchandra called again, “Manoroma!”

Still there was no reply; Hemchandra saw that her unwavering gaze was fixed upon the sky. Hemchandra spoke again, “Manorama, what has happened?”

Then Manorama slowly turned her gaze from the sky and fixed it upon Hemchandra’s face, and for a while she looked at him intently, without blinking. After a moment, her eyes fell upon Hemchandra’s blood-stained garments.

Startled, Manorama exclaimed, “What is this, Hemchandra! Why is there blood? Your face is pale; are you wounded?”

Hemchandra pointed with his finger to the wound on his shoulder.

Manorama then took Hemchandra’s hand and led him inside the house, laying him upon the couch. In the twinkling of an eye, she fetched a vessel full of water, and, one by one, removed Hemchandra’s blood-soaked clothes, washing away all the blood from his body. She then plucked fresh blades of sacred durva grass from the earth, chewed them with her pearl-like teeth, and applied the pulp to his wound. After that, she bound the wound with a strip of cloth, like a sacred thread. Then she said, “Hemchandra! What more can I do? You have been awake all night; will you be able to sleep?”

Hemchandra replied, “I am utterly exhausted from lack of sleep.”

Watching Manorama’s ministrations, Mrinalini, with a heart full of anxious thoughts, said to Girijaya, “Who is this, Girijaya?”

Girijaya replied, “I heard her name is Manorama.”

Mrinalini asked, “Is this Hemchandra’s Manorama?”

Girijaya said, “What are you thinking?”

Mrinalini replied, “I am thinking that Manorama is truly fortunate. I could not serve Hemchandra, but she has done so. The very act for which my heart was burning with longing—Manorama has accomplished that. May the gods grant her a long life. Girijaya, I am going home; it is no longer proper for me to stay here. You remain in this village, and bring me news of how Hemchandra fares. Whoever Manorama may be, Hemchandra is mine.”