“My Lord, have compassion on a child; and wreak not your wrath on this guileless youngster (lit., who has the mother’s milk still on its lips). If he had any idea of your might, how could he be so foolish as to affront you? If children play some pranks, their teacher and parents are in raptures at it; therefore, take pity on him, knowing him to be a child and your servant. For you are an even-minded, good-tempered, forbearing and illumined anchorite.” On hearing Ýr¶ RŒma’s words ParaÜurŒma cooled down a little; but uttering something Lakƒma˜a smiled again. Seeing him smile, ParaÜurŒma flushed all over with sage and said,” RŒma, your brother is too wicked. Though fair of hue, he is black at heart; he has deadly poison, and not the mother’s milk on his lips. Perverse by nature, he does not take after you, nor does this vile imp regard me as the very image of Death.” (1—4)