Thus passed the days happily. The poet recited, the king listened, the
hearers applauded, Manjari passed and repassed by the poet's room on her
way to the river--the shadow flitted behind the screened balcony, and
the tiny golden bells tinkled from afar.
Just then set forth from his home in the south a poet on his path of
conquest. He came to King Narayan, in the kingdom of Amarapur. He
stood before the throne, and uttered a verse in praise of the king. He
had challenged all the court poets on his way, and his career of victory
had been unbroken.
The king received him with honour, and said: "Poet, I offer you
welcome."
Pundarik, the poet, proudly replied : "Sire, I ask for war."
Shekhar, the court poet of the king did not know how the battle of the
muse was to be waged. He had no sleep at night. The mighty figure of
the famous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved like a scimitar, and his
proud head tilted on one side, haunted the poet's vision in the dark.
With a trembling heart Shekhar entered the arena in the morning. The
theatre was filled with the crowd.
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