Meanwhile Sringa-Bhuja travelled on and on in the track of the drops
of blood, till he came to the outskirts of a fine forest, through
which many beaten paths led to a very great city. He sat down to
rest at the foot of a wide-spreading tree, and was gazing up at the
towers and pinnacles of the town, rising far upwards towards the sky,
when he had a feeling that he was no longer alone. He was right:
for, coming slowly along one of the paths, was a lovely young girl,
singing softly to herself in a beautiful voice. Her eyes were like
those of a young doe, and her features were perfect in their form
and expression, reminding Sringa-Bhuja of his mother, whom he was
beginning to fear he would never see again.

When the young girl was quite close to him, he startled her by saying,
"Can you tell me what is the name of this city?"

"Of course, I can," she replied, "for I live in it. It is called
Dhuma-Pura, and it belongs to my father: he is a great magician
named Agni-Sikha, who loves not strangers. Now tell me who you are
and whence you come?"

Then Sringa-Bhuja told the maiden all about himself, and why he was
wandering so far from home. The girl, whose name was Rupa-Sikha,
listened very attentively; and when he came to the shooting of the
crane, and how he had followed the bleeding bird in the hope of
getting back his father's jewelled arrow, she began to tremble.

"Alas, alas!" she said. "The bird you shot was my father, who can
take any form he chooses. He returned home but yesterday, and I drew
the arrow from his wound and dressed the hurt myself. He gave me the