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in among them, I beheld a wondrous sight the huge octagonal tank made by the Mogul Emperor Jehangir to receive the waters of a mighty spring which wells from the hill and has been held sacred by Hindu and Moslem. And if loveliness can sanctify, surely it is sacred, indeed.

'How all the Mogul Emperors loved running water!' said Vanna. 'I can see them leaning over it in these carved pavilions, with delicate dark faces and pensive eyes beneath their turbans, lost in the endless reverie of the East, while liquid melody passes into their dream. It was the music they best loved.'

She was leading me into the royal garden below, where the young river flows beneath the pavilion set above and across the rush of the water.

'I remember before I came to India,' she went on, 'there were certain words and phrases that meant the whole East to me. It was an enchantment. The first flash picture I had was Milton's

Dark faces with white silken turbans wreathed,

and it still is. I have thought ever since that every man should wear a turban. It dignifies the uncomeliest, and it is quite curious to see how many inches a man descends in the scale of beauty the moment he takes it off and you see only the skull-cup about which they wind it. They wind it with wonderful skill, too. I have seen a man take eighteen yards of muslin and throw it round his head with a few turns; and in five or six minutes the beautiful folds were all in order and he looked like a king. Some of the Gujars here wear black ones, and they are very effective and worth painting -the black folds and the sullen tempestuous black brows underneath.'

We sat in the pavilion for a while, looking down on the rushing water, and she spoke of Akbar, the greatest of the Moguls, and spoke with a curious personal touch, as I thought.

'I wish you would try to write a story of him one on more human lines than has been done yet. No one has accounted for the passionate quest of truth that was the real secret of his life. Strange in an Oriental despot if you think of it! It really can be understood only from the Buddhist belief (which, curiously, seems to have been the only one he neglected) that a mysterious Karma influenced all his thoughts. If I tell you, as a key-note for your story, that in a past life he had been a Buddhist priest, one who had fallen away, would that at all account to you for attempts to recover the lost Way? Try to think that out, and to write the story, not as a Western mind sees it, but pure East.'

"That would be a great book to write if one could catch the voices of the past. But how to do that?'

'I will give you one day a little book that may help you. The other story I wish you would write is the story of a dancer of Peshawar. There is a connection between the two ruin and repentance.'

a story of

'Will you tell it to me?' 'A part. In this same book you will find much more, but not all. All cannot be told. You must imagine much; but I think your imagination will be true.'

'Why do you think so?'

'Because in these few days you have learned so much. You have seen the Ninefold flower, and the rain-spirits. You will soon hear the Flute of Krishna, which none can hear who cannot dream true.'

That night I heard it. I waked, suddenly, to music, and standing in the door of my tent, in the dead silence of the night, lit only by a few low stars, I heard the poignant notes of a flute. If it had called my name, it could not have summoned me more clearly, and I followed without a thought of delay,

forgetting even Vanna in the strange commanded, to follow fearlessly and urgency that filled me.

The music was elusive, seeming to come first from one side, then from the other; but finally I tracked it as a bee does a flower, by the scent, to the gate of the royal garden- the pleasure place of the dead Emperors. The gate stood ajar strange! for I had seen the custodian close it that evening. Now it stood wide, and I went in, walking noiselessly over the dewy grass. I knew, and could not tell how, that I must be noiseless. Passing as if I were guided down the course of the strong young river, I came to the pavilion that spanned it, the place where we had stood that afternoon, and there, to my profound amazement, I saw Vanna, leaning against a slight wooden pillar. As if she had expected me, she laid one finger on her lip, and stretching out her hand, took mine and drew me beside her as a mother might a child. And instantly I saw!

On the farther bank a young man in a strange diadem or mitre of jewels, bare-breasted and beautiful, stood among the flowering oleanders, one foot lightly crossed over the other as he stood. He was like an image of pale radiant gold, and I could have sworn that the light came from within rather than fell upon him, for the night was very dark. He held the Flute to his lips, and as I looked, I became aware that the noise of the rushing water tapered off into a murmur scarcely louder than that of a summer bee in the heart of a rose. Therefore, the music rose like a fountain of crystal drops, cold, clear, and of an entrancing sweetness, and the face above it was such that I had no power to turn my eyes away. How shall I say what it was? All that I had ever desired, dreamed, hoped, prayed, looked at me from the remote beauty of the eyes, and with the most persuasive gentleness entreated me, rather than

win. But these are words, and words shaped in the rough mould of thought cannot convey the deep desire that would have hurled me to his feet if Vanna had not held me with a firm restraining hand.

Looking up in adoring love to the dark face was a ring of woodland creatures. I thought I could distinguish the white clouded robe of a snow leopard, the soft clumsiness of a young bear, and many more; but these shifted and blurred like dream creatures I could not be sure of them or define their numbers. The eyes of the Player looked down upon their passionate delight with careless kindness.

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'Krishna - the Beloved'; and I said aloud, 'I see!' And, even as I said it, the whole picture blurred together like a dream, and I was alone in the pavilion and the water was foaming past me.

Had I walked in my sleep? I wondered, as I made my way back. As I gained the garden gate, before me, like a snowflake, I saw the Ninefold flower.

When I told her next day, speaking of it as a dream, she said simply, "They have opened the door to you. You will not need me soon.'

'I shall always need you. You have taught me everything. I could see nothing last night until you took my hand.'

'I was not there,' she said smiling. 'It was only the thought of me, and you can have that when I am very far away. I was sleeping in my tent. What you called in me then you can always call, even if I am — dead.'

"That is a word which is beginning to have no meaning for me. You have

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said things to me - no, thought them that have made me doubt if there is room in the universe for the thing we have called death."

She smiled her sweet wise smile.

'Where we are, death is not. Where death is, we are not. But you will understand better soon.'

IV

Our march, curving, took us by the Mogul gardens of Achibal, and the glorious ruins of the great Temple at Martund, and so down to Bawan, with its crystal waters and that loveliest camping-ground beside them. A mighty grove of chenar trees, so huge that I felt as if we were in a great sea-cave where the air is dyed with the deep shadowy green of the inmost ocean, and the murmuring of the myriad leaves was like a sea at rest. The water ran with a great joyous rush of release from the mountain behind, but was first received in a basin full of sacred fish and reflecting a little temple of Maheshwara and one of Surya the Sun. Here, in this basin, the water lay pure and still as an ecstasy, and beside it was musing the young Brahmin priest who served the temple.

Since I had joined Vanna I had begun, with her help, to study a little Hindostani, and, with an aptitude for language, could understand here and there. I caught a word or two, as she spoke with him, that startled me, when the high-bred ascetic face turned serenely upon her, and he addressed her as 'My sister,' adding a sentence beyond my learning, but which she willingly translated later: 'May He who sits above the Mysteries, have mercy upon thy rebirth.'

She said afterward,

'How beautiful some of these men are. It seems a different type of beauty from ours nearer to nature and the old gods. Look at that priest: the tall,

figure, the clear olive skin, the dark level brows, the long lashes that make a soft gloom about the eyes, eyes that have the fathomless depth of a deer's, -the proud arch of the lip. I think there is no country where aristocracy is more clearly marked than in India. The Brahmins are the aristocrats of the world. You see, it is a religious aristocracy as well. It has everything that can foster pride and exclusiveness. They spring from the Mouth of Deity. They are his word incarnate. Not many kings are of the Brahmin caste, and the Brahmins look down upon those who are not, from sovereign heights.'

And so,

in marches of about ten miles a day, we came to Pahlgam on the banks of the dancing Lidar. There were now only three weeks left of the time she had promised. After a few days at Pahlgam the march would turn and bend its way back to Srinagar, and to what? I could not believe it was to separation: in her lovely kindness she had grown so close to me that, even for the sake of friendship, I believed our paths must run together to the end; and there were moments when I could still half convince myself that I had grown as necessary to her as she was to me. No- not as necessary, for she was life and soul to me; but perhaps a part of her daily experience that she valued and would not easily part with.

That evening we were sitting outside the tents, near the camp-fire of pine logs and cones. The men, in various attitudes of rest, were lying about, and one had been telling a story, which had just ended in excitement and loud applause.

"These are Mohammedans,' said Vanna, and it is only a story of love and fighting, like the Arabian Nights. If they had been Hindus, it might well have been of Krishna or of Rama and Sita. Their faith comes from an earlier time, and they still see visions. The

VOL. 128-NO. 2

Moslem is a hard practical faith for men men of the world, too. It is not visionary.'

'I wish you would tell me what you think of the visions or apparitions of the Gods that are seen here. Is it all illusion? Tell me your thought.'

'How difficult that is to answer! I suppose that, if love and faith are strong enough, they will always create the vibrations to which the greater vibrations respond, and so create God in their own image at any time or place. But that they call up what is the truest reality, I have never doubted. There is no shadow without a substance. The substance is beyond us, but under certain conditions the shadow is projected and we see it.'

'Have I seen, or has it been dream?' 'I cannot tell. It may have been the impress of my mind on yours, for I see such things always. You say I took your hand?'

"Take it now.'

She obeyed, and instantly, as I felt the firm cool clasp, I heard the rain of music through the pines - the Flute Player was passing! She dropped it, smiling, and the sweet sound ceased.

'You see! How can I tell what you have seen? You will know better when I am gone. You will stand alone then.'

'You will not go you cannot! I have seen how you have loved all this wonderful time. I believe it has been as dear to you as to me. And every day I have loved you more. You could not - you who are so gentle — you could not commit the senseless cruelty of leaving me when you have taught me to love you with every beat of my heart. I have been patient I have held myself in; but I must speak now. Marry me, and teach me. I know nothing. You know all I need to know. For pity's sake, be my wife.'

I had not meant to say it; it broke from me in the firelit moonlight with a

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"Then is it all loss if I go?' 'Not all. But loss I dare not face.' 'I will tell you this. I could not stay if I would. Do you remember the old man on the way to Vernag? He told me that I must very soon take up an entirely new life. I have no choice, though, if I had, I would still do it.'

There was silence, and down a long arcade, without any touch of her hand, I heard the music, receding with exquisite modulations to a very great distance; and between the pillared stems, I saw a faint light.

'Do you wish to go?'

'Entirely. But I shall not forget you, Stephen. I will tell you something. For me, since I came to India, the gate that shuts us out at birth has opened. How shall I explain? Do you remember Kipling's "Finest Story in the World"?' 'Yes: fiction!'

'Not fiction-true, whether he knew it or no. But for me the door has opened wide. First, I remembered piecemeal, with wide gaps; then more connectedly. Then, at the end of the first year, I met one day at Cawnpore an ascetic, an old man of great beauty and wisdom, and he was able by his own knowledge to enlighten mine. Not wholly much has come since then; has come, some of it, in ways you could not understand now, but much by direct sight and hearing. Long, long ago I lived in Peshawar, and my story was a sorrowful one. I will tell you a little before I go.'

'I hold you to your promise. What is there I cannot believe when you tell me? But does that life put you altogether away from me? Was there no place for me in any of your memories that has drawn us together now? Give me a little hope that, in the eternal pilgrimage, there is some bond between us, and some rebirth where we may meet again.'

course as far as he could. He said he had seen the Dream of the God!

'Do you think he had seen anything?' 'What do I know? Will you eat the seeds? The Night of No Moon will soon be here.'

She held out the seed-vessels, laughing. I write that down; but how record the lovely light of kindliness in her eyes -the almost submissive gentleness that yet was a defense stronger than steel? I never knew how should I?whether she was sitting by my heavens away from me in her own 'And do you love me at all? Am I strange world. But always she was a nothing, Vanna - Vanna?'

'I will tell you that also before we part. I have grown to believe that you do love me and therefore love something which is infinitely above me.'

'My friend,' she said, and laid her hand on mine. A silence and then she spoke, very low. 'You must be prepared for very great change, Stephen, and yet believe that it does not really change things at all. See how even the Gods pass and do not change. The early Gods of India are gone, and Shiva, Vishnu, Krishna have taken their places and are one and the same. The Gods cannot die, nor can we, or anything that has life. Now I must go inside.'

The days that were left we spent in wandering up the Lidar River to the hills that are the first ramp of the ascent to the great heights. She sat, one day, on a rock, holding the sculptured leaves and massive seed-vessels of some glorious plant that the Kashmiris believe has magic virtues hidden in the seeds of pure rose embedded in the white down.

'If you fast for three days and eat nine of these in the Night of No Moon, you can rise on the air light as thistledown and stand on the peak of Haramoukh. And on Haramoukh, as you know, it is believed that the Gods dwell. There was a man here who tried this enchantment. He was a changed man forever after, wandering and muttering to himself, and avoiding all human inter

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sweetness that I could not reach, a cup of nectar that I might not drink, unalterably her own and never mine, and yet my friend.

She showed me the wild track up into the mountains, where the pilgrims go to pay their devotions to the Great God's shrine in the awful heights.

Above where we were sitting, the river fell in a tormented white cascade, crashing and feathering into spray-dust of diamonds. An eagle was flying above it, with a mighty spread of wings that seemed almost double-jointed in the middle, they curved and flapped so wide and free. The fierce head was outstretched with the rake of a plundering galley, as he swept down the wind, seeking his meat from God, and passed majestic from our sight.

Vanna spoke, and as she spoke I saw. What are her words as I record them? Stray dead leaves pressed in a book the life and grace dead. Yet I record, for she taught me, what I believe the world should learn, that the Buddhist philosophers are right when they teach that all forms of what we call matter are really but aggregates of spiritual units, and that life itself is a curtain hiding reality, as the vast veil of day conceals from our sight the countless orbs of space. So that the purified mind, even while prisoned in the body, may

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