forth "in the teeth of the hard glad weather, in the blown wet face of the sea," with feelings which those only can appreciate who love the sea beyond all earthly things, and live away from it against their will. So, then, we fared on in the eye of the wind, tacking to and fro, and shipping half the water that we met. The race is very strong, in Bombay harbour, at the turn of the tide, in rough weather; we were crossing it aslant, and in the turmoil, our "patron" made a blunder with the tiller, which drew down upon his grey hairs such a storm of execration from his crew, who were baling for dear life, that in his confusion he lost his head and very nearly ended all. We got across, however, but the violence of the wind made it after all utterly impossible to make the north coast of Elephanta, where the landing-stage is, and therefore I had to land where I could, upon the south.

I wandered through the woody isle, startling equally the monkeys, and the men who were constructing a new battery on the apex of the hill; who, taking my method of arrival, with the weather, into view, were strongly inclined, as I imagine, to consider me a Russian spy.[3] But finally that came about, which I had foreseen: when I reached the cave, for once I had it to myself. The weather had effectually protected it from all intrusion but my own: and those bands of pleasure seekers, who make it a place of horror and defilement, and desecrate its holy solitude, were missing. About it, and in it, was no noise whatever but the noise of the wind.

I went into the cave, and sat down, at the feet of Deity, close beside the shrine. It was growing late, for we had taken long to come, and dusk was beginning to settle over its dark interior recesses, making its projections stand out strongly in the gloom. Just before me was the Marriage of Shiwa and Párwatí, dim and huge, upon the wall: the gigantic figure of the Great God, holding by the hand, to lead her round the sacred fire, the Daughter of the Mountain, whose attitude is a triumph of artistic skill: coy, bashful, and reluctant, with averted head, she seems as though unwilling to place her hand in his, to gain whom she had endured so many self-inflicted tortures. And a little way off, in the darkness, I could just discern the colossal Trimúrti, the three-headed bust of Shiwa, whose central countenance is filled with such majestic, beautiful, immense repose: divine, immortal calm. And all round me stood about, here and there, huge Dwarapálas, Pisháchas, grinning Kirttmukhas demons and lesser deities, satellites and servers and ministers of the Moony-Crested God.

And as I sat, so little, among those great Shadows, with the darkness growing deeper, in the silence, was it fancy, or did they whisper to one another: Who is this strange white-faced unbeliever, who sits alone among us, as if half out of devotion, yet without the flowers, and the water, and the camphor, and the lamps, and the mantras, and all the other customary rites?

And I said in a whisper: O Moony-Crested, be not angry: for surely I was thy worshipper of old, in some forgotten former birth. And even now, is there among thy dusky millions, even one, who has so sincere a regard for thy dead divinity, and for that of thy delicious little snowy bride, as I? And at least I worship with true devotion the digit of the moon, that shines in thy tawny tangled hair.

So I made peace with those old ghosts, and we sat together in the darkness, and their Lord put a thought into my heart, as I gazed at him, while Bombay seemed to have faded away into another world.

And then, after a while, I got up: and I bowed to my Companions, and went away. The wind had dropped, and blew us gently home. Night had fallen, before we reached the quay: lights and shadows came and went on the quiet water, dimpling round the tired boat. I stepped out, and disappeared in the motley crowd of English ladies, native coolies, Christians, pagans, Musulmans, Parsees, negroes, Arab horse-dealers, British sailors, and all the other national ingredients that it takes to make Bombay.

MAHABLESHWAR,
    May, 1909.

[1] There is yet a third application, to the book itself, indicative of the modesty of the author, with respect to the merits of his production.

[2] The ordinary Sanskrit term for woman is the exact equivalent, and may possibly be the origin, of this mediæval label, in which we detect homage and fear lurking under the disparagement.

[3] As I subsequently gathered from my friend, the gallant officer in control, I ought to have been shot, hanged, or otherwise destroyed, for being there at all.

CONTENTS

An Instrument of Policy

A Diplomatic Interview

A Cordial Understanding

An Instrument of Policy

I

Hail to the Lord of the Moony Tire, whose throat derives its blue less from the Kalakuta which he drank but once to save the world, than from the cloud of colour that rests for ever like a ring around his neck, formed of dark glances from the shadowy eyes of the Daughter of the Snow, permanently fixed with indelible affection[1] on his face!

Long ago, as the God of gods was playing in the evening on the edge of an awful precipice in Himálaya with his wife, it happened, that, all at once, that lotus-eyed Daughter of the Snowy Mountain fell into a brown study. And Maheshwara, by his magic power, penetrated her thoughts. Nevertheless, after a while, making as if he did not know, he enquired of her politely: Of what is my beloved thinking, with such intense abstraction? And hearing him speak, Párwatí started, and blushed, and hesitated. And presently she said: I was but thinking of my Father.[2] And then, the Great God smiled. And he said, looking at her with unutterable affection: O thou Snowy one, I see, that thou also art but a mine of faults. Thou hast not told me the literal truth! For thou wast thinking, that thy own eyes resembled that great blue chasm in yonder ice, but that the eyes were superior. And it was true. Then Párwatí blushed again, while the god watched her with attention. And after a while, she said: Why didst thou say, that I also am a mine of faults? Then said Maheshwara: Every woman is a mine of faults, and thou art thyself a woman, although a goddess, being, as it were, Woman