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 itself, at the same time that I upbraid the British public. You may think that there was not much to cry about at the Delhi Durbar. But there was, and lots of people did it and were unashamed. Even Berengaria, who is not at all that kind of person, got frightfully sniffy and blurred about the eyes. We had watched them for over an hour—an endless stream of carriages of state, ablaze with all the glory of the East, each one seemingly more gorgeous than the last as one by one they deposited their princely occupants at the steps of the great amphitheatre, where they had come from every corner of the Indian Empire to pay homage to the first King-Emperor, whom all acknowledged. India in all the countless ages of her history, could have seen no sight like that—magnificent state coaches, dazzling glass, or silver and gold, upholstered in every conceivable colour in velvet and satin and silk, splendid teams of horses gorgeously caparisoned and weighed down with trappings and cloth of gold, running footmen as in days of old in state liveries with maces of gold and ebony and silver, and within the coaches the scions of the proudest sons of Ind. It was wonderful.

Suddenly, above the clatter of dangling swords, the prancing of horses' feet, and the stately greetings of chiefs, a clear bugle-call rang out. We hurried to our places, and as if by magic the crowd melted from the great arena within, leaving it bare for the coming spectacle. The huge mass of people on the surrounding seats swayed like a field of