Page:Between the twilights being studies of Indian women by one of themselves (IA betweentwilights00soraiala).pdf/190

170 alike. … And when the sun set there was solitude, and I walked in the Temple Garden, a garden which was a wild bed of Indian jasmine and other sweet-scented flowers loved of the gods, or played with the children of the old Priest at the Monkey Temple; or anon, sat still, in the cleft of some low branch, while the Priest himself told legends of the countryside—quaint tales of miraculous cures, or gruesome tales of living corpses. … And once an old Mutiny soldier recited Persian verses to me in a voice that should have reached his old battlefield at Delhi, many miles away; and once again, on a dark night of stars, they showed me the King’s games of by-gone days—little green parrots turning somersaults in circles of fire, and torch-bearers dancing a wild tattoo. … So the days passed. … Of what account was Time to the believers in Eternity? They would not be hurried. But every day we gained ground, and at last all was ready for the great peace.

Etiquette of the strictest was imperative: it needed some care to secure this without friction. As a personal favour the old Grandmother promised to come with me to the