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Rh ble terraces, balustrades, and pavilions, with a rugged mountain fortress crowning the perpendicular rock mass beyond the tank. It was a fairyland sight by day, and when illuminated for viceregal fêtes must transcend all Indian fantasies. A picturesque old turban claimed us and led the way to the armory, where room after room was filled with weapons with murderous and agonizing edges and points; their handles jeweled, carved, inlaid, and damascened; the blades wonderfully tempered, mottled and grained, often chased and inlaid with verses. One sword-blade had a shallow runnel near the hilt, in which a dozen loose pearls ran up and down in the gummy ooze of oil left by the zealous cleaners. Sword-hilts set with pearls, rubies, and diamonds; jade hilts jeweled all over; and hilts of Jeypore enamel were the delight of the gleeful, proud old armorer, who had a dramatic way of drawing a blade, giving it a flourish in air, and presenting it suddenly level with one's eyes for close inspection. We had finally to tear ourselves away from the array of more and more terrible weapons his minions brought from some inexhaustible storehouse—spears, daggers, elephant-goads, battle-axes, and chopping-knives of terrible ingenuity. The jewels of Alwar, the emerald cup, and the precious cabochon fringes would take pages to themselves, rivaling as they do the collections of temples.

We were hurried out to the white court overlooked by the zenana windows to see the return of the maharani,—such a spectacular scene that it was a pity the central figure in it was so curtained and veiled