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342 uniform and gorgeous turbans, with fluttering pennons; horses in bright saddle-cloths, yellow bridles and trimmings; a state elephant in red velvet and gold trappings, with cloth-of-gold curtains to its gilded howdah; and a troop of women surrounding the gilded palanquin, made up a very spectacular church parade. It was all so splendidly theatrical, so really Oriental, as at Alwar, that we said: "This is the last touch, the perfect climax. Let us go quickly, before the curtain falls, the people put on their every-day clothes, and we are disillusioned. Let Gwalior remain in memory with all the bloom of the first overpowering impression." We would not wait two days on the chance of meeting Sindhia himself when he should return from a hunting-trip, and we took train for Agra—arriving at midnight, of course.

We had a quiet Sunday to revisit tombs in appropriate observance of the day, and to sit again on the Jasmine Tower and watch the sunset play over the Taj Mahal. There was an unmistakable Sabbath atmosphere to the view, although the dhobiemen were swinging, pounding, and spreading out acres of cloths to dry on the flats below the fort, and twittering parrakeets flashed in and out of the creviced wall, and fluttered over the dry moat where Akbar's elephants and unicorns fought for his entertainment. A sudden impulse seized us as the pageant began, and we hurried to the gharry, implored the sais to make all speed, and running through the garden of the Taj, settled ourselves once more in the upper story of the western minaret overhanging the river.