210 PINJOR 



Sikh warriors, their long hair twisted under 

 gorgeous turbans, crowding round their Maharaja 

 on his first inspection of his new possessions 

 there ; then English faces, white and tired, but 

 brightening with delight at the garden's brilliant 

 beauty. The water pictures grow fainter, their 

 colours become blurred ; but few strangers pass, 

 and they only stragglers from the convoys march- 

 ing down from the hills ; native servants carrying 

 big bundles, still, like all the poorer Indians, 

 with a lingering interest in the beauty of old 

 times. They stand on the little platform 

 fascinated by the mystery of the spring. Long 

 green wreaths shine in the depths of the water, 

 coiling like seaweeds round and round. Suddenly, 

 the water rising in a swirl, one darker coil flashes 

 over the edge of the fountain and is gone. What 

 was it ? A tangle of dark green weeds floating 

 up ? The Indians would smile at such Sahib- 

 log's ignorance, for have they not seen for 

 themselves ? It is Naga, the Elder of ALL, the 

 Snake of the Ancient Kings, come back to claim 

 the half-deserted garden as his own. 



The spell breaks, however, as, at the garden's 

 entrance, a hideous little lamp-post catches the 

 eye ; and the graceful old baradari built across 



