FROM A ROOF PAVILION 227 



death lurks in the garden for those who linger 

 after sundown, when Naga, the hooded cobra, 

 is abroad, and the air is vibrant with the hum of 

 the mosquitoes. Unconsciously I hurried away, 

 coming out on a level of the upper terrace with 

 quite a feeling of relief to find the setting sun 

 still glittering on the topmost palace domes. 



High up on the tower of the Rang Mahal, 

 crowned by the white and gold pavilion, the views 

 were wonderful. On the east the Himalayas 

 seemed to rise sheer up over the battlements of 

 the old garden walls ; and a thunderstorm rolling 

 away in the higher mountains formed a lurid 

 purple background against which the nearer 

 hills showed sharp and clear, the white buildings 

 of Kasauli turning to rose in the evening light. 

 Down beneath me, the large garden lay spread 

 out like a map, where the numberless irrigation 

 channels shone through the gathering dusk of 

 the trees, and the long canal with its cascades 

 and fountains threw back the lemon colour of 

 the light above. Round the horizon to the west, 

 the circle of low hills rose dark against the sky- 

 line, while to southward through the opening of 

 the valley the far line of the plains made a distant 

 sea. Gradually, over the lemon of the sky, a 



