n evil case, for Oodi Singh,[5] the Rana, for whom in infancy
his nurse had sacrificed her own child, was a degenerate son of his race.
He left Chitor to be defended by his lieutenants Jeimul and Putta.

In the first "saka" by Alla, twelve crowned heads defended the "crimson
banner" to the death. In the second, when conquest, at the hand of Bahadur,
came from the south, the chieftain of Deola, a noble scion of Mewar,
claimed the crown of glory and of martyrdom. But on this, the third and
greatest struggle, no royal victim appeared to appease the Cybele of
Chitor and win her to retain its battlements as her coronet.

When Jeimul fell at the Gate of the Sun, the command devolved upon Putta
of Kailwa, a lad of sixteen. His mother commanded him to don "the saffron
robe," then, with him and his young bride, she fell full armed upon the
foe, and the heroic trio died before the eyes of the war-worn garrison.

Once more was the Johur commanded, while 8000 Rajputs ate the last "beera"
together, and put on their saffron robes. The gates were thrown open, "and
few survived to stain the yellow mantle by inglorious surrender."

Thus in the blood-red cloud of battle sank for ever the Sun of Chitor; for
from this, the third and last "saka," the ruined city never rose. Her doom
has been as the doom of Babylon, of which Isaiah declared: "It shall never
be inhabited, neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to
generation ... but wild beasts of the desert shall lie there; and their
houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there....
And the wild beasts ... shall cry in their desolate houses, and ... in
their pleasant palaces:... Her days shall not be prolonged."

The top of the long ascent being reached, the last gate, the Hathi Pol, is
passed, and the wayfarer finds himself in the midst of the great dead city,
which lies in ruins for three miles along the bastioned brow of the
mountain.

Just beyond the first group of stately ruins, we came on the building
which was probably the palace built by Lakha Rana in 1373. Here we sat and
rested until the elephant, bearing the ladies and the lunch, stalked
sedately round the jutting angle of a decayed fort, and then we wended our
way along a road lined with many a half-fallen temple, until we reached
the ancient palace where, six hundred years ago, dwelt the ill-starred
Padmani, whose loveliness brought such woe upon Chitor. Here, in a cool
chamber overlooking the ta