s took strange shapes
and shifted in the half light and cast objectionable shadows.

It was easy enough to fill the rock with the people of old times, and a
very beautiful account of Chitor restored, made out by the help of Tod,
and bristling with the names of the illustrious dead, would undoubtedly
have been written, had not a woman, a living breathing woman, stolen out
of a temple--what was she doing in that galley?--and screamed in
piercing and public-spirited fashion. The Englishman got off the tomb
and departed rather more noisily than a jackal; feeling for the moment
that he was not much better. Somebody opened a door with a crash, and a
man cried out: "Who is there?" But the cause of the disturbance was, for
his sins, being most horribly scratched by some thorny scrub over the
edge of the hill--there are no bastions worth speaking of near the
Gau-Mukh--and the rest was partly rolling, partly scrambling, and mainly
bad language.

When you are too lucky sacrifice something, a beloved pipe for choice,
to Ganesh. The Englishman has seen Chitor by moonlight--not the best
moonlight truly, but the watery glare of a nearly spent moon--and his
sacrifice to Luck is this. He will never try to describe what he has
seen--but will keep it as a love-letter, a thing for one pair of eyes
only--a memory that few men to-day can be sharers in. And does he,
through this fiction, evade insulting, by pen and ink, a scene as
lovely, wild, and unmatchable as any that mortal eyes have been
privileged to rest upon?

An intelligent and discriminating public are perfectly at liberty to
form their own opinions.

XII

CONTAINS THE HISTORY OF THE BHUMIA OF JHASWARA, AND THE RECORD OF A
VISIT TO THE HOUSE OF STRANGE STORIES. DEMONSTRATES THE FELICITY OF
LOAFERDOM, WHICH IS THE VERITABLE COMPANIONSHIP OF THE INDIAN EMPIRE,
AND PROPOSES A SCHEME FOR THE BETTER OFFICERING OF TWO DEPARTMENTS.

Come away from the monstrous gloom of Chitor and escape northwards. The
place is unclean and terrifying. Let us catch To-day by both hands and
return to the Station-master who is also booking-parcels and
telegraph-clerk, and who never seems to go to bed--and to the
comfortably wadded bunks of the Rajputana-Malwa line.

While the train is running, be pleased to listen to the perfectly true
story of the _bhumia_ of Jhaswara, which is a story the sequel whereof
has yet to be written. Once upon a time, a Rajput landholder; a
_bhumia_, and a Mahome