e Raj Mahal in which,
sixty-six years ago, Tod formally installed Ram Singh, "who is now in
his eleventh year, fair and with a lively, intelligent cast of face"?
The warden made no answer, but led to a room, overlooking the courtyard,
in which two armed men stood before an empty throne of white marble.
They motioned silently that none must pass immediately before the seat
of the King, but go round, keeping to the far side of the double row of
pillars. Near the walls were stone slabs pierced to take the butts of
long, venomous, black bamboo lances; rude coffers were disposed about
the room, and ruder sketches of Ganesh adorned the walls. "The men,"
said the warden, "watch here day and night because this place is the
Rutton Daulat." That, you will concede, is lucid enough. He who does not
understand it, may go to for a thick-headed barbarian.

From the Rutton Daulat the warden unlocked doors that led into a hall of
audience--the Chutter Mahal--built by Raja Chutter Lal, who was killed
more than two hundred years ago in the latter days of Shah Jehan for
whom he fought. Two rooms, each supported on double rows of pillars,
flank the open space, in the centre of which is a marble reservoir. Here
the Englishman looked anxiously for some of the atrocities of the West,
and was pleased to find that, with the exception of a vase of
artificial flowers and a clock, there was nothing that jarred with the
exquisite pillars, and the raw blaze of colour in the roofs of the
rooms. In the middle of these impertinent observations, something
sighed--sighed like a distressed ghost. Unaccountable voices are at all
times unpleasant, especially when the hearer is some hundred feet or so
above ground in an unknown Palace in an unknown land. A gust of wind had
found its way through one of the latticed balconies, and had breathed
upon a thin plate of metal, some astrological instrument, slung gongwise
on a tripod. The tone was as soft as that of an AEolian harp, and,
because of the surroundings, infinitely more plaintive.

There was an inlaid ivory door, set in lintel and posts crusted with
looking-glass--all apparently old work. This opened into a darkened room
where there were gilt and silver charpoys, and portraits, in the native
fashion, of the illustrious dead of Boondi. Beyond the darkness was a
balcony clinging to the sheer side of the Palace, and it was then that
the Englishman realised to what a height he had climbed without knowing
it.