as only the flat side of the
Palace, and a drop on to the stones of the zigzag scores of feet below.
Above him was the riven hillside and the decaying wall of Taragarh, and
behind him this fair garden, hung like Mahomet's coffin, but full of the
noise of birds and the talking of the wind in the branches. The warden
entered into a lengthy explanation of the nature of the delusion,
showing how--but he was stopped before he was finished. His listener did
not want to know "how the trick was done." Here was the garden, and
there were three or four storeys climbed to reach it. At one end of the
garden was a small room, under treatment by native artists who were
painting the panels with historical pictures, in distemper. Theirs was
florid polychromatic art, but skirting the floor was a series of
frescoes in red, black, and white, of combats with elephants, bold and
temperate as good German work. They were worn and defaced in places; but
the hand of some bygone limner, who did not know how to waste a line,
showed under the bruises and scratches, and put the newer work to shame.

Here the tour of the Palace ended; and it must be remembered that the
Englishman had not gone the depth of three rooms into one flank. Acres
of building lay to the right of him, and above the lines of the terraces
he could see the tops of green trees. "Who knew how many gardens, such
as the Rang Bilas, were to be found in the Palace?" No one answered
directly, but all said that there were many. The warden gathered up his
keys, and, locking each door behind him as he passed, led the way down
to earth. But before he had crossed the garden the Englishman heard,
deep down in the bowels of the Palace, a woman's voice singing, and the
voice rang as do voices in caves. All Palaces in India excepting dead
ones, such as that of Amber, are full of eyes. In some, as has been
said, the idea of being watched is stronger than in others. In Boondi
Palace it was overpowering--being far worse than in the green shuttered
corridors of Jodhpur. There were trap-doors on the tops of terraces, and
windows veiled in foliage, and bull's-eyes set low in unexpected walls,
and many other peep-holes and places of vantage. In the end, the
Englishman looked devoutly at the floor, but when the voice of the woman
came up from under his feet, he felt that there was nothing left for him
but to go. Yet, excepting only this voice, there was deep silence
everywhere, and nothing could be seen