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muttered prayers and scattered flowers on the lingam, handfuls of blue geraniums and buttercups and primulas and potentillas, and the mauve wild onion. Then he would sit motionless, still as the stalaotite, until he broke out in a loud, rich chant which reverberated through the cave. was singing the Shiv Purana. It seemed to me at the time quite natural that he should worship the ice-lingam. For the mountain was the end of everything. There was no path beyond it save for spirits and the birds of the air, and the cave entered deep into its womb. The green monster, the size and figure of a congealed god, was the miraculous culmination of the natural world.

I thought of the first wandering ascetic who penetrated this wilderness to commune with the eternal. The queer natural lingams on the ridge pointing the way would strengthen any wavering belief in Siva's godhead-little squat turrets eaten away from the rock by the snow and ice, standing one behind the other half-way down the hill like sculptured gnomes or djinns petrified in their gambols by Shiv's resentful hand when they ventured too profanely near his cave.

Then he would stand on Bairagi ghat and look down on the huge black fissure in the side of the mountain. There is nothing like it in all the hills.

From the frozen torrent two thousand feet beneath he would peer up into the vast arch, no

mere aperture scooped out of the rock, but a sweeping curve of the mountain, a flying buttress of the cliff, giving the place more the air of a mansion, the rough-hewn dwelling-place of a god, than a hollow cavern. Fearfully he would pass the great cyclopæan column on the left. His very shortness of breath would be an attribute of the god. The raw, chill air would oppress his spirit; at first the emptiness and his suspense would appal him more than a direct manifestation. Then, as he approached in trembling expectation, he would come upon the lurking god, the eternal energy, imprisoned in the smooth, green, unnatural-looking ice, which reflects the white stains and flaws of the roof, and stretches two tentacles into the interstices of the rock, each a perfect lingam.

The rumour of Amarnath would spread quickly. There would be heart-stirrings in the temple of Siva at Benares. Down at Madura they would be hearing that a holy man had found Shiv's dwelling-place tunnelled into the last fortress of the hills, and that he had knelt beside his lingam where the god lay transparent, and seen the dim movings of the Eternal Spirit within. In a few months the first awed pilgrimage would start, leaving their dead by the road, perished of hunger and cold and disease and exhaustion, but eternally saved. No physical ill will ever extinguish that flame.

But you do not perceive again as we climbed the path. He was rising when we entered, and asked if he could do us any service-fetch water or juniper scrub. He wanted us to take his puttoo blanket. Instead, we asked him to show us how the pilgrims came to the cave.

the true sublimity of Siva's mansion until you turn your back on the god and look across the valley. The arch exactly frames the limestone cliff opposite where the crags bisect the blue. It is his southern rampart, a bow-shot from the shrine. For there is no bed to the valley here. The mountains drop straight down into the stream.

The only other soul in Amarnath was a naked Yogi, and the sight of him in that raw air made me cold. We did not speak to him, for the man was not the kind who speaks or answers questions. He did not pray visibly or chant or sing, but he held his knees in his hands and bowed and swayed and writhed to some regular rhythm. Sometimes he stopped and stirred his dead ash-fire with a stick. He looked at us with hate. He was repulsive and unclean. I think he was practising some severe kind of yoga without success, seeking to attach his spiritual part to the resisting Essence-seeking, in fine, to get out of himself, which seemed the most natural wish in the world.

The Brahmin was still praying when we left the cave. We passed by the woman in the same place, a poor huddled thing, her head drooping under the blanket. We wondered if she believed. She was still there when we returned in the evening, after exploring a way out of the valley. We heard the Brahmin's chant

He pointed out the place where the Mahunt sits above the Essence with a massive chest for the offerings. The pilgrims pass in a continual procession before the lingam, scatter their offerings on the ice, make their obeisance, and retire. None may sleep in the cave or enter it before the Mahunt, and none linger after midday. The offerings are received by the State officials, and distributed in three parts: to the Mahunt of Bhairor Asthan, who carries the mace; to the priests of Bawan; and the landlords of Batkot, the little walnut-shaded village below Pahlgam.

The arrival of the pilgrims must have been an impressive sight; but I would rather see the cave as we did. I had watched the Sadhus pass twice on the road, and could imagine the drilled pageant of professionals with all their mummery and abracadabra. I felt that the cave gained from isolation. Every pilgrim ought to visit it alone. was these two solitary human figures, whose faith was the greatest, who brought home to me more than any prescribed rites and ceremonies could the true significance of Siva's worship, the intense

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awe and devotion which his saw our cook lighting the big natural altars inspire.

As darkness was gathering the Brahmin told us the legends of Amarnath. When Siva made the cave he created the two pigeons that haunt it at the same time. They never change or die or multiply. The Sadhus call them Siva and Parbati, and when they fly out as the pilgrims enter, salaam with folded hands, and consider it an auspicious greeting. He pointed to the squat crags on the cliff opposite, like petrified djinns. They were Siva's outpoststhe kotwals of the valley, as he called them, and they saw that nothing evil approached the cave.

He took us to a small slab of ice in the corner of the cave, another frozen gypsum spring with flowers thrown on it. It was Ganesh, Siva's son, sadly dwindled. One more hot, dry season and Ganesh will disappear, and some priest will translate the mystery to his credit and advantage. Siva's own essence had dwindled, the Brahmin told us, since he had been in the cave. And that legend will die hard. For no one is likely to be long at Amarnath, unless it be the devout few who stay behind unsatisfied after the pilgrimage of Sawan. The ice would be dwindling then, and if they stayed for the turn of

fire in the camp underneath, signal for soup and stew and turning in. We must leave the Eternal Divine Essence to its votaries.

"Will he take money?" Phillips whispered to me.

"Do you think he meant that when he talked about KHUD providing?" "Let's try."

We placed two pieces of silver on the stone by his book. The Brahmin heard the chink and looked up.

"No, no," he cried.
Phillips expostulated.

"It is the custom of sahibs when they visit shrines to make offerings to holy men."

But he would have none of it, and there was no pride in his refusal. He was afraid of possessions, he told us. He had had sufficient wealth, but he had given his land to Shiv, and the loot he had brought home with him. from China. Where was the merit if he took alms? God would see that he wanted nothing.

We understood. Our rupees would spoil everything. Phillips picked them up again uncomfortably. It was a difficult thing to do, and I was thankful to him for it. But what did the poor huddled woman think of it, I wondered. Did she share her husband's faith? She sat brooding in her blanket like dejection personified, cold and hungry and tired and miserable, it seemed But these cold mysteries to me. Every now and then could hold us no longer. We feeble cough shook her,

the year they would see it wax again with the September

moon.

otherwise she made no move- which flickered for a moment and went out.

ment or sound.

We went down and warmed ourselves by the cheerful blaze, and smoked our pipes thankfully. The fire was too good to leave. It was a beautiful, frosty, starlight night. At intervals the pilgrim's rich chant descended to us from the cave. Then there was silence. Then the solemn, droned litany, the sound you hear in churches, temples, and mosques, wherever men worship, of whatever creed. Then the woman's hacking cough. And the cavernous gloom above us was dimly lighted as the man threw a few juniper sprigs on the fire,

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MR WERRISS IN LOVE.

BY MRS W. K. CLIFFORD.

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paid: thousands waiting for her post if she didn't like it, let her go. "Anything wrong, Miss Findon?"

"I don't know what you'll think of me, Mr Milson, but I'm doing such a daring thing." She looked at him. He saw that her eyes were grey and pathetic, and a little smile struggled to the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, what is the daring thing, Miss Findon ?"

"Won't you let me speak to you alone?" It was almost an entreaty.

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Mr Werriss only proved that he was alive by the scratching of his pen. Milson became curious wardly, surprised outwardly. "To all "To all intents and purposes we are alone," he said firmly. "Mr Werriss belongs to our American branch, and makes no acquaintance in the office."

Mr Milson put a shade of impatience into his manner; It reassured her a little; she was dissatisfied about she looked towards the young something, of course, or wanted man; perhaps he was poor, a rise. He would have no too; his coat was shiny on young women in his office the shoulder,-the light from who did not fully appreciate the window behind him bethe privilege of being there; trayed it. She turned to her as for raising her screw, she employer again. "My brother was a fair typist and could has been dreadfully ill; he manage the French corre- had typhoid, and worked spondence, but she was well too hard; he was in an In

Copyright in the United States of America.

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