trappings of civilisation fall insignificantly away from
me; I forget who I am, and remember only that I must
have heard this flute-player and his music on some
such river-edge long, long ago in the past. I sit on
long after he has ceased, while the waters flow on, into
the dawn, rapt in the mystery of life. CH A P T E R X IX
T H E R O A D TO P A G A N
A G R E A T sandbank has been forming for years be-
V fore the town of Yenan-Gyaung, and the present
channel in consequence lies far to the west; so far
is it, that the cliffs of \enan-Gyaung are almost lost
to sight as I slowly travel on. The western shore
is low, and villages, almost treeless, cluster on the
edge of the alluvial plain. Popa with his cloud-cap,
like an embodied memory of his past, is lifted high
above the rolling uplands. White-sapphire clouds have
taken the place of his smoke, as thouOg h the aOges had
purified him, bringing peace to his fierce heart.
Presently the channel swings back under the eastern
cliffs and we come upon the village of Kyanye, hidden
in dark woods, its long-boats drawn up by the water’s
edge. The river, like an hour-glass, compresses into
a single stream, then spreads out again, encircling
islands of kaing meadows. Later, in the west, there
are wide green plains, with herds of cattle grazing on
them, dark blue masses of oak-like woods, villages. with
monastery roofs and pagoda -spires. Electric clouds
swoon in the sky above the blue mountains of Aracan,
and the river spreads unbroken from shore to shore.