leaving the regular track. It was useless to explain
I preferred the shorter way; they only shouted in
shriller tones, with the idea that I should understand
and turn back if only addressed with sufficient loudness.
So incomprehensive was it to them that any one could
prefer a direct route rather than the trodden way, I
concluded they must be nearly related to our own Mrs.
Grundy. Then one more grassy slope, and at last I
stood beside the temple that had haunted me for two
A shade le ss track
years, ever since the sight of a photograph had revealed
to me the marvellous beauty of that lonely fane. Vague
details of its erection, disputes as to whether Ranaditya
King, its reputed founder, really built it, or whether he
lived in the fifth century, or three hundred years later
in the eighth; whether the side chapels were the work
of his queen, Amritaprakha; and whether Laltaditya
added the arcade—these things were all forgotten, or
pigeon-holed away in my memory, for discussion with
some Dry-as-dust when no longer able to enjoy the
glorious reality, together with such useless argument as
to whether the roof was of wood or of stone, and whether
earthquake or villainous saltpetre has been the motor
power in the terrible destruction and havoc that had
torn stone from stone, thrown down whole walls, and
left but the shell of what must have been one of the
At la st I stood beside th e Temple
stateliest of the world’s shrines. All these things that
I had puzzled over beforehand were swept from my
mind as I stood on the slope of the karewa, bent upward
here to join the hill, sunshine above, sunshine around,
the ground mosaiced with grey stones and pink-flushed
roses, within sight of overwhelming snow heights, the
valley spread out in a vast panorama of green fields and
sparkling waters, glistening peaks fringing the blue sky.