pected arrival and fled down in flashes of orange and
blue and purple. These I soon divined to1 be kingfishers
and golden orioles fleeing to the refuge of the sombre
old ruins that served as background to the gorgeous
picture.
The “ Peri Mahal” (fairies’ palace) has stood
for centuries, weather-worn and sad, alone, untenanted,
unless the Kashmiris are right and the Peris
have it in possession. If it is so, they have
chosen well, for even fairies can desire naught
better than a beautiful house in beautiful surroundings,
a fair prospect in front, perfect flowers behind, blue sky,
and good air! Designed for some palace of love it
appears to be, not for the prosaic needs of an astronomical
institution, as the savants declare it to have been
in the sixteenth century by Sufi Mahomedans.
The difficulties of the descent were not even then
all surmounted, and I managed to entangle myself in
an almost impenetrable thicket of roses and shrubs, and
only struggled through that to find below a thick hedge
and a fairly wide stream. “ Go round,” “ turn back,”
“ no path,” shouted some workmen, but one does not
turn back after coming so far, and I began pushing my
way through the thorny barrier. My position awoke
the chivalry of an old weather-beaten fellow labouring
in the fields, and he came across to show me the best
place to break through. “ Come from the Peri Palace ? ”
he questioned. “ Yes, and from far beyond,” I answered,
“ from right over there over the hill-top, the great
Zebanwan.” “ When I was young I have done that
many a time,” he replied, “ but now,” and he laughed
the curious little cackle all natives seem to acquire as
they get into years, “ these old bent legs are only good
to take me to the assistance of others in difficulty,” and
he choked away at his little joke. “ Truly the Mem-
sahib is adventurous, and where does she go to now ? ”
I replied by pointing out the lake not far distant. “ Rest
under the trees first till the sun is down; the Sahib
log get fever when the sun is hot. Have you heard a
song they sing down in the plains ? I heard it in the past
before I came back to rest in the Happy Valley.” And
in curious quavering tones he chanted the following
song, and with an accent that showed he was no native
of the country:—
REGRET.
0 straight white road tha t runs to meet
Across green fields the blue-green sea,
You knew the little weary feet
Of my child-bride th a t was to he 1
Her people brought her from the shore,
One golden day in sultry June,
And I stood waiting at the door,
Praying my eyes might see her soon.
With eager arms wide open thrown,
Now never to, be satisfied,
Ere I could make my love my own,
She closed her amber eyes and died.
Alas ! alas ! they took no heed
How frail she was, my little one,
But brought her here with cruel speed,
Beneath the fierce, relentless sun.
We laid her on the marriage bed,
The bridal flowers in her hand,
A maiden, from the ocean led,
Only, alas ! to die inland.