Away across the Champs de Mars stood a huge company of elephants clad in all the gorgeous trappings that even the eye of an Eastern could devise—one hundred and sixty-six of them, waiting to salute the Viceroy and fall in behind the procession to bring the magnificent pageant to a fitting close.
Behind us lay the huge courtyard with its majestic porches and graceful arcades, which but a few days before had been crowded with a vast throng of worshippers among the faithful, celebrating their great festival on the last Friday of Ramazan.
How different a scene from that of to-day. India is a land of contrasts, but at Delhi it seemed as if they had collected them all and dumped them down together before one's eyes. Up that same road down which we looked, had come the Emperor Aurungzebe to worship in that same courtyard behind us at the Friday service. To-day we waited for the coming of a Viceroy of an English Emperor, who had succeeded to a greater than Aurungzebe's throne, yet to whom it would probably never be given to enter personally upon his great inheritance in the Imperial city of Hindustan.
The time of waiting went quickly by. Both within and without the Jumma Musjid there was so much to be seen. Close by us, watching everything with his quick, keen gaze, was the dear little Japanese Envoy, General Baron Yasukata Oku. Not far off was my Duchess of the Arethusa, and ever and anon amongst the crowd one caught a glimpse of a familiar face. But, of course, even here, where every prospect pleased, there was one
