picturesqueness of the scene was alluring. My curiosity was aroused, and I crept to the hedge to watch the strange mysterious rites which were about to be performed. The ayah and butler, who were Roman Catholics, were also gazing intently through gaps in the fence.
Upon the fire stood an earthen pot containing oil, which was already seething. The stone had been decorated with garlands, and the platform had received a coating of colour-wash on its sides in broad stripes of alternate red and white. On the surface of the platform was arranged a row of leaf platters containing various offerings. The centre leaf held the head of a cock that had lately been decapitated. The people belonging to our establishment, with their relations, stood round in a circle. Their hands were placed together in supplicatory fashion, the flickering fire illuminating their serious faces. The pujari was the coachman. He was bare to the waist, his head uncovered, and his long hair hanging down his back. I scarcely recognised him in such a guise. He began by reciting muntrums. One of the syces handed him a ladle of oil taken from the pot, and he poured it over the stone. Someone gave him another wreath of flowers, which he hung upon the dripping stone. During this performance the assembly murmured something by way of response, and bent their heads over their hands as if making obeisance. It was quietly done in the still summer night of the Tropics. The bats flitted to and fro, and large moths hovered over the long grass of the compound. The ayah's voice at my elbow startled me. 'Pujah done finish now/ she said. As I went back to my walk along the garden paths I could not help wondering whether it had been so arranged that I should be included as a spectator, if not a worshipper, in that heathen ceremony.
Early morning rides on a mount lent by a friend and
