sun helmets. They looked like a company of animated mushrooms. Barefooted Hindus, in white blouses, red-turbaned and red-sashed, ran about, with luggage and chairs, and made loud, soft noises with their mouths. An old Don Quixote of a man, with a long, gray beard like a goat, interchangeable tan shoes, black alpaca clothes, shining as to the knees and elbows, flannel shirt, puffy brown helmet, with an audacious purple and white and gold cloth about it, and watery, weak blue eyes, elbowed the rail and looked mistily at the emerald shores. Beyond the lofty clock-tower, the government buildings, the sparkling white marble of Victoria, the resounding streets, the towers of silence, the shady avenues, the bubbling plague, the troubling crows, was a little piece of ancient history in which the old gentleman had been one of the little pawns. His hands trembled with martial reminiscence. He was in Lucknow Residence. Cannons roared. He saw again Henry Lawrence—"who tried to do his duty, may the Lord have mercy
