“Prati ’shya sunari jani”—­the exquisite lines of the old Vedic hymn to the dawn maiden, rose to my lips.  I had never appreciated or felt their truth down in the dusty plains, but here, on the free hills, the glad welcoming of the morning light seemed to run through every fibre, as thousands of years ago the same joyful thrill of returning life inspired the pilgrim fathers of the Aryan race.  Almost unconsciously, I softly intoned the hymn, as I had heard my old Brahmin teacher in Allahabad when he came and sat under the porch at daybreak, until I was ready for him—­

    The lissome heavenly maiden here,
    Forth flashing from her sister’s arms,
    High heaven’s daughter, now is come.

    In rosy garments, shining like
    A swift bay mare; the twin knights’ friend,
    Mother of all our herds of kine.

    Yea, thou art she, the horseman’s friend;
    Of grazing cattle mother thou,
    All wealth is thine, thou blushing dawn.

    Thou who hast driven the foeman back,
    With praise we call on thee to wake
    In tender reverence, beauteous one.

    The spreading beams of morning light
    Are countless as our hosts of kine,
    They fill the atmosphere of space.

    Filling the sky, thou openedst wide
    The gates of night, thou glorious dawn—­
    Rejoicing-run thy daily race!

    The heaven above thy rays have filled,
    The broad beloved room of air,
    O splendid, brightest maid of morn!

I went indoors again to attend to my correspondence, and presently a gorgeously liveried white-bearded chuprassie appeared at the door, and bending low as he touched his hand to his forehead, intimated that “if the great lord of the earth, the protector of the poor, would turn his ear to the humblest of his servants, he would hear of something to his advantage.”

So saying, he presented a letter from the official with whom I had to do, an answer to my note of the previous afternoon, requesting an interview.  In due course, therefore, the day wore on, and I transacted my business, returned to “tiffin,” and then went up to my rooms for a little quiet.  I might have been there an hour, smoking and dreaming over a book, when the servant announced a sahib who wanted to see me, and Isaacs walked in, redolent of the sunshine without, his luminous eyes shining brightly in the darkened room.  I was delighted, for I felt my wits stagnating in the unwonted idleness of the autumn afternoon, and the book I had taken up was not conducive to wakefulness or brilliancy.  It was a pleasant surprise too.  It is not often that an hotel acquaintance pushes an intimacy much, and besides I had feared my silence during the previous evening might have produced the impression of indifference, on which reflection I had resolved to make myself agreeable at our next meeting.