Vultures drowsed in the shade thrown by the crumbling, sun-cracked,
heat-stricken mud walls and houses which lined the meandering unpaved
streets, or rather passages, of a certain village in northern India;
crows were packed everywhere, taking no notice for the nonce of the
feast of filth and garbage spread invitingly around them, and in which
sprawled the disgusting, distorted bodies of somnolent water buffaloes;
inside the houses hags, matrons, maidens, and little maids slept
through the terrific heat of the noonday hours; in the distance the
Himalayas, supreme and distressing, like a ridge across eternity, lay
behind the turrets and minarets of the town which, thanks to the Indian
atmosphere and the long distance, shone white, fretted, and--well,
exactly as you can see it any day in paint at the Academy or in Bond
Street.

Perfectly motionless upon the high khaki-coloured wall, which entirely
surrounds the village, with dust upon his aged feet and raiment and
once white turban, oblivious of the heat, the flies, and everything
that slept, sat a man with age written upon every gnarled joint, and in
every crack and fissure of the parchment-like skin.

_So_ old, and _yet_ with life, and hope, and youth eternal in the dark
hawk eye which gazed unseeingly through the outer world straight
towards the mountains.

And the old body made no sign of life, even when the vultures without
sound soared majestically heavenwards, whilst the crows rose in
shrieking disordered squads, and a kite whistling melodiously swooped
from nowhere downwards across his head to the filth of the streets.

Neither did he turn his head or his eyes when a coal-black stallion,