that past misery in the deep water. She said no more. But in her
words and the terrible crowding of its life, Srinagar seemed to
me more of a nightmare than anything I had seen, excepting only
Benares; for the holy Benares is a memory of horror, with a sense
of blood hidden under its frantic crazy devotion, and not far
hidden either.

Our own green shade, when we pulled back to it in the evening
cool, was a refuge of unspeakable quiet. She read aloud to me
that evening by the small light of our lamp beneath the trees,
and, singularly, she read of joy.

"I have drunk of the Cup of the Ineffable, I have found the key
of the Mystery, Travelling by no track I have come to the
Sorrowless Land; very easily has the mercy of the great Lord
come upon me. Wonderful is that Land of rest to which no merit
can win. There have I seen joy filled to the brim, perfection of
joy. He dances in rapture and waves of form arise from His dance.
He holds all within his bliss."

"What is that?"

"It is from the songs of the great Indian mystic - Kabir. Let me
read you more. It is like the singing of a lark, lost in the
infinite of light and heaven."

So in the soft darkness I heard for the first time those immortal
words; and hearing, a faint glimmer of understanding broke upon
me as to the source of the peace that surrounded her. I had
accepted it as an emanation of her own heart when it was the