I turned from her. The serpent was in Paradise. When is he
absent?

On one of the terraces a man was beating a tom-tom, and veiled
women listened, grouped about him in brilliant colours.

"Isn't that all India?" she said; "that dull reiterated sound? It
half stupefies, half maddens. Once at Darjiling I saw the Lamas'
Devil Dance - the soul, a white-faced child with eyes unnaturally
enlarged, fleeing among a rabble of devils - the evil passions.
It fled wildly here and there and every way was blocked. The
child fell on its knees, screaming dumbly - you could see the
despair in the staring eyes, but all was drowned in the thunder
of Tibetan drums. No mercy - no escape. Horrible!"

"Even in Europe the drum is awful," I said. "Do you remember in
the French Revolution how they Drowned the victims' voices in a
thunder roll of drums?"

"I shall always see the face of the child, hunted down to hell,
falling on its knees, and screaming without a sound, when I hear
the drum. But listen - a flute! Now if that were the Flute of
Krishna you would have to follow. Let us come!"

I could hear nothing of it, but she insisted and we followed the
music, inaudible to me, up the slopes of the garden that is the
foot-hill of the mighty mountain of Mahadeo, and still I could
hear nothing. And Vanna told me strange stories of the Apollo of
India whom all hearts must adore, even as the herd-girls adored