She said afterwards;

"How beautiful some of these men are. It seems a different type
of beauty from ours, nearer to nature and the old gods. Look at
that priest - the tall figure, the clear olive skin, the dark
level brows, the long lashes that make a soft gloom about the
eyes - eyes that have the fathomless depth of a deer's, the proud
arch of the lip. I think there is no country where aristocracy is
more clearly marked than in India. The Brahmans are aristocrats
of the world. You see it is a religious aristocracy as well. It
has everything that can foster pride and exclusiveness. They
spring from the Mouth of Deity. They are His word incarnate. Not
many kings are of the Brahman caste, and the Brahmans look down
upon them from Sovereign heights. I have known men who would not
eat with their own rulers who would have drunk the water that
washed the Brahmans' feet."

She took me that day, the Brahman with us, to see a cave in the
mountain. We climbed up the face of the cliff to where a little
tree grew on a ledge, and the black mouth yawned. We went in and
often it was so low we had to stoop, leaving the sunlight behind
until it was like a dim eye glimmering in the velvet blackness.
The air was dank and cold and presently obscene with the smell of
bats, and alive with their wings, as they came sweeping about us,
gibbering and squeaking. I thought of the rush of the ghosts,
blown like dead leaves in the Odyssey. And then a small rock
chamber branched off, and in this, lit by a bit of burning wood,
we saw the bones of a holy man who lived and died there four
hundred years ago. Think of it! He lived there always, with the
slow dropping of water from the dead weight of the mountain above