According to popular belief the most wonderful things happen there--
miracles. At the top of the mountain, two thousand feet above
the level of the sea, is the platform of a fortress. Behind it
rises another rock two hundred and seventy feet in height, and
at the very summit of this peak are to be found the ruins of a
still more ancient fortress, which for seventy-five years served
as a shelter for this hermit. Whence he obtained his food will
for ever remain a mystery. Some think he ate the roots of
wild plants, but upon this barren rock there is no vegetation.
The only mode of ascent of this perpendicular mountain consists
of a rope, and holes, just big enough to receive the toes of a man,
cut out of the living rock. One would think such a pathway
accessible only to acrobats and monkeys. Surely fanaticism must
provide wings for the Hindus, for no accident has ever happened
to any of them. Unfortunately, about forty years ago, a party of
Englishmen conceived the unhappy thought of exploring the ruins,
but a strong gust of wind arose and carried them over the precipice.
After this, General Dickinson gave orders for the destruction of
all means of communication with the upper fortress, and the lower
one, once the cause of so many losses and so much bloodshed, is
now entirely deserted, and serves only as a shelter for eagles
and tigers."

Listening to these tales of olden times, I could not help comparing
the past with the present. What a difference!

"Kali-Yug!" cry old Hindus with grim despair. "Who can strive
against the Age of Darkness?"

This fatalism, the certainty that nothing good can be expected now,