ries. Great marvels were seen here."

I felt the labyrinthine enchantments of that enchanted land were closing
about me--a slender web, grey, almost impalpable, finer than fairy silk,
was winding itself about my feet. My eyes were opening to things I had
not dreamed. She saw my thought.

"Yes, you could not have seen even that much of him in Peshawar. You did
not know then."

"He was not there," I answered, falling half unconsciously into her
tone.

"He is always there--everywhere, and when he plays, all who hear must
follow. He was the Pied Piper in Hamelin, he was Pan in Hellas. You
will hear his wild fluting in many strange places when you know how to
listen. When one has seen him the rest comes soon. And then you will
follow."

"Not away from you, Vanna."

"From the marriage feast, from the Table of the Lord," she said, smiling
strangely. "The man who wrote that spoke of another call, but it is the
same--Krishna or Christ. When we hear the music we follow. And we may
lose or gain heaven."

It might have been her compelling personality--it might have been the
marvels of beauty about me, but I knew well I had entered at some mystic
gate. A pass word had been spoken for me--I was vouched for and might go
in. Only a little way as yet. Enchanted forests lay beyond, and perilous
seas, but there were hints, breaths like the wafting of the garments of
unspeakable Presences. My talk with Vanna grew less personal, and more
introspective. I felt the touch of her finger-tips leading me along
the ways of Quiet--my feet brushed a shining dew. Once, in the twilight
under the chenar trees, I saw a white gleaming and thought it a swiftly
passing Being, but when in haste I gained the tree I found there only
a Ninefold flower, white as a spirit in the evening calm. I would not
gather it but told Vanna what I had seen.

"You nearly saw;" she said. "She passed so quickly. It was the Snowy
One, Uma, Parvati, the Daughter of the Himalaya. That mountain is the
mountain of her lord--Shiva. It is natural she should be here. I saw her
last night lean over the height--her face pillowed on her folded arms,
with a low star in the mists of her hair. Her eyes were like lakes of
blue darkness. Vast and wonderful. She is the Mystic Mother of India.
You will see soon. You could not have seen the flower until now."

"Do you know," she added, "that in the mountains there are poppies of
clear blue--blue as turquoise. We will go up into the he