re East."

"That would be a great book to write if one could catch the voices of
the past. But how to do it?"

"I will give you one day a little book that may help you. The other
story I wish you would write is the story of a Dancer of Peshawar. There
is a connection between the two--a story of ruin and repentance."

"Will you tell it to me?"

"A part. In this same book you will find much more, but not all. All
cannot be told. You must imagine much. But I think your imagination will
be true."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because in these few days you have learnt so much. You have seen the
Ninefold Flower, and the rain spirits. You will soon hear the Flute of
Krishna which none can hear who cannot dream true."

That night I heard it. I waked, suddenly, to music, and standing in the
door of my tent, in the dead silence of the night, lit only by a few low
stars, I heard the poignant notes of a flute. If it had called my name
it could not have summoned me more clearly, and I followed without a
thought of delay, forgetting even Vanna in the strange urgency that
filled me. The music was elusive, seeming to come first from one side,
then from the other, but finally I tracked it as a bee does a flower by
the scent, to the gate of the royal garden--the pleasure place of the
dead Emperors.

The gate stood ajar--strange! for I had seen the custodian close it that
evening. Now it stood wide and I went in, walking noiselessly over the
dewy grass. I knew and could not tell how, that I must be noiseless.
Passing as if I were guided, down the course of the strong young river,
I came to the pavilion that spanned it--the place where we had stood
that afternoon--and there to my profound amazement, I saw Vanna, leaning
against a slight wooden pillar. As if she had expected me, she laid one
finger on her lip, and stretching out her hand, took mine and drew me
beside her as a mother might a child. And instantly I saw!

On the further bank a young man in a strange diadem or miter of jewels,
bare-breasted and beautiful, stood among the flowering oleanders, one
foot lightly crossed over the other as he stood. He was like an image
of pale radiant gold, and I could have sworn that the light came from
within rather than fell upon him, for the night was very dark. He held
the flute to his lips, and as I looked, I became aware that the noise
of the rushing water was tapering off into a murmur scarcely louder than
that of a summer bee in the