nder the
knotted boughs. Suddenly I tramped out of the jungle into a clearing,
and lo and behold a ruined House, with blocks of marble lying all about
it, and carved pillars and a great roof all being slowly smothered
by the jungle. The weirdest thing you ever saw. I climbed some fallen
columns to get a better look, and as I did I saw a face flash by at the
arch of a broken window. I sang out in Hindustani, but no answer: only
the echo from the woods. Somehow that dampened my ardour, and I didn't
go in to what seemed like a great ruined hall for the place was so
eerie and lonely, and looked mighty snaky into the bargain. So I came
ingloriously away and told Rup Singh. And his whole face changed. 'That
is The House of Beauty,' he said. 'All my life have I sought it and in
vain. For, friend of my soul, a man must lose himself that he may find
himself and what lies beyond, and the trodden path has ever been my
doom. And you who have not sought have seen. Most strange are the way
of the Gods'. Later on I knew this was why he had always gone up yearly,
thinking and dreaming God knows what. He and I tried for the place
together, but in vain and the whole thing is like a dream. Twice he has
let friends of mine stay at The House in the Woods, and I think he won't
refuse now."

"Did he ever tell you the story?"

"Never. I only know what I've picked up here. Some horrible mistake
about the Rani that drove the man almost mad with remorse. I've heard
bits here and there. There's nothing so vital as tradition in India."

"I wonder'. what really happened."

"That we shall never know. I got a little old picture of the
Maharao--said to be painted by a Pahari artist. It's not likely to be
authentic, but you never can tell. A Brahman sold it to me that he might
complete his daughter's dowry, and hated doing it."

"May I see it?"

"Why certainly. Not a very good light, but--can do," as the Chinks say.

He brought it out rolled in silk stuff and I carried it under the
hanging lamp. A beautiful young man indeed, with the air of race
these people have beyond all others;--a cold haughty face, immovably
dignified. He sat with his hands resting lightly on the arms of his
chair of State. A crescent of rubies clasped the folds of the turban and
from this sprang an aigrette scattering splendours. The magnificent hilt
of a sword was ready beside him. The face was not only beautiful but
arresting.

"A strange picture," I said. "The artist