And, smiling, went his lonely way,
Sole, yet companioned, glad, yet mute,
And steadfast toward the perfect day.
And still I see him lessening
Adown the endless Indian plain.
Yet certain am I of this thing—
Our souls have met—shall meet again.
Thus I have tried to give some dim picture of the wonders of that wonderful pilgrimage. But who can express the faith, the devotion that send the poorer pilgrims to those heights? They do it as the sadhu did it. Silence and deep thought are surely the only fitting comments on such a sight.
THE MAN WITHOUT A SWORD