“No one can see concealed holes.”
“What I mean is something quite different.”
“What then?”
“That you will soon learn, if what I suspect is the case.”
The smile that played round Kulluka’s mouth at these words only increased Siddha’s curiosity; but his questions were interrupted by their reaching a turn in the road where, spread out before them, bathed in golden sunshine, lay another part of the valley.
“See there,” said Kulluka, pointing with his lance to a thick clump of trees below them, near which, like a silver thread, flowed a little stream; “there lives Gurupada!” And, without more words, the riders descended a steep declivity, following a path partly formed by nature and partly by the labour of men, that led towards the plain.
Under the dense shade of trees stood a low building roofed with reeds, and built with slight bamboos overgrown with creepers, more like some resort of pleasure than the poor cell of a holy man passing his life in penance. Behind was the dark jungle, in front an emerald lake, reflecting back a hundred different tints, and bordered by blue and white lotus flowers. The clear silver stream entered at one end and, flowing out at the other side, continued its course to the lower valleys just seen in the haze of the distance. Far away the ranges of mountains rose like rocky giants to the heavens, their summits never trodden by the foot of man.
For a moment our travellers remained still, lost in admiration of a view at once so magnificent and so lovely. But quickly remembering that they had reached the end of their journey, they dismounted and entrusted the horses to their servants, while Kulluka advanced to the dwelling, meaning to give notice of their arrival. But he might have saved himself the trouble, for he had scarcely reached the door when the hermit appeared in the threshold, followed by a servant who, at a sign from his master, took charge of the visitors’ horses.
Extraordinary was the impression which the sight of this recluse made on Siddha. In his own country, among his mountains and forests, he had seen penitents, self-denying holy men, wandering mendicants, in numbers and of all kinds—some in foul and sordid rags, with long bamboo staves in their hands and rosaries at their sides, some with a cloth made of the bark of trees, others with no clothing, shaven, and covered with ashes, their foreheads and breasts smeared with white chalk: all supported by the strength of a boundless fanaticism. No wonder that the young man, used to the most polished civilisation, should have looked with the deepest contempt on such people; and in spite of his respect for his tutor, who had always named the hermit of Badrinath with veneration, he had expected but little from the man who now stood ready at his door to receive them. All the greater was the impression now made upon him by the tall and stately figure advancing to them, with dignity but at the same time with an air of friendly welcome.
He was an old man, in a dazzling white garment, with a few fine locks on the otherwise bald head, and a heavy silvery beard, but not in the least bent by the weight of years. His friendly though proud expression showed plainly that he had been accustomed to give, rather than to receive and obey, commands.