To-day, in daylight, when the sun was high, and I had eaten and bandied commonplaces, and knew that I was sane, I went to find the old creature who keeps the gate of the garden of the Tâj. I asked him who was in the Red Palace late last night, and he said that not having been there himself he could not tell; moreover, that he did not turn night into day, but slept, like other respectable people. I felt snubbed but still curious, so I said—
“The boy who plays the violin, who is he?”
“What boy? Where? How should I know?” he said, but he began to look rather startled.
“On the roof of the Red Palace, over there,” I replied, pointing to the corner of the building visible from where we stood. “And the lady, the young lady in the beautiful clothes, who is she?”
But the old man had started, and at mention of the girl he dropped the stick on which he leaned; and as he slowly and painfully recovered himself from the effort of picking it up, I heard him say, in an awe-struck whisper, “The Devi!”
My attempts to extract anything further from this old fossil were futile. He hobbled off to his den, muttering to himself, and evidently anxious to be rid of my society.
After this rebuff I hesitate to make further inquiries from others, because I know no one here; because the white people never concern themselves with native matters, and are mainly interested in gossip; and because I am conscious that my story invites doubt, and must rest on my word alone. It is not the personal ridicule I am afraid of, but I don’t like the idea of jest at the expense of the girl whom I saw on that parapet, the Devi whose stephanotis perfumes my room.