I stood there and the stillness flowed like water about me. It
was as though I floated upon it - bathed in quiet. My thoughts
adjusted themselves. Possibly it was not the Sukh Mandir. Olesen
had spoken of ruin. I could see none. At least it was shelter
from the chill which is always present at these heights when the
sun sets, - and it was beautiful as a house not made with hands.
There was a sense of awe but no fear as I went slowly up the
great steps and into the gloom beyond and so gained the hall.
The moon went with me and from a carven arch filled with marble
tracery rained radiance that revealed and hid. Pillars stood
about me, wonderful with horses ramping forward as in the Siva
Temple at Vellore. They appeared to spring from the pillars into
the gloom urged by invisible riders, the effect barbarously rich
and strange - motion arrested, struck dumb in a violent gesture,
and behind them impenetrable darkness. I could not see the end of
this hall - for the moon did not reach it, but looking up I
beheld the walls fretted in great panels into the utmost
splendour of sculpture, encircling the stories of the Gods amid a
twining and under-weaving of leaves and flowers.
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