"If that man remains here," I remarked aside to Robbins, "I refuse to be held responsible for my actions. Take him away and see the rest of the ruins. I am going to stop here--this is enough for me." They went off together, the guide babbling of modern equity. The last words I heard were a quotation: "Boots not to say, O Justice! what asperities have not been committed in Thy name!" Perhaps. No doubt dreadful things had been done even in this Hall of Audience, though it lay very still now; very silent in the sunshine. I sate down on the base of a sentinel column and looked at the sky, mirrored at my feet, wondering what other things the water had seen. So by degrees the question seemed to clamour at me. What had been done there? What was it? What gave the place its charm for me? For it had a charm, an infinite charm. I gave an impatient shrug of my shoulders at the sound of footsteps. Robbins need not surely watch me as if he feared I might commit suicide; though the water certainly looked inviting. But it was not Robbins. It was an old man with a shaven head, and a very clean saffron-coloured cloth, coming through the pillared ranks with a brass _poojah_ basket like a big cruet-stand in his hand. My mind misgave me instantly. He was far too clean for a real ascetic, and there was a bogus air about him as of one expecting tourists and their alms. In addition he came straight towards me, and squatting down by the edge, within reach absolutely of my contaminating shadow, began to mutter prayers. I rose disgusted; but my first movement showed me I was at any rate partly mistaken, for he turned his head, startled at the sound. Then I saw he could not have known I was there, for he was blind. I saw also that the basket which he had set down contained nothing but the star-like flowers of the wild jasmine. "Whom are you going to worship?" I asked instantly, for I was a connoisseur in ceremonies, having spent years of study over the ancient cults of India. He stood up instantly and salaamed, recognising the accent of the master. "No one, _Huzoor_," he replied. "I am only going to make Mother Âtma her crown." "Âtma!" I echoed. "Who was she?" A half-puzzled, half-cunning look came to his face. "It is a long story, _Huzoor_; but if the Cherisher of the Poor will give his slave a rupee--" Returning to my first impression of him, I was about to move away, when he added plaintively: "I tell it better than the _baboo_, _Huzoor_, but now-a-days he comes with the _sahibs_. So my stomach is often empty. May God silence his tongue!" The desire pleased me. It matched my own. And as I paused, I noticed that the old man, who had squatted down again, had begun to thread the jasmine flowers on some link which was invisible from where I stood. "What are you using to thread the flowers?" I asked curiously.