I turned round. On the eastern side, below the bridge, the river runs in disconnected pools. All was buried in dark and gloom. But about two hundred yards away, on the right bank, there was a red spot and leaping flames. They were burning on the bank a corpse, whose former owner had died of plague. For here in Poona it is now, as it was of old in the days of Homer, [Greek: aieì dè puraì nekúon kaíonto thameiaí ....] Suddenly a voice said behind me: They burn well on a cold night. I looked round. Beside me stood a Hindoo, whose real name I do not think it lawful to mention. His white clothes were stained and splashed all over with red, for the Holi festival had left its mark on him. Why, Wishwanáth, I said, what are you doing here? Or have you come, like me, merely _dekhne ke wáste_, to see the sun set, and 'eat air'? Wishwanáth cast a careless glance at the sky. Yes, he said, it looks well from here: but then I have seen it so often. It was a new moon yesterday. And very soon it will be old. Look, Wishwanáth, here is a strange thing. See, there on that side is the moon, following the sun to rest in a bath of fire, and they will both appear to-morrow all the better for it. But now, look down there. There is another thing passing away in the fire. But how will it be with _that_? And I pointed to the burning pyre on the other side. The Hindoo looked steadily at it for a moment, and then at me. It will be just the same, he said. What! you think that _that_ will come back again, like sun and moon? He did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly, in a low voice, as if speaking rather to himself than me: How should it not return? _na jáyate mriyate wa kadáchit_[4]. I looked at him, but said nothing. He continued to gaze steadily at the burning pyre, in silence, and I did the same. The flames were dying down: their work was done.