It was the year of the river pageant, for which preparations were begun a week or more before the fourth of April. On the morning of that day, the whole palace was astir by dawn; and, in the early light, a large company set out on foot to descend from the plateau; for horses could only await them in the plain, below. Oman found that the descent was easy enough, for, directly behind the palace, where the slope was less steep than anywhere else, a long flight of steps had been cut in the rock, and the plain could be reached thereby in less than half an hour. Oman and Bhavani started first and were on level ground in advance of the rest of the party. There, at the base of the plateau, they found horses and donkeys assembled, all yellow-caparisoned, and wearing high funeral plumes in their crests. Presently there was a general mounting: priests, lords, and officials, according to their rank, ranged two and two on their steeds; and after them, on foot, a number of villagers and country-folk, for whom the day was a holiday. In the first hour of sunrise the cavalcade was set in motion and began to wind across the plain to the river bank:—a long, slow-moving line of pinkish yellow, that saddest of Indian colors. To Oman, the sensation of riding was novel enough, and far from unpleasant. Everything—the sweet, early morning air, the silvery mist on the plain, the rushing river-song, the rolling hills in the distance, and the grave-eyed, silent man beside him, all worked themselves into his mood, deepening the impression of the hour. By nine o’clock the little temple was in sight. When it first appeared, a dim, bluish blot in the flat distance, the heart of Oman rose within him. His face grew very white. On his breast the Asra ruby burned, and the light of it, shining blood-red in the sunlight, or the fact that he had gazed too long at the temple, or perhaps some still more natural cause, made him suddenly dizzy and faint. In the whirl of his feeling, he looked toward Bhavani beside him. The Rajah sat stiffly in his saddle, his yellow turban throwing into pale relief his stern, set face and deeply glowing eyes. He gazed unwinkingly forward, and Oman’s look followed his.