“Public square,” Dicky muttered. “Turn in short after the armored cars,” he commanded the driver. “Follow close.” “Ram Bagh is not so.” It is a difficult proceeding, requiring formalities, to alter one’s orders in Asia. “Listen. I am changing my purpose. Not Ram Bagh, but Jallianwalla. Turn in after the soldiers--now!” The driver obeyed, but was hurt and murmuring. To Dicky, that afternoon, Amritsar was a place of heated and offensive stenches. As they passed through hot and narrow streets, certain of these odors startled his comprehension, because they were so subtly vindictive. The thought occurred to him, as he watched the naked children playing in the wet shadows, of what a correspondent had remarked in Cawnpore: that it was hard to tell whether the streets soiled the children, or the children soiled the streets. The movement forward was very slow, and Dicky bent to inquire at length if they were still moving toward Jallianwalla Bagh. “Yes, it is very near,” said the driver, churning at the lines with both hands. The American did not let himself think further. He fell into his old queer absorption; the reporter of his makeup taking him over. He shut out Amritsar from mind; the Native Idea, the English Idea, and his own that hovered between. He was just a stranger in a half-closed carriage looking out from under a bandaged brow. He heard the flies in the air. He did not seem to have any mental guard to shut out that distracting buzz--flies winging across the vapors of filth. They came to a narrow lane, a _kucha_, the driver called it. The armored cars ahead were having difficulty in this constricted place. Finally they halted and Dicky heard a British soldier on the nearest turret call out that the cars could proceed no further. His own carriage was of course blocked. The _kucha_ appeared less than eight feet wide. He was still lame, and had not intended to do much walking about in the furious heat, but beyond the armored cars he had glimpsed the Gurkhas filing forward and the officers stepping out of their machines. He let himself to the ground, ordered the driver to wait, and followed the soldiers through the wet trampled lane. A minute later he was in the broken ranks of the Gurkhas--little muttering men with big sprawly hands holding fast to their rifles, fingers running loosely over breech and stock and barrel. The halt had come because there was a sudden rise to the ground--a mound of earth closing the lane, and running at angles to each side. The soldiers were ordered up and deployed along the mound; equally divided to the right and left. Now Richard Cobden, in the midst of the officers and civilians who had occupied the two motor cars, also gained the eminence with some pains; and at this point he saw the man he had started out to find that afternoon--General Fyatt, a significant picture, indeed, here in Amritsar, who had been but a small obscure exhibit in the broad gallery of France.