At a little distance from the flying-arch mosque are two rooms built of stone, in one of which according to our Muhammadan guide Shivaji was born.  Whether it was actually upon the rough walls of this small chamber that Shivaji’s eyes first rested is open to considerable doubt, and probably they are but a small portion of a once spacious mansion which covered the surrounding area, now relic-strewn and desolate, and in which the family of the chieftain resided.  These crumbling halls, the shrine of Shivabai, and the outwork at the extreme north point of the hill are the only remains directly connected with Maratha supremacy.  The out-work which overhangs the sheer northern scarp performed the same function as the famous Tarpeian Rock of old Rome.  Thence the malefactor of Maratha days was hurled down to swift death; and history records one instance of seven outlaws being cast “unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved” into space from this inaccessible eyrie by an officer of the Peshwa.  Viewed from this point the whole plain seems a vast brown sea streaked here and there with green:  and the smaller hills rise like islands from it, their feet folded in the mist which creeps across the levels.  To the north beyond the larger ranges which encircle the valley the peak of Harischandragad is dimly visible, towering above the Sahyadris; and across the plain to eastward the Suleman range ends in the huge rounded shoulders of the Ganesh Lena spur.

Shivner has known many changes.  It gave shelter to the Buddhist in the first and second centuries of the Christian era; It was excavated and fortified by early Hindu Kings who in turn yielded place to the “imperial banditti,” and they held it until the English came and cried a truce to the old fierce wars.  And all these have left traces of their sovereignty amid the rocks, the grass and the rank weeds of the hill.  It is a living illustration of the words of the poet:—­

  “Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai
    Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
  How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp. 
    Abode his destined Hour and went his way.”

V.

THE STORY OF IMTIAZAN.

The scene of her earliest memories was a small room with spotless floor-cloth, the windows whereof looked out upon the foliage of “ber” and tamarind.  During the day a black-bearded man would recline upon the cushions, idly fondling her and calling her “Piyari” ( dearest); and at night a pretty young woman would place her in a brightly-painted “jhula” (swinging-cot) and sing her to sleep.  Then the scene changes.  He of the black beard is away, and the form of the beloved lies stark beneath a white sheet while mysterious women folk go to and fro within the house.  A kindly-faced old man, who in earlier days had helped her build little dust-heaps beneath the trees, takes her from the warm cot and hands her over to a woman of stern face and rasping tongue, with whom she dwells disconsolate until one fateful day she finds herself alone in a market-place, weeping the passionate tears of the waif and orphan.  But deliverance is at hand.