of a church running straight back into the depths of the hill.  Certainly, at first, as one passes into the strange vestibule which intervenes still between the front and the interior of the shaitya, one does not think at all—­one only feels the dim sense of mildness raying out from the great faces of the elephants, and of mysterious far-awayness conveyed by the bizarre postures of the sculptured figures on the walls.

Entering the interior, a central nave stretches back between two lines of pillars, each of whose capitals supports upon its abacus two kneeling elephants:  upon each elephant are seated two figures, most of which are male and female pairs.  The nave extends eighty-one feet three inches back, the whole length of the temple being one hundred and two feet three inches.  There are fifteen pillars on each side the nave, which thus enclose between themselves and the wall two side-aisles, each about half the width of the nave, the latter being twenty-five feet and seven inches in width, while the whole width from wall to wall is forty-five feet and seven inches.  At the rear, in a sort of apse, are seven plain octagonal pillars—­the other thirty are sculptured.  Just in front of these seven pillars is the Daghaba—­a domed structure covered by a wooden parasol.  The Daghaba is the reliquary in which or under which some relic of Gotama Buddha is enshrined.  The roof of the shaitya is vaulted, and ribs of teak-wood—­which could serve no possible architectural purpose—­reveal themselves, strangely enough, running down the sides.

As I took in all these details, pacing round the dark aisles, and finally resuming my stand near the entrance, from which I perceived the aisles, dark between the close pillars and the wall, while the light streamed through the great horseshoe window full upon the Daghaba at the other end, I exclaimed to Bhima Gandharva, “Why, it is the very copy of a Gothic church—­the aisles, the nave, the vaulted roof, and all—­and yet you tell me it was excavated two thousand years ago!”

“The resemblance has struck every traveler,” he replied.  “And, strange to say, all the Buddhist cave-temples are designed upon the same general plan.  There is always the organ-loft, as you see there; always the three doors, the largest one opening on the nave, the smaller ones each on its side-aisle; always the window throwing its light directly on the Daghaba at the other end; always, in short, the general arrangement of the choir of a Gothic round or polygonal apse cathedral.  It is supposed that the devotees were confined to the front part of the temple, and that the great window through which the light comes was hidden from view, both outside by the music-galleries and screens, and inside through the disposition of the worshipers in front.  The gloom of the interior was thus available to the priests for the production of effects which may be imagined.”