In the wild regions of Kattiawar (and how wild they are, you will understand, when I tell you that even the husbandmen plough the land, armed to the teeth), the population is fanatically devoted to the old Hindoo religion—­to the ancient worship of Bramah and Vishnu.  The few Mahometan families, thinly scattered about the villages in the interior, are afraid to taste meat of any kind.  A Mahometan even suspected of killing that sacred animal, the cow, is, as a matter of course, put to death without mercy in these parts by the pious Hindoo neighbours who surround him.  To strengthen the religious enthusiasm of the people, two of the most famous shrines of Hindoo pilgrimage are contained within the boundaries of Kattiawar.  One of them is Dwarka, the birthplace of the god Krishna.  The other is the sacred city of Somnauth—­sacked, and destroyed as long since as the eleventh century, by the Mahometan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni.

Finding myself, for the second time, in these romantic regions, I resolved not to leave Kattiawar, without looking once more on the magnificent desolation of Somnauth.  At the place where I planned to do this, I was (as nearly as I could calculate it) some three days distant, journeying on foot, from the sacred city.

I had not been long on the road, before I noticed that other people—­by twos and threes—­appeared to be travelling in the same direction as myself.

To such of these as spoke to me, I gave myself out as a Hindoo-Boodhist, from a distant province, bound on a pilgrimage.  It is needless to say that my dress was of the sort to carry out this description.  Add, that I know the language as well as I know my own, and that I am lean enough and brown enough to make it no easy matter to detect my European origin—­and you will understand that I passed muster with the people readily:  not as one of themselves, but as a stranger from a distant part of their own country.

On the second day, the number of Hindoos travelling in my direction had increased to fifties and hundreds.  On the third day, the throng had swollen to thousands; all slowly converging to one point—­the city of Somnauth.

A trifling service which I was able to render to one of my fellow-pilgrims, during the third day’s journey, proved the means of introducing me to certain Hindoos of the higher caste.  From these men I learnt that the multitude was on its way to a great religious ceremony, which was to take place on a hill at a little distance from Somnauth.  The ceremony was in honour of the god of the Moon; and it was to be held at night.

The crowd detained us as we drew near to the place of celebration.  By the time we reached the hill the moon was high in the heaven.  My Hindoo friends possessed some special privileges which enabled them to gain access to the shrine.  They kindly allowed me to accompany them.  When we arrived at the place, we found the shrine hidden from our view by a curtain hung between two magnificent trees.  Beneath the trees a flat projection of rock jutted out, and formed a species of natural platform.  Below this, I stood, in company with my Hindoo friends.