“Completely and eternally awake are the disciples of Gotama! Unceasingly, by day and night, their minds enjoy the deep peace of meditation.”

There came a murmur to his ears; a murmuring of many voices, smothering the utterances of his own, like a tumult of waters.  The stars went out before his sight; the heavens darkened their infinities:  all things became viewless, became blackness; and the great murmur deepened, like the murmur of a rising tide; and the earth seemed to sink from beneath him.  His feet no longer touched the ground; a sense of supernatural buoyancy pervaded every fibre of his body:  he felt himself floating in obscurity; then sinking softly, slowly, like a feather dropped from the pinnacle of a temple.  Was this death?  Nay, for all suddenly, as transported by the Sixth Supernatural Power, he stood again in light,—­a perfumed, sleepy light, vapory, beautiful,—­that bathed the marvellous streets of some Indian city.  Now the nature of the murmur became manifest to him; for he moved with a mighty throng, a people of pilgrims, a nation of worshippers.  But these were not of his faith; they bore upon their foreheads the smeared symbols of obscene gods!  Still, he could not escape from their midst; the mile-broad human torrent bore him irresistibly with it, as a leaf is swept by the waters of the Ganges.  Rajahs were there with their trains, and princes riding upon elephants, and Brahmins robed in their vestments, and swarms of voluptuous dancing-girls, moving to chant of kabit and damari.  But whither, whither?  Out of the city into the sun they passed, between avenues of banyan, down colonnades of palm.  But whither, whither?

Blue-distant, a mountain of carven stone appeared before them,—­the Temple, lifting to heaven its wilderness of chiselled pinnacles, flinging to the sky the golden spray of its decoration.  Higher it grew with approach, the blue tones changed to gray, the outlines sharpened in the light.  Then each detail became visible:  the elephants of the pedestals standing upon tortoises of rock; the great grim faces of the capitals; the serpents and monsters writhing among the friezes; the many-headed gods of basalt in their galleries of fretted niches, tier above tier; the pictured foulnesses, the painted lusts, the divinities of abomination.  And, yawning in the sloping precipice of sculpture, beneath a frenzied swarming of gods and Gopia,—­a beetling pyramid of limbs and bodies interlocked,—­the Gate, cavernous and shadowy as the mouth of Siva, devoured the living multitude.

The eddy of the throng whirled him with it to the vastness of the interior.  None seemed to note his yellow robe, none even to observe his presence.  Giant aisles intercrossed their heights above him; myriads of mighty pillars, fantastically carven, filed away to invisibility behind the yellow illumination of torch-fires.  Strange images, weirdly sensuous, loomed up through haze of incense.  Colossal figures,