But the charm appeared to fail of its effect. No figure was visible to his
gaze, save that of the physician, who seemed to regard him with an
expression of pity as he gathered up his robes and melted rather than
glided into the encompassing darkness.

Ananda remained, contending with himself. Countless times was he on the
point of calling after the physician and imploring him to return with a
potion of like properties to the one rejected, but something seemed always
to rise in his throat and impede his utterance, until, worn out by
agitation, he fell asleep and dreamed this dream.

He thought he stood at the vast and gloomy entrance of Patala. [*] The
lugubrious spot wore a holiday appearance; everything seemed to denote a
diabolical gala. Swarms of demons of all shapes and sizes beset the portal,
contemplating what appeared to be preparations for an illumination. Strings
of coloured lamps were in course of disposition in wreaths and festoons by
legions of frolicsome imps, chattering, laughing, and swinging by their
tails like so many monkeys. The operation was directed from below by
superior fiends of great apparent gravity and respectability. These bore
wands of office, tipped with yellow flames, wherewith they singed the tails
of the imps when such discipline appeared to them to be requisite. Ananda
could not refrain from asking the reason of these festive preparations.

[Footnote: The Hindoo Pandemonium.]

"They are in honour," responded the demon interrogated, "of the pious
Ananda, one of the apostles of the Lord Buddha, whose advent is hourly
expected among us with much eagerness and satisfaction."