There was a small village of Gonds, or Korkus, like a toy thing, the
houses woven from split bamboo, nestling against the billowing hills.

"Here we will rest and eat," Barlow said to the Gulab.

"As the Sahib wishes," she answered, and smiled at him like a child.

The huge medallion of gold had slid down in the west from the dome
through which were shot great streamers of red and mauve, and a peacock
perched high in a sal tree far up on the mountainside sent forth his
strident cry of "Miaou! miaou! miaou!" his evening salute to the god of
warmth.

As the harsh call, like an evening _muezzin_, died out, the sweet song
of a shama, in tones as pure as those of a nightingale, broke the
solemn hush of eventide.

Barlow turned his face to where the songster was perched in the top
branches of a wild-fig, and Bootea, said in a low voice: "Sahib, it is
said that the shama is a soul come back to earth to sing of love that
men may not grow harsh."

Soon a silver moon peeped over the walls of the Vindhya hills, and from
the forests above the night wind, waking at the fleeing of the sun,
whispered down through feathered _sal_ trees carrying the scent of
balsam and from a group of _salei_ trees a sweet unguent, the perfume
of the gum which is burnt at the shrines of Hindu gods.

When they had eaten, Barlow said: "I wonder, Gulab, if this is like
_kailas_, the heaven those who have passed through many transitions and