The man is not entirely naked; always there is a bit of white rag, a loin-cloth; it amounts to a bandage, and is a white accent on his black person, like the silver band around the middle of a pipe-stem.

Sometimes he also wears a fluffy and voluminous white turban, and this adds a second accent.

He then answers properly to Miss Gordon Cumming's flash-light picture of him--as a person who is dressed in "a turban and a pocket handkerchief." All day long one has this monotony of dust-colored dead levels and scattering bunches of trees and mud villages.

You soon realize that India is not beautiful; still there is an enchantment about it that is beguiling, and which does not pall.

You cannot tell just what it is that makes the spell, perhaps, but you feel it and confess it, nevertheless.
Of course, at bottom, you know in a vague way that it is history; it is that that affects you, a haunting sense of the myriads of human lives that have blossomed, and withered, and perished here, repeating and repeating and repeating, century after century, and age after age, the barren and meaningless process; it is this sense that gives to this forlorn, uncomely land power to speak to the spirit and make friends with it; to, speak to it with a voice bitter with satire, but eloquent with melancholy.