The old, black panther was sleeping as I went by, and I envied him.
There was a choice of two ways when I reached the _panch mahal_, for it was feasible to enter through the lower door, which was apparently unguarded, and climb the stone stairway that wound inside the wall.
However, I chose the marble front steps, and barked my knuckles on the door at the top.
I was kept waiting several minutes, and then four women opened it in place of the customary two; and instead of smiling, as on previous occasions, they frowned, lining up across the threshold.

They were older women than the others had been and looked perfectly capable of showing fight; allowing for their long pins and possible hidden weapons I would not have given ten cents for my chance against them.

So I asked for King and the Mahatma.
They pretended not to understand.

They knew no Hindustani.

My dialect of Punjabi was as Greek to them.