She was talking the same language that the nodding blossoms and the light and shadow talk that go chasing each other across the hillsides.

And while you watched you seemed to know all sorts of things--secrets that disappeared from your mind a moment afterward.
She began singing presently, commencing on the middle F as every sound in nature does and disregarding conventional limitations just as she did when dancing.

She sang first of the emptiness before the worlds were made.

She sang of the birth of peoples; of the history of peoples.
She sang of India as the mother of all speech, song, race and knowledge; of truths that every great thinker since the world's beginning has propounded; and of India as the home of all of them, until, whether you would or not, at least you seemed to see the undeniable truth of that.
And then, in a weird, wild, melancholy minor key came the story of the _Kali-Yug_--the age of darkness creeping over India, condemning her for her sins.

She sang of India under the hoof of ugliness and ignorance and plague, and yet of a few who kept the old light burning in secret--of hidden books, and of stuff that men call magic handed down the centuries from lip to lip in caves and temple cellars and mountain fastnesses, wherever the mysteries were safe from profane eyes.
And then the key changed again, striking that fundamental middle F that is the mother-note of all the voices of nature and, as Indians maintain, of the music of the spheres as well.