the end but for the stronger arms stretched out to help them. One old man, bent and crippled beyond belief, clung for support to a veteran only one degree less frail on either side, and even then his feet dragged wearily and his body tottered as they led him slowly on. Only his eyes seemed to live, fixed, but alight, heedless of the cheering crowds, like the eyes of one who saw visions. Tears rained slowly down the face of another, emotion finding vent in the frail body that had long since spent its strength and vigour. And so, leaving us with hearts strangely moved, they passed, and joined the great throng that waited to hail the first Emperor of the great Empire they had done so much to found.
Far off like distant thunder comes the sound of the first salutes. A stir of expectation, the rattle of rifles as the long lines of troops come to the salute, the flash of swords and the jingle of accoutrements as the escort flashes by, and the Duke and Duchess of Connaught have arrived. Now as always there is no mistaking their popularity. Englishman and Indian vie with one another to give them welcome. Again a pause, and the Viceroy comes. The great historic Durbar has begun. The silver trumpets sound at the entrance and the herald enters as if from some gorgeous picture of the days of chivalry. In front of the dais the great black horse stands like a rock, unmoved by the rattle of musketry, the waves of cheering, or the deep startling notes of the salutes. Stately, magnificent, he plays his part, proudly arching his neck and
