"What, do you mean that place away towards the horizon?"
"Yes. Well, the Amphitheatre is behind that."
And away you pound across rough and broken country, wondering whether the Camp extends from here to Umballa. As a matter of fact, you afterwards find that you have taken a rather circuitous route, and also that the white wall is not quite so far away as it looks : but the point is that all this time you have never left the camp limits. The size of the place, and the distances between one point and another, must be seen to be realised. There is an Exhibition somewhere, goodness knows where; I have not yet set eyes on it.
Weird sounds of music presently assail the ear. They do not resolve themselves into any particular tune, but convey a general impression that about fifty brass bands are somewhere about and have simultaneously gone mad. As you surmount a piece of rising ground the mystery is explained. Here are sections of military bands, dotted about a sort of parade ground, all stolidly engaged in playing tunes, each section cheerfully independent of the others. You remember at last that about two thousand military bandsmen are to play on Durbar Day. At a signal, two or three hundred of them form up two deep, and burst forth into — "The Lost Chord ! "
And then you flee towards the Amphitheatre, which finally comes into view. It is an impressive sight, with its roof of creamy white, its cupolas and
