The gates were thrown open, "and
few survived to stain the yellow mantle by inglorious surrender."
Thus in the blood-red cloud of battle sank for ever the Sun of Chitor; for
from this, the third and last "saka," the ruined city never rose. Her doom
has been as the doom of Babylon, of which Isaiah declared: "It shall never
be inhabited, neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to
generation ... but wild beasts of the desert shall lie there; and their
houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there....
And the wild beasts ... shall cry in their desolate houses, and ... in
their pleasant palaces:... Her days shall not be prolonged."
The top of the long ascent being reached, the last gate, the Hathi Pol, is
passed, and the wayfarer finds himself in the midst of the great dead city,
which lies in ruins for three miles along the bastioned brow of the
mountain.
Just beyond the first group of stately ruins, we came on the building
which was probably the palace built by Lakha Rana in 1373. Here we sat and
rested until the elephant, bearing the ladies and the lunch, stalked
sedately round the jutting angle of a decayed fort, and then we wended our
way along a road lined with many a half-fallen temple, until we reached
the ancient palace where, six hundred years ago, dwelt the ill-starred
Padmani, whose loveliness brought such woe upon Chitor. Here, in a cool
chamber overlooking the tank, upon the brink of which the palace stands,
we lunched; afterwards threading our way among the fallen fragments of
many a stately shrine and palace towards the high point on which the great
Jain Tower of Fame rears its deeply-sculptured shaft into the sky.
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