 And early next morning, before the city knew him at all, he made the precious pilgrimages. Down below the gold-crowned hill, the city waited for the young traveller, but indifferently, for here he was only one of men. Here he saw peculiar signs and sights and heard strange tongues. He saw darker faces than he had seen in paler ones, and he felt altogether a stranger. If his family were here, how could he know them? Would they still dress like village people, or would they wear the odd guards of the city? Would they speak this strange city speech, or would he hear again the mellow language of the paddy fields? There was nothing here to make him feel that this was his city at first, the capital of his own country. This was no heir to the old walled cities of the past. This was a city with its doors open to the world. And while he searched for a familiar face or sight, or even simply a friendly one, a storm blew up. He had known storms before. In the country villages, the monsoon was greeted with joy, and he had no reason to fear it, save for his lack of shelter. But this rain seemed to beat like an enemy upon the roofs and walls. How sorely he missed the huts and fields at his home valley, where rain was known and loved as a good friend. But the city seemed to be trying to run from the waning storm, and the street was full of demons, and it rained again. He had to find shelter.