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With the two sons of White Ali and the End of Time, at 8 A.M., on the 12th December, I rode forward, leaving the jaded camels in charge of my companions and the women. We crossed the plain in a south-westerly direction, and after traversing rolling ground, we came to a ridge, which commanded an extensive view. Behind lay the Wanauli Hills, already purple in the distance.
From the situation of the writer, who appears always to have lived in Bihar or Hindustan, as well as from the vagueness with which he tells the story, it is evidently a mere rumour deriving some strength from the fact that Madhoji died at Wanauli, in the neighbourhood of the Mahratta capital, on the 12th February of that year, in the midst of intrigues in which he was opposed, not only by the Nana, but by almost all the chiefs of the old Mahratta party.
But the voice of the Muezzin is hushed for ever, and creepers now twine around the ruined fane. The scene was still and dreary as the grave; for a mile and a half in length all was ruins ruins ruins. Leaving this dead city, we rode towards the south-west between two rugged hills of which the loftiest summit is called Wanauli.
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