Story of Bali, Indonesia

But the continuous movement of dark, proud faces, rocking and bending above their gold-flowered brocaded mantles, like a flock of royal birds spreading their wide wings; the bewildering alternation of wrath and gentleness, peace and tumult; the sudden lightning flights of Aryas, like spirals of sand that rise inexplicably and whirl across the desert; fights of kings and romantic princes; the wail of flutes and strings and honeyed voices (the flutes rising wild and lovely in a canon so close that they seem like a single voice with ' its shadow) the thrilling beat of drums and cymbals; the great organ-tones of many male voices in unison-these are ineffaceable memories of Gambaeh.

Towards the end the multitude on the stage swells bewilderingly. Now a great king or general, at whom all hurl salutes, his fierce old face lit by some sublime hallucination, will blaze round the stage like a comet, with his streaming tad of white robed soldiers behind him, or halt and make a rhetorical assault upon the gamelan; now a noble patih will meander in wide curves chanting over the stage like a gorgeous flower or bird; now a king will glide delicately forward on a quiet flute melody, curtaining the splendor of his face with his splendid robe, slow voice and twining fingers dialoguing softly together; a leader will stir up the martial ardour of his men by hurling insults at them till they rush forward and attack him, and then in a fierce m6lie two armies will surge in tumultuous ranks over the stage round their respective leaders.

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