ARRIVAL AT THE HUNTING GROUNDS 123 



themselves and were nowhere to be seen. Neither 

 could we hear the tinkle of the vibrant bell. 



We waited for an hour or more, still — no Yakimo, 

 who had travelled in our wake up to the last three or 

 four miles of the journey. 



Things began to look awkward, as rain fell heavily, 

 and there was no shelter in the surrounding rocks. 

 Riding on a little, after turning a sharp corner, we 

 came on a shepherd with the traditional crook in a 

 henna-stained hand, sitting on a heap of stones by 

 the wayside, if, indeed, the rough track could be 

 called a " way " at all. He stood up in his surprise 

 at seeing us, and pulled his scanty toga of half-cured 

 sheepskin around him, as though to hide the time- 

 worn skeleton framework beneath. 



Shelter he had none, but he seemed very happy. 

 Nature never meant money to make happiness. 

 That's why I love her. Unnatural civiHzation has 

 done it. The worst of it is we've got to be civilized 

 whether we like it or not. 



A neck-end of mutton, lying on the stones, was 

 proffered to us with the great-hearted hospitality 

 peculiar to the shepherds of the Caucasus, who think 

 that kindness shown to strangers is returned a 

 hundredfold in prosperity to the flocks. 



Next our acquaintance, made rich in spite of himself 

 beyond the dreams of his simple avarice, aided us to 

 greater comfort for the night. A wine-shop of sorts 

 lay a mile westward, on a trading channel which 

 linked up two villages, and thither we set off, our 

 shepherd for guide, walking our horses, with the rain 



