CHAPTER XIV 



HUNTING THE WHITE SHEEP 



Now for our mountain sport 



Cymbeline 



Here's the place ; stand still ! 



How fearful 



And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low 



King Lear 



WE marched each day into more and more exquisite 

 scenes, with only the scenery to interest us, for shikar 

 of any moment was not, and all the signs of big game 

 we discovered for five days was the very old spoor of 

 caribou. We came on it as we crossed a clay tract, 

 which held the impress like a mould. 



Giant mountains towered on every side, miles on 

 miles of snowy peaks, great gorges, narrow valleys, 

 hemmed in by precipitous cliffs, were on our line of 

 route. It seemed to me, wearied and often consider- 

 ably overtaxed, that we should never reach the sum- 

 mit. The place of our desire was always just beyond, 

 like trie jam to-morrow, jam yesterday, but never jam 

 to-day of Alice. 



Clouds of vapour-like mist enveloped us each day 

 as the sun gained power, a veil of obscurity which 

 looked like being as difficult for us to combat as it 



would be helpful to the sheep. Through tortuous 



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