122 SIR VICTOR BROOKE CHAP. 



disappeared over the precipice. Carefully cutting off 

 the head of the other we started for camp, it being too 

 late to go down after the first ibex that evening. I 

 intended returning at gray dawn the next morning for 

 it. On gaining the higher parts of the hills where my 

 tents were pitched, I found it blowing a perfect hurri- 

 cane. The wind roaring over the wild hills and dole- 

 fully whistling through the crags, whilst the folds of 

 white mist flew across hill and dale, now and then dis- 

 closing the fiery setting sun as he sank behind some 

 sharp craggy peak, constituted one of those wild grand 

 scenes that no one in this wide world loves more than 

 I do. It is in moments like these that I find the 

 charms of my solitary life ; when the mind is wrapped 

 up and forms part of all around it, how grating and 

 harsh would sound even the voice of one's dearest 

 friend. The wind blew with such violence in some 

 places that we could hardly bear up against it, and old 

 Francis, with the picturesque curve of the old ibex's 

 head showing over his shoulders, staggering against it, 

 formed a picture I will never forget. At last we got to 

 the tents, and finishing a small leg of mutton with very 

 great ease, I hopped under my huge red blanket and 

 fell asleep, listening to the fury of the elements that 

 threatened every moment to tear the tent in pieces. 

 At earliest dawn old Francis made his appearance and 

 said it was raining like mad. Considering the torrent 

 outside was nicely sieved into a steady downpour inside 

 the tent, the news was unnecessary. Though decidedly 

 disagreeable, one does not rough it so constantly as I 

 have done these last few months, without ceasing even 

 to notice it. Up I got, and swallowing a bowl of 

 coffee minus milk and plus three eggs beaten in it, we 

 strode forth with the guns in holsters and most care- 

 fully shielded from one drop of rain. It's wonderful, 



