CHAPTER XXXVII 



IN THE SNOW-BOUND REALMS OF THE MARKHOR 



THE next morning, before starting, I take a good 

 look round with the glasses. 



" Beyond those high-wooded ridges, in ravines 

 looking like burnt-out glaciers, lives the markhor," 

 explains Sultana. 



It means another six hours' march to get there. 

 We were obliged to make our last halt here for fear 

 of disturbing the game, as the outlying hills act as a 

 screen between them and our noisy camp and tell- 

 tale fires. 



From time to time a dull rumbling sound, like a 

 distant peal of thunder, reaches my ear, and black 

 smoke-like clouds appear above the hill-summits. 



" Landslips," is the laconic explanation offered by 

 the stalkers. 



" Those clouds in the distance are all dust. The 

 noonday sun is thawing the ground, and rocks, 

 stones and snow are melting and slipping," adds one, 

 a little more talkative than the others. 



I had often heard of the many dangers connected 



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