THE MARKHOR SIGHTED AT LAST 121 



Gradually the shades of night give way, and 

 minute by minute the nearest outlines become 

 clearer. Armed with the useful Goerz glass, the 

 eye is soon able to distinguish things on the furthest 

 slopes, and by degrees even the most distant clefts 

 and crevices, chasms and ravines, creeks and corners 

 are exposed to our view. 



But it is a world without life nothing but stone 

 and snow a desolate wilderness of snowy mountain- 

 tops, a labyrinth of abysses and passes, a chaos of 

 perpendicular slopes and giddy precipices. Rock 

 upon rock rises out of the depths, till the highest 

 one seems to bear the heavens on its shoulders. 

 Poetry in the raw, untouched by art, Nature's grand 

 and desolate poetry ! So melancholy in its lonely 

 grandeur ! 



Not a single bird here chirps forth its morning 

 song of praise. Not a murmur of running water is 

 ever heard here. Even the avalanches are frozen 

 and still at this early morning hour. 



If there is no love up here, neither is there any 

 other disease. Sin is also absent, for one cannot sin 

 alone. A stillness as of the grave death has 

 strangled joy and laughter. 



Almost colourless, the sun rises above the sea of 

 rocks, regards us coldly, and mirrors himself with 

 metallic sharpness in the snow and ice. 



Sultana looks inquiringly at me, and, shrugging 

 his shoulders, makes a negative gesture with his 



