138 THE MARKHOR 



The bearers swear and declare that they have seen 

 fresh tracks of markhor. But then they will swear to 

 anything for the sake of backshish. Let them guide 

 us to-morrow morning. We shall not be able to 

 stay up here much longer anyhow, for the black 

 clouds are already gathering together in the south. 



The air has lost its transparency, and the sky is 

 getting more and more sickly-looking. Fantastically- 

 shaped clouds hurry hither and thither. They 

 are the forerunners of the summer south-western 

 monsoon, which, in the middle of June, starts upon 

 its long dark journey from the equator across the 

 Indian Ocean, breaking up the smooth surface of the 

 latter into mighty waves, seething cauldrons, and 

 foam-flecked breakers a black sea dotted with white 

 lights. Roars of thunder, flashes of lightning follow 

 one another unceasingly, till it seems as if the end of 

 the world has come, and for three months rain pours 

 down in torrents on to the peninsula. Nothing can 

 stop the monsoon's dreary march until it reaches the 

 highest points of the Himalayas, and then it is forced 

 to halt before those rocky barriers, and, whether it 

 will or no, bring its damp journey to an end. 



The sun, which had for so long poured its comforting 

 rays upon us, sank to rest behind a grey veil, and 

 now the stars are hidden from time to time by clouds 

 marching like a funeral procession across the sky. 



Everything has changed quite suddenly the moun- 

 tains, the air, Nature's whole mood, and ours too. 



