i 4 o THE MARKHOR 



of a feverish pulse. It is quite mild, but not at all 

 hot, and yet we perspire tremendously. 



Trusting entirely to the sure foothold and experi- 

 ence of the stalkers, I let their athletic muscles bear 

 the full burden of my weight. 



Far below me yawns the precipice. One false 

 step and it will prove my grave. But a beautiful 

 grave, for one would lie softly on pure white sheets, 

 beneath gigantic memorial stones placed there by 

 Nature, the greatest of sculptors. 



Again and again my glance is drawn to the depths 

 below, only to return and wander again to the far 

 distance a landscape of incomparable beauty, giving 

 the impression of an ocean whipped into fury by a 

 storm, and suddenly petrified. Over all spreads a 

 delicate violet shade, beneath a steel-grey sky. 



" Take care, Sahib, ice ! " whispers Sultana. 



I hold on to him tighter than ever, and he pulls 

 me over. 



Safe once more, my eye wanders in search of 

 markhor tracks, utterly regardless of steep and 

 slippery heights. Poetry and prose, joy and anxiety, 

 follow one another in quick succession. 



My mountain pilots, insensible to either, go 

 steadily on. Their whole life is a poem of heroism. 

 Every hour has its dangers ; daring is their duty, 

 adventure an everyday, necessary element of their 

 calling. Their faces are full of energy, and they 

 seldom smile. 



