2 o6 
A NATURALIST ON THE PROWL . 
We now laid aside all encumbrances, including our hats, 
for the cold wind blew like a hurricane, and it was easy to 
see that any irreverent head reared above that rock would 
be uncapped in the twinkling of an eye. Even the dark 
patel removed his headcloth, revealing a long, pineapple- 
shaped head, with a thin cascade of grisly hair falling 
from the summit. Then we all applied ourselves to the 
rickety scaling ladders which had been put up for us, and 
in a few seconds we were on the uttermost peak, beside 
the dirty rag tied to a bamboo which is the ensign of 
Basweshwar. How the wind blew ! And there, not many 
yards away, motionless in the air like Mahommed’s coffin, 
was a huge vulture, his enormous wings so cunningly 
trimmed to the gale that it just held him where he was. 
Would I were a vulture, only I never could abide high game. 
I asked one of the men where the gods were, for in 
these parts they always speak of a deity in the plural, on 
very much the same principle, I suppose, on which the 
Gadarene maniac replied that his name was Legion. The 
man I questioned smiled and pointed out a small hole or 
niche in the side of the rock, towards which he scrambled 
like a lizard. I had no suckers on my fingers or toes, but 
I found it was possible to get into such a position that my 
