shadow of the great deodar forests; through oak feathered and plumed with ferns, birch, ilex, rhododendron, and pine, out on to the bare hillsides' slippery sunburnt grass, and back into the woodlands' coolth again, till oak gave way to bamboo and palm of the valley, he swung untiring.
Glancing back in the twilight at the huge ridges behind him and the faint, thin line of the road whereby they had come, he would lay out, with a hillman's generous breadth of vision, fresh marches for the morrow; or, halting in the neck of some uplifted pass that gave on Spite and Kulu, would stretch out his hands yearningly towards the high snows of the horizon. In the dawns they flamed windy red above stark blue, as Kedarnath and Badjunath—kings of that wilderness—took the first sunlight. All day long they lay like molten silver under the sun, and at evening put on their jewels again. At first they breathed temperately upon the travellers, winds good to meet when one crawled over some gigantic hog-back; but in a few days, at a height of nine or ten thousand feet, those breezes bit; and Kim kindly allowed a village of hillmen to acquire merit by giving him a rough blanket coat. The lama was mildly surprised that any one could object to the knife-edged breezes that had cut the years off his shoulders.
'These are but the lower hills, chela. There is no cold till we come to the true mountains.'
'Air and water are good, and the people are devout enough, but the food is very bad,' Kim growled; 'and we walk as though we were mad—or English. It freezes at night, too.'
'A little, maybe; but only enough to make old bones rejoice in the sun. We must not always delight in the soft beds and rich food.'
'We might at the least keep to the road.'
