the shadows were deepening. No one knew the site of the next village nor the precise direction in which we were moving, so we halted. That night we snuggled down with our faces to the cliffs. Our horses were tethered in a patch of corn, and the kit, the servants, interpreters and grooms lay in one confused and hungry tangle round us. Within sound of the deep roar of the river we slept peacefully. Indeed, I am not certain that this one hour when, invigorated by a swim in some mountain pool, refreshed by a slight repast, we rocked in our camp beds, smoking and chatting, looking into the cool black depths of the canopy above us, was not the best that the day held. There was something intensely restful in those long, silent watches. The mighty stillness of the surrounding heights of itself gave a repose, to which the night winds, the murmurs of the running water and our own physical fatigue, insensibly added. It was pleasant to hear the ponies eating; to watch the stars come out, the moon rise; to listen to the bull-frog in the water weeds and the echoes of the song of a peasant, rising and falling among the peaks of the high mountains, until, at length, all sounds had passed away and the great world around us, above us, and below, lay at peace.
.jpg)
A PITCHED BATTLE
