door of the hut stood open; there were a couple of benches on the
burnt grass outside, one serving as a table, the other as a chair.
Papers and books were neatly piled on the table,--and on the chair,
if chair it might be called, a man sat reading. His appearance was
not prepossessing at a first glance, though his actual features
could hardly be seen, so concealed were they by a heavy growth of
beard. In the way of clothing he had little to trouble him. Loose
woollen trousers, a white shirt, and a leathern belt to keep the two
garments in place, formed his complete outfit, finished off by wide
canvas shoes. A thatch of dark hair, thick and ill combed,
apparently served all his need of head covering, and he seemed
unconscious of, or else indifferent to, the hot glare of the summer
sky which was hardly tempered by the long shadow of the floating
cloud. At some moments he was absorbed in reading,--at others in
writing. Close within his reach was a small note-book in which from
time to time he jotted down certain numerals and made rapid
calculations, frowning impatiently as though the very act of writing
was too slow for the speed of his thought. There was a wonderful
silence everywhere,--a silence such as can hardly be comprehended by
anyone who has never visited wide-spreading country, over-canopied
by large stretches of open sky, and barricaded from the further
world by mountain ranges which are like huge walls built by a race
of Titans. The dwellers in such regions are few--there is no traffic
save the coming and going of occasional pack-mules across the hill
tracks--no sign of modern civilisation. Among such deep and solemn
solitudes the sight of a living human being is strange and
incongruous, yet the man seated outside his hut had an air of ease
and satisfied proprietorship not always found with wealthy owners of
mansions and park-lands. He was so thoroughly engrossed in his books
and papers that he hardly saw, and certainly did not hear, the