more like Mussoorie than ever, and did not fall down the
hillside even once. An ammunition-mule of a mountain-battery
met him at a tight corner, and began to climb a tree.

"See! There isn't another place in France where that could
happen," said Alan. "I tell you, this is a magnificent
country."

The mule was hauled down by his tail before he had reached the
lower branches, and went on through the woods, his
ammunition-boxes jinking on his back, for all the world as
though he were rejoining his battery at Jutogh. One expected to
meet the little Hill people bent under their loads under the
forest gloom. The light, the colour, the smell of wood smoke,
pine-needles, wet earth, and warm mule were all Himalayan. Only
the Mercedes was violently and loudly a stranger.

"Halt!" said Alan at last, when she had done everything except
imitate the mule.

"The road continues," said the demon-driver seductively.

"Yes, but they will hear you if you go on. Stop and wait.
We've a mountain battery to look at."

They were not at work for the moment, and the Commandant, a
grim and forceful man, showed me some details of their
construction. When we left them in their bower--it looked
like a Hill priest's wayside shrine--we heard them singing
through the steep-descending pines. They, too, like the 75's,