takes me from that enchanted land, but when the latest dawns are
shining in my skies I shall make my feeble way back to her and
die at her worshipped feet. So I went up from Kalka.

I have never liked Simla. It is beautiful enough - eight
thousand feet up in the grip of the great hills looking toward
the snows, the famous summer home of the Indian Government. Much
diplomacy is whispered on Observatory Hill and many are the
lighter diversions of which Mr. Kipling and lesser men have
written. But Simla is also a gateway to many things - to the
mighty deodar forests that clothe the foot-hills of the
mountains, to Kulu, to the eternal snows, to the old, old bridle
way that leads up to the Shipki Pass and the mysteries of Tibet
- and to the strange things told in this story. So I passed
through with scarcely a glance at the busy gayety of the little
streets and the tiny shops where the pretty ladies buy their
rouge and powder. I was attended by my servant Ali Khan, a
Mohammedan from Nagpur, sent up with me by Olesen with strong
recommendation. He was a stout walker, so too am I, and an
inveterate dislike to the man-drawn carriage whenever my own legs
would serve me decided me to walk the sixteen miles to the House
in the Woods, sending on the baggage. Ali Khan despatched it and
prepared to follow me, the fine cool air of the hills giving us a
zest.

"Subhan Alla! (Praise be to God!) the air is sweet!" he said,
stepping out behind me. "What time does the Sahib look to reach
the House?"

"About five or six. Now, Ali Khan, strike out of the road. You