Karl, as I have said, was acquainted with all these facts in the natural history of the hornbill; but just then he did not think of making them known to his companions—all three being too much occupied in watching the movements of the male bird. It was evident that he was not one of the vegetable feeders: for on his alighting they could see hanging from his beak a long cylindrical object, which they were able to identify as a portion—the head and part of the body—of a dead snake. It was equally evident that his mate was not accustomed to a vegetable diet: for from the way in which he was manoeuvring, the spectators saw that the mutilated reptile was intended for her. No doubt it was her dinner, for it had now got to that hour of the day.

She was not to be kept waiting any longer. Almost on the instant her provider alighted on the projecting spur, with a toss of his head he jerked the piece of snake up into the air, and then caught it as it came down again—not with the intention to swallow it, but only to get a better grip, in order that he might deliver it the more adroitly into the mandibles of his mate—now protruding through the aperture, and opened to receive it.

In another instant the savoury morsel was transferred from the beak of the male to that of the female; and then the ivory forceps of the latter, with the snake held tightly between them, disappeared within the cavity.

The old cock stayed not a moment longer upon the tree. He had served his mate with her dinner, and perhaps he had yet to bring on the dessert. Whether or not, he rose immediately afterwards into the air, with the same clangorous clapping of his wings; but this time the noise was accompanied by the clattering of his horny mandibles, like a pair of castanets, causing a sound not only singular, but, if heard by strangers, calculated to beget within them a considerable feeling of alarm.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A FOUR-FOOTED BURGLAR.

After the departure of the bird, that had taught our young adventurers so interesting a chapter of natural history, the elephant once more engrossed their attention. Not that there was anything new in the movements of the latter—for it was acting just as before—but simply because they knew that, so long as it remained upon the ground, they would have to stay in the tree; and they naturally bent their eyes upon it, to see if it was showing any signs of moving off. They could perceive none. Not the slightest appearance to indicate its intention of departing from the spot.

While engaged in regarding the besieger, their eyes were of course removed from the sycamore; nor might they have been again turned towards that tree—at least, not for a good while—but for a sound that reached their ears, and which appeared to proceed from the direction of the hornbill's nest. It was a soft and rather plaintive sound—unlike any that had been made by the rhinoceros bird; nor was it at all like the voice of a bird, of any kind. It was more like the utterance of some four-footed creature; or it might even have been a human voice pronouncing the syllable "wha," several times repeated.

That it was neither bird nor human being, Ossaroo could tell the moment he heard the first "wha." Almost as soon were the others convinced that it was neither: for on turning their eyes to the sycamore, they saw upon the projecting spur that had been so lately occupied by the hornbill, a creature of a very different kind—in short, a quadruped.

Had it been in an American forest, they might have taken the creature for a racoon though a very large one. On closer scrutiny, many points of resemblance, and also of difference, would have become apparent. Like the racoon, it had plantigrade feet, a burly, rounded body, and a very thick hairy tail—ringed also like that of the American animal—but unlike the latter, its muzzle, instead of being long and slender, was short, round, and somewhat cat-like; while its hair, or more properly its fur, formed a thick even coat all over its body, limbs, and tail, and presented a smooth and shining surface. Its general colour was a very dark brown, streaked and mottled with golden yellow; and Caspar remarked, upon the moment of seeing it, that it was one of the handsomest creatures he had ever beheld.

The naturalist Cuvier had made the same remark long before Caspar's time. So said Karl, on hearing the observation escape from the lips of his brother.

Ossaroo knew that the animal was the "wha," a name derived from its ordinary call; and that it was sometimes known as the "chetwa," and also the "panda."

Karl, on hearing Ossaroo's name for it, and indeed, on hearing it pronounced by the creature itself, was able to identify the animal, and to give it still another name—that which has been bestowed upon it by Frederick Cuvier—ailurus. This is the generic name, of which, up to the present time, it has been left in undisturbed possession. Since only one species has been discovered, it has the name all to itself; and therefore would not require any specific appellation. But for all that, one has been given to it. On account of its shining coat, it has been called the ailurus fulgens.

Though the closet naturalists, in following out their pedantic propensities, have created a genus expressly for this animal, there is nothing either in its appearance or habits to separate it from the badgers, the racoons, the coatimondis, and such other predatory creatures. Like them it preys upon birds and their eggs, as also on the smaller kinds of quadrupeds, and like the racoon, it is a nimble tree-climber.

The situation in which the particular panda, of which we are writing, first appeared to the eyes of Karl and Caspar, proved this capacity, and its actions the moment after testified to its fondness for birds'-eggs. It had not been a minute under the eyes of the spectators, when they saw that it was after the eggs of the hornbill; perhaps, too, it might have had a design of tasting the flesh of their owner.

Resting its thick plantigrade hind feet upon the projection of the tree, it erected itself like a little bear; and with its fore-paws commenced scraping at the barrier wall which the male bird had spent so much time and taken so much pains in building. It is possible that if it had been left to itself, it might in time have succeeded in forcing an entrance into the nest, and highly probable too—or it would scarcely have entered upon the task. But it was not left to itself. Not that the sitter inside could have done much to hinder it: though it was evident from the way in which her beak was repeatedly projected and drawn back through the hole, and also from her angry hissing, that she knew there was danger without, and that an enemy was assailing her citadel.

Most likely after a time, and by constant scraping, the clay wall would eventually have been pulled down; but before that event came to pass, a loud flapping and fluttering, and cracking and clattering, was heard among the tops of the trees; and in an instant afterwards the broad, shadowy wings of the old male hornbill were swashing about the ears of the four-footed robber, where the long cutlass-like beak, armed at its edges, at once interrupted the intent.

The panda, taken by surprise, quailed at this first onset: for like any other paterfamilias who on returning home finds a burglar breaking into his house, the cock bird charged in the full tide of impetuous fury.

The robber, however, evidently used to this sort of thing, soon recovered his self-possession; and instead of retreating from the tree, he only planted himself more firmly upon the projection; and, facing towards his feathery assailant, prepared to show fight.

And fight was instantly shown on both sides—the bird swooping repeatedly at its adversary, striking with its strong wings and thrusting with its ensiform beak; while the quadruped played back both with teeth and claws—several times plucking a mouthful of feathers from the breast of its winged adversary.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

FRITZ INTERFERES.

How the affair might have ended had the panda and the hornbill been the only parties to the combat, can but be guessed at. In all likelihood the quadruped would have triumphed over the biped: the entrance would have been forced; the old hen dragged off her nest—perhaps killed and eaten—and the eggs after her.

But it was not written in the book of destiny that this should be the denouement of that little drama: for at that moment an incident occurred which changed the whole character of the contest—followed by a series of other incidents which brought the affair to a termination unexpected by all parties engaged, as well as by those who witnessed it.

The first of these incidents—and that which formed the key to this change in the circumstances of the combat, was one of a very ludicrous character—so much so as to elicit laughter from the spectators in the tree.

It chanced that the eyes of the panda, as the animal stood erect on its hind quarters, were directly opposite the little aperture that represented the entrance to the nest. Not dreaming of any danger in that direction, the robber only thought of guarding his "daylights" against the hornbill upon the wing. But the hen bird inside the nest— who could see well enough what was passing outside—had no idea of remaining a passive spectator; and perceiving her opportunity—for she was within striking distance—she quietly drew back her long ivory beak, and, throwing all the strength of her neck into the effort—assisted by the weight of her heavy helmeted head—as if with the blow of a pick-axe, she struck the panda right in the eye—the sharp point penetrating almost to its skull.

Terror-stricken, partly by surprise at this unexpected stroke, and partly by the pain caused by it, the quadruped uttered a shrill cry; and at once scrambling down from the tree, seemed only anxious to make his escape. In this design he, no doubt, would have succeeded, with only the loss of an eye; but the eye of still another enemy had been upon him—one whom he had yet to encounter. Fritz, from his position near the bottom of the tree, attracted by the noise of the strife, had drawn nearer; and looking up, had been watching the combat throughout. It is scarcely probable that the sympathies of honest Fritz could have been otherwise than in favour of the innocent bird, and against the guilty beast; but whatever way they may have been inclined, certain it is that as the panda came to "grass," the dog "jumped" it upon the instant, and commenced worrying it, as if the creature had been the oldest and bitterest of his enemies!

Despite the suddenness of this new attack—equally unexpected as the peck in the eye—the fierce panda showed no signs of yielding without a struggle; and, although far overmatched by its canine antagonist, it was likely to give the latter a scratch or two, as souvenirs that he would carry to his grave.

But at this moment a much greater danger was threatening Fritz than any harm he might suffer from the claws of the panda; and had chance not favoured him, as he jumped about in the struggle, by turning his eyes in a particular direction, he would have found himself in the clutches of an antagonist, that would have shown him as little mercy as he was himself extending to the poor panda.

But he was favoured by chance: for it was nothing more that directed his glance towards his old pursuer, the elephant; and showed him the latter, at that moment advancing upon him at a charging pace, with eyes sparkling in silent vengeance, and trunk extended to seize him. Under the circumstances, it did not cost Fritz a moment's calculation as to what course he should pursue. Suddenly dropping the panda—as if he had discovered the quadruped to be a lump of poison—he bounded from the spot in a direction the very opposite to that by which the elephant was approaching; and in less than a score of seconds the only part of him to be seen was the tip of his tail just disappearing into the thicket.

Of all the creatures that had borne part in this curious affray, the poor panda was perhaps the most to be pitied. At all events he was the most unfortunate: for with the drama ended also his life. In every one encountered by him he had found an enemy; and in the last he met with a dread foe that soon made a finish of him. This last was the elephant. The great animal, rushing forward upon Fritz, seeing that the latter had escaped, was determined this time not to be baulked of a victim. Instead of carrying out the design it had only partially resolved upon— that of following Fritz into the forest—it suddenly altered its plan, and transferred its hostility to the panda. It saw that the latter was within reach: for half blinded by the beak of the bird, and half worried to death by the dog, the creature did not perceive, as Fritz had done, the approach of the elephant. It is possible it may have seen the danger, but not until the elephant had got in such dangerous proximity as left it no chance of escape.

Before the panda could make the slightest effort to get away from the ground, the elephant had lapped its prehensile proboscis around it, and lifted it into the air as if its body had been no heavier than a feather. Holding it aloft, the merciless monster took several long strides in the direction of the fallen obelisk; and then, as if choosing a spot suitable for its design, it placed the still struggling body of the panda upon the ground, set its huge fore-feet upon it, and using them alternately, continued to trample it until the only vestige left of the crushed creature was a shapeless mass of fur and flesh!

It was a painful spectacle to those in the tree; but it was succeeded by a sight that was pleasant to all three—the sight of the elephant's hind quarters as it walked off toward the woods, evidently with the intention of retiring from the ground.

Whether its vengeance had been satisfied by the destruction of the panda, or whether it had gone off in search of Fritz, none of the three could conjecture; but whatever may have been the motive, certain it is that it guided the rogue from the spot, and raised a siege that was on the point of becoming exceedingly irksome.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

"DEATH TO THE ROGUE."

As soon as the elephant was fairly out of sight, the besieged took counsel among themselves about descending to the earth. They were sorely tired of the positions which they had been so long constrained to keep; for, to tell the truth, sitting astride upon the hard branch of a tree, though easy enough for a short spell, becomes in time so painful as to be almost unendurable. Caspar especially had grown impatient of this irksome inaction; and highly exasperated at the rogue who was forcing it upon them. Several times had he been on the point of forsaking his perch, and stealing down for his gun; but Karl, each time perceiving his design, very prudently persuaded him to forego it.

All were anxious enough to get out of the tree; and they would have vacated their sents at once on the disappearance of their dreaded enemy, had they been certain that he was gone for good; but they were suspicious that it might be only a temporary absence—perhaps some ruse of the rogue to decoy them down: for elephants of this character have been known to practise tricks with almost as much cunning as rogues among men.

While holding counsel as to how they had best act, Ossaroo cut short their deliberations by volunteering to descend first; and by stealing a short way along the track which the elephant had taken, ascertain whether he was really gone from the ground, or only tying in ambush near the skirt of the forest.

As the shikaree could creep through underwood as silently as a snake, there could be no great danger in his doing this, provided he did not go too far. He could not fail to see the elephant before approaching too near to it; and in the event of its turning and pursuing him, he could once more flee to their tree-fortress.

He scarcely waited for the consent of his companions; but, immediately after conceiving the idea, he let himself down among the branches; and once on the ground, glided hurriedly, but cautiously, off in the direction taken by the elephant.

Karl and Caspar stayed some five minutes longer upon their perch; but the shikaree not returning as soon as they had expected, they became impatient, and also dropped down from the tree.

Their first act was to recover their guns, and reload them; and then, taking stand in a position from which, in case of being suddenly attacked, they could easily spring back among the branches, they awaited the return of Ossaroo.

A considerable time elapsed, without their either seeing or hearing aught of the shikaree. Indeed they heard nothing: for a complete silence reigned around them, broken only now and then by the fluttering of the wings of the old male hornbill—who was still keeping in the neighbourhood of the nest, apparently puzzled to make out by what mysterious combination of circumstances he had been so abruptly disembarrassed of his adversary, the panda.

The movements of the bird had no longer any interest for Karl and Caspar—who were beginning to grow uneasy at the prolonged absence of Ossaroo.

Soon after, however, they were relieved from their suspense, by seeing the shikaree emerging from the underwood, and advancing at a quick pace to the open ground. They had the additional pleasure of beholding Fritz following at his heels. The dog had joined Ossaroo near the edge of the timber—where he had been quietly secreting himself from the eyes of the dreaded elephant.

As Ossaroo drew near, both Karl and Caspar noticed an expression upon his countenance, which, combined with his hurried advance, told that he had something of an important nature to communicate.

"Well, Ossy," asked Caspar, who was the first to speak, "what news? Have you seen anything more of the rogue?"

"Ah, rogue indeed!" replied Ossaroo, in a tone expressive of some secret fear. "You speakee true, sahib; the rogue, if he no worse."

"Why, what now? Have you seen anything since you left us?"

"Seen, sahibs! Where you tinkee he now gone?"

"Where?"

"Hee go for de hut."

"For the hut?"

"Straight trackee. Ah, sahibs!" continued the shikaree, speaking in a low voice and with an air of superstitious terror; "dat animal too wise for dis world; he know too much. I fear him be no elephan' after all, but only de devil, who hab takee elephan' shape. Why he go back there?"

"Ah! why, I wonder," inquired Caspar. "Do you think," added he, "it is in the hope of finding us there? If that's his purpose," he continued, without waiting for a reply, "we shall have no peace so long as he remains alive. We must either kill him, or he will do as much for us."

"Sahibs," observed the Hindoo, with a significant shake of the head, "we no able killee him; that elephan' he nebba die."

"Oh, nonsense, Ossy! If that's what you mean," rejoined Caspar, disdainfully repudiating the superstitious belief of the shikaree; "there is not much doubt of our being able to kill him, if we once get a fair shot; and by my word, the sooner we set about it the better. It's evident, from his having gone back to our hut, that he has some wicked design. Very likely he remembers being first attacked there by Fritz; and as he may be under the belief that the dog has retreated there, he is gone in search of him. Ho, Fritz, old fellow! you needn't be afraid. You can easily get out of his way, whenever you like. Your masters are in more danger than you, my boy."

"You are sure, Ossaroo," said Karl, who had stood for some time silently reflecting, "you are sure he has gone to the hut?"

In reply to this interrogation, Ossaroo would not state positively that he had seen the elephant arrive on the very spot where the hovel stood; but he had followed his track through the belt of heavy timber; and then, having climbed a tree, had descried the great quadruped moving in the direction of the hut. He had no doubt it was for that point he was making, though with what design Ossaroo could not guess—his superstitious dread having hindered him from venturing upon any conjecture.

"One thing is clear," said Karl, after another interval spent in reflection: "it will be no list our attempting to continue the survey we have commenced, until the elephant be got out of the way. What you say, brother Caspar, is quite true. Now that he has become aware of our presence, and has, moreover, been roused to fury by the wounds we have given him, it is not likely he will forget what has passed; and we can hope for neither peace nor safety till we have succeeded in destroying him. There is no reason why we should not set about it at once, but every reason why we should. Our very lives depend upon his destruction; and they will not be safe till that has been accomplished."

"Let us after him at once, then," cried Caspar; "and be our motto, 'Death to the rogue'!"



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A HOME IN RUINS.

Without further delay, our adventurers took the back track towards the hut, which was exactly that which the elephant had taken—as they could tell by traces of the animal all along the route, which the experienced eye of the shikaree had already discovered, and which he now pointed out to his companions as they passed on. Here and there its great footprints were visible in the turf, in places where the ground was soft; and at other places where no tracks appeared, leaves and twigs freshly strewn upon the earth, and also branches of considerable size broken off from the trees, and borne for some distance before being dropped, clearly indicated to Ossaroo the route which the rogue had taken.

The shikaree had often followed the spoor of wild elephants through the jungles of Bengal, and knew everything about their way of travelling. He was therefore able to tell the others that the rogue had not been browsing as he went—for the leaves and twigs showed no signs of his teeth—but on the contrary, he had moved forward rapidly, and as if with some special determination. The broken branches which they saw were more likely to have been torn off out of spite at the ill-usage he had received, and the disappointment at not having succeeded in his purposes of vengeance.

It did not need for Ossaroo to caution his companions to circumspection. They knew as well as he that an elephant enraged as this one was, whether a rogue elephant or an honest one, was anything but a safe customer to come in contact with; and that this particular rogue was most particularly angry they had just had both ocular and auricular evidence.

They went forward, therefore, with unusual caution, taking care to keep both their eyes and ears on the alert, and at the same time moving in perfect silence, or conversing only in whispers.

The path upon which they were returning was not that by which they had gone forth. The reconnoissance of the cliffs had carried them a good distance around the edge of the valley; but now they were following the track taken by the elephant, which, as already ascertained by Ossaroo, led almost in a direct line to the hut.

As they drew nearer to their rude habitation, they saw indications that the enemy was still before them. As they knew that in the immediate neighbourhood of the hot-spring, and consequently of the hut itself, there were no large trees or other place of safety to which they might retreat in case of being again attacked, they began to advance with increased caution. From the direction in which they were approaching, the hovel could not be seen until they should get within less than two hundred yards of it. There was a belt of rather tall jungle to be passed through, and then it would be in sight.

Through this jungle they commenced advancing; and there, to their no slight uneasiness, they also observed fresh traces of the elephant. They were now certain that he had passed through it before them, still going direct for the hut.

What on earth can he want there? was the query that once more suggested itself to the minds of all three. It certainly looked as if he had proceeded there in search of them! As if, missing them from the scene of the encounter, he believed they had returned home, and was following up their acquaintance.

From what they had observed, they could not help attributing to the great quadruped the possession of an intelligence something more than natural; and this, though it may have been only an absurd fancy on their part, had the effect of begetting within their minds a very painful feeling of apprehension. What they saw on coming out on the other side of the jungle not only strengthened this feeling of apprehension, but increased it all at once to a positive terror.

The hut, which should now have been before their eyes, and at a distance of not quite two hundred paces, was no longer there! The ruins of it alone were visible. The large boulders with which its walls had been built, the beams and thatch that had composed its roof, the grass couches upon which they had slept, the rude improvised utensils and other articles which had served them for furniture, were all strewed far and wide over the ground; and not the semblance of a house, or even hovel, remained to show that the spot had been occupied by a human habitation!

Yes—in what had been their rude dwelling our adventurers beheld only a ruder ruin—scarce one stone standing upon, another!

They beheld all this with feelings of fear—ay, something stronger—with awe. The Pagan worshipper of Brahma or Vishnu was no longer alone in his superstitious imaginings. His young Christian companions were almost equally victims to a belief in the supernatural. They comprehended well enough what had caused the destruction of the house. Though the author of that mischief was nowhere to be seen, they knew it was the elephant. There was no alternative but to accept that explanation; and it was not the act itself that was awing them, but the contemplation of the human-like, or rather demon-like, intelligence that had guided the animal thither, and instructed it to this act of retribution, perhaps only preliminary to a still greater one.

Though the work of devastation could not have been completed many minutes before their arrival, the elephant appeared to have gone away from the ground. At east, it was not to be seen anywhere near the spot; and it is needless to say that it was carefully looked for. Dreading its dangerous proximity, they had kept under cover of the bushes while contemplating the ruin from a distance; and it was not until after a considerable interval had elapsed that they ventured forward over the open space to ascertain the full extent of the damage.

This they at length did, and found that it was total destruction. So far as the hut was concerned, not a vestige of construction remained— walls and roof had been alike levelled with the ground. But what was a greater source of chagrin to the now homeless plant-hunters, was that their little store of ammunition—the gunpowder, which during all the period of their imprisonment they had been carefully hoarding—was spilled among the rubbish, and of course irrecoverable. It had been deposited in a large gourd-shell prepared for the purpose; and this, among other similar chattels, the enraged quadruped had crushed under its feet. Their cured provisions had also been turned out from their place of deposit, and trampled into the dust of the earth. But this, though also a chagrin, was one of less bitterness. Other provisions might be obtained—not now so easily, since the powder was destroyed— but the latter they could not replace.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

UP A TREE AGAIN!

They might have remained longer on the ground lamenting this irreparable loss, but that they were still apprehensive of the return of the elephant. Whither had it gone? That was the question which one was addressing to the other, while the eyes of all kept turning in different directions, and with glances that betrayed their uneasiness.

The rogue could not have been off the ground more than a very few minutes: the grass that he had trampled down was still wet with its own sap, crushed out by his ponderous weight. And yet he might have been seen all around for nearly a quarter of a mile's distance. There was no timber within that distance that could have given concealment to an animal so bulky as an elephant?

So thought Karl and Caspar; but Ossaroo was of a different opinion. The bit of jungle through which they had passed would suffice to screen the rogue, said he: adding at the same time a piece of intelligence derived from his shikaree experience: that an elephant, large as it is, can hide in a slight cover with wonderful cunning; that its sagacity enables it to select the best place for concealment; and that, although it neither crouches nor squats, it contrives, by keeping perfectly still—added to the circumstance of its being a shapeless sort of mass—ofttimes to elude the eye of the most vigilant hunter. Though Karl and Caspar could scarcely credit him, Ossaroo expressed his belief, not only that the elephant might be hid in the scant jungle they were talking about, but that it actually was there.

Unfortunately for them, Ossaroo's argument was too soon to be supported by facts which left no doubt of its accuracy. As they stood scanning the jungle with keen glances, and with ears acutely bent to catch every sound that might issue from it, a movement was perceptible among the tops of some tall saplings that grew near its centre. In the next moment a brace of the beautiful argus pheasants rose on whirring wing, at the same time giving forth their loud note of alarm.

The birds, forsaking the jungle, in their flight passed over the heads of our adventurers, and by their cries caused such a clangour as to set Fritz off into a prolonged fit of baying.

Whether it was that the enemy had been only lying in ambush, waiting for a good opportunity to charge, or whether the voice of the dog—already known and hated—had been just then heard by the elephant, stirring him to a fresh thirst for vengeance, certain it is, that before a sentence could be exchanged among the terrified trio, the long conical trunk and broad massive shoulders were visible through the scanty jungle; and it was plain to all that the monster was making towards them with that deceptive shamble which, though only a walk, carries the huge quadruped over the ground almost with the speed of a galloping horse.

For a moment our adventurers stood their ground—not, however, with any idea of awaiting the attack or attempting to repel it; but simply because they knew not in what direction to retreat.

So dismayed were they at the sight of the advancing enemy, that it was some seconds before any of the three could suggest a plan that offered a prospect of escape. Rather mechanically than otherwise did Karl and Caspar bring their pieces to the level, with the intention of firing in the face of the foe: for they had but little hope that the lead from their guns, both of light calibre, would stop his impetuous charge. Both fired at the same instant; and then Caspar delivered his second shot; but, just as they had expected, the elephant continued to charge onward.

Fortunately for them, the shikaree had not condescended to draw the string of his bow. Experience had taught him that under such circumstances an arrow was an useless weapon. He might as well have attempted to kick the elephant, or stick a pin into its trunk; either of which proceedings would have damaged the animal nearly as much, and perhaps irritated it a little less, than would one of Ossaroo's arrows. Knowing this, the shikaree, instead of bothering himself with his bow, or wasting time by any thoughts of resistance, had occupied the few seconds left for consideration in a rapid reconnoissance of the neighbourhood—to see if it offered any chance of escape.

To tell the truth, the vicinity appeared rather unpromising. The cliffs offered no ledge upon which they might have climbed out of reach of the rogue, the jungle might have afforded them a temporary shelter; but although it had concealed the elephant from their eyes, it could not long conceal them from the eyes of such a sagacious creature as their antagonist appeared to be. Besides, the elephant was between them and it, and to retreat in that direction would be to run point blank upon its proboscis!

Fortunately in this moment of uncertainty and irresolution a point of safety appeared to the eye of the shikaree, in the shape of a tree—the only one near the spot. It was a tree that had already been instrumental in saving his life: for it was the same that stood by the little straits where Ossaroo had set his nets, and by means of which Caspar had been enabled to hoist him up out of the quicksand.

This tree was a very large one; and standing alone, its branches, free to extend their growth, had spread far out in every direction, almost stretching across the straits.

Ossaroo wasted not the precious moments in idle reflection, but shouting to the young sahibs, and signalling them to follow his example, he struck off towards the tree with all the speed that lay in his legs; and not till he had got up to the third or fourth tier of branches did he look behind him, to see whether his advice had been taken.

The young sahibs had adopted his suggestion with alacrity, without staying a moment to question its propriety; and both were up the tree almost as soon as the shikaree himself.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

AN IMPLACABLE BESIEGER.

Fritz had retreated with his masters as far as the bottom of the tree; but possessing only canine claws, he was not a climber; and of course could follow them no further. But if he could not ascend the tree, he had no intention of remaining under it—when he saw no chance of avoiding the vengeance of the elephant—and, without pausing for a moment, he plunged into the water, and swam across the straits. Then wading out on the the opposite bank, he scuttled off into a cover of reeds which grew along the shore of the lake, and there concealed himself.

This time the elephant paid no attention to the dog. It was upon the hunters alone that its eyes were fixed; and towards them its vindictive designs were now specially directed. It had been close upon their heels, as they ran over the open ground, and distinctly saw them ascending into the tree. Indeed, so near was it, that both Karl and Caspar were once more obliged to let go their guns, in order that they might have both hands free for climbing. Otherwise they might have been too late to get out of reach, and the least delay on their part might have been fatal to one or both.

Karl was the last to climb up; and just as he lifted his feet from a branch to set them on one higher up, the rogue twisted his trunk around the former, and snapped it in two, as if it had been only a slender reed.

But Karl, with the others, was now beyond his reach; and all three congratulated themselves on once more having escaped from a danger that was nothing short of death itself.

If possible, the elephant was now more enraged than ever. It had not only been a second time baulked in its vengeance, but had received three fresh bullet-wounds; which, though mere scratches upon the skin of its huge cranium, were sore enough to irritate it to an extreme degree. Uttering its shrill, trumpet-like screech, it flourished its proboscis high in the air; and seizing the branches that were within its reach, it snapped them off from the main stem as if they had been tiny twigs.

In a short time the tree, which had been furnished with low-spreading limbs, was completely stripped of these to a height of nearly twenty-feet from the ground; while the space underneath had become strewn with twigs, leaves, and broken branches, crushed into a litter under the broad, ponderous hooves of the mammoth as he kept moving incessantly over them.

Not content with stripping the tree of its branches, the old tusker seized hold of its trunk—lapping his own trunk as far as he could around it—and commenced tugging at it, as if he had hopes of being able to drag it up by the roots.

Perceiving after trial that this feat was beyond his power, he relaxed his hold, and then set about another experiment—that of pushing down the tree with his shoulder.

Although he succeeded in causing the tree to tremble, he soon became satisfied that it stood firm enough to resist all his strength, great as it was: and under this conviction he at length desisted from the attempt.

He showed no sign, however, of any intention to leave the ground; but, on the contrary, took his stand under the tree: since the very opposite was the determination which he had formed in his mind.

Although confident that they were in security, our adventurers were anything but exultant. They saw that they were only safe for the time; and, that although their dreaded adversary might after a while withdraw and leave them free to descend, still there could be no security for the future. They had now less hope of being able to destroy this powerful enemy: as they had only one charge left for their guns, and that might not be sufficient to take away his life. The spilling of their powder by the elephant itself seemed like a piece of strategy on his part, leaving them in a sad dilemma.

Inside any house they might build, they would be no better protected against him than on the open ground: for the rogue had proved himself capable of demolishing the strongest walls they might construct; and to be out of his reach, they would be obliged to keep eternally among the tops of the trees, and lead the life of monkeys or squirrels—which would be a very disagreeable kind of existence.

Just then an idea occurred to Caspar that offered them an alternative to this unpleasant prospect of an arboreal life. He bethought him of the cave in which they had killed the bear. It could only be reached by a ladder, and would of course be inaccessible to the elephant. Once out of their present dilemma, they might seek refuge there.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

DRAWING THEIR DRINK.

The idea about the cave was a good one, and gave them some little comfort in the midst of their tribulation.

Still, it was not much; for although they would be safe enough while in the cavern, they could not accomplish anything there. The want of light would hinder them from working at the ladders; and while cutting the timber out of which to make them, and every hour that they might be engaged upon them, they would be exposed to the attacks of their implacable enemy.

The prospect was sufficiently discouraging—even with the knowledge that the cave would offer them a safe asylum to which they could retreat whenever pursued.

As the elephant remained comparatively tranquil for a length of time, these thoughts of future operations had engaged their attention. Confident in their present security, they were not troubled by the fear of any immediate danger.

Very soon, however, this confidence began to forsake them. How long were they going to be kept in the tree? That was a question that now presented itself; and as the time passed, became a source of uneasiness.

Though none of them could answer this question, yet all could understand that the siege promised to be a long one—perhaps much longer than that which had so lately been raised: for the rogue, inspired by a rage profound and implacable, exhibited in his sullen look a determination to stand his ground for an indefinite period of time. Seeing this, our adventurers once more became uneasy. Not only was their situation irksome—from the fact of their having to sit astride slender branches— but should the siege be continued, they would be subjected to that danger peculiar to all people besieged—the danger of starvation. Even at the outset all three were as hungry as wolves. They had eaten but a very light breakfast, and nothing since: for they had not found time to cook dinner. It was now late in the afternoon; and should the enemy continue there all night, they would have to go to bed supperless. Ah! to bed indeed. Perhaps there would be neither bed nor sleep that night: for how could they slumber upon those hard branches? Should they lose consciousness for a moment, they would drop off, and tumble down upon their sleepless besieger! Even should they tie themselves in the tree, to go to sleep upon such narrow couches would be out of the question.

Thus, then, they saw no prospect of either supper or sleep for that night. But there was another appetite now annoying them far worse than either hunger or longing for sleep. It was the desire to drink. The rough and varied exercise which they had been compelled to take since starting in the morning—climbing trees, and skulking through pathless jungles—combined with the varied emotions which their repeated perils had called up—all had a tendency to produce thirst; and thirst they now felt in an extreme degree. It was not lessened by the sight of the water shining beneath them. On the contrary, this only increased the craving to an extent that was almost unendurable.

For a considerable time they bore the pain, without any hope of being able to get relieved of it; and with the lake glistening before their eyes under the clear sunlight, and the current gently gliding through the straits underneath, they could realise, in something more than fancy, what must have been the terrible sufferings of poor Tantalus.

After submitting to this infliction for a considerable length of time, an exclamation escaping from Caspar drew upon him the attention of the others.

"Dunder und blitzen!" cried he; "what have we been thinking about all this time? The three of us sitting here choking with thirst, and a river of water within our reach!"

"Within our reach? I wish it were, Caspar," rejoined Karl, in rather a desponding tone.

"Certainly it is within our reach. Look here!"

As Caspar spoke, he held out his copper powder-flask, now nearly empty. Karl did not yet quite comprehend him.

"What is to hinder us from letting this down," he inquired, "and drawing it up again full of water? Nothing. Have you a piece of string about you, Ossy?"

"Yes, sahib, I have," briskly replied the shikaree, at the same time drawing a roll of hempen twist out of the breast of his cotton shirt, and holding it out towards the young hunter.

"Long enough, it is," said Caspar, taking the cord; which the next moment he attached around the neck of the flask. After pouring the powder into his bullet-pouch, he permitted the flask to drop down till it became immersed under the current. Allowing it to remain there, till it had become filled with water, he drew it up again; and with a congratulatory exclamation presented it to Karl, telling him to drink to his heart's content. This injunction Karl obeyed without the slightest reluctance.

The flask was soon emptied; and once more let down and re-filled, and again emptied; and this series of operations was continued, until all were satisfied, and there was no longer a thirsty individual in the top of that tree.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A GIGANTIC SYRINGE.

Having by Caspar's ingenious artifice obtained as much water as they wanted, the besieged felt better able to endure their irksome situation. They were resigning themselves with as much philosophy as they could command to bear it a little longer, when to their great astonishment they were treated to more water than they wanted, and from a source as curious as was unexpected.

Whether the elephant had taken a hint from seeing the flask plunged down into the water, or whether the idea had occurred to it without being suggested by anything in particular, it would be difficult to say. Certain it is, that just after the last flask-full had been pulled up, and before the eddying ripples had subsided from the surface, the rogue was seen to make a rush into the water, at the same time deeply submerging his proboscis, as if about to take a drink.

For some moments he remained in a stationary attitude, apparently filling his capacious stomach with the fluid.

There was no reason why he should not be as thirsty as themselves; and the spectators in the tree had no other thought, than that the great quadruped had waded into the pool simply for the purpose of quenching his thirst.

There was something about his movements, however, and the style in which he had set about sucking up the water, which betrayed a different determination; and it was not long before this was evinced by a performance which, under other circumstances, might have evoked laughter from those who witnessed it. In this instance, however, the spectators were themselves the victims of the joke—if joke it might be termed—and during its continuance, not one of the three felt the slightest inclination to indulge in mirth. It was thus that the elephant acted:—

Having filled its trunk with the water of the stream, it raised it aloft. Then pointing it towards the tree, and even directing it with as much coolness and precision as an astronomer would have used in adjusting his telescope, it sent the fluid in a drenching stream into the faces of the three individuals whom it was holding in siege. All three, who chanced to be sitting close together, were at the same instant, and alike, the victims of this unexpected deluge; and before any of them could have counted half a score, they were wet from head to foot, every rag upon their backs, and fronts too, becoming as thoroughly saturated as if they had been exposed for hours to a drenching rain storm!

But the elephant was not satisfied with giving them a single shower-bath. As soon as its first supply was exhausted, it once more immersed its pliant sucker, re-filled the reservoir, took a good aim, and ejected the fluid into their faces.

In this way the creature continued drawing up the water from the stream, and squirting it from its vast muscular syringe, until it had douched them nearly a dozen times.

Their situation was anything but enviable; for the watery stream, propelled against them with as much force as from the hose-pipe of a fire-engine, almost washed them from their unstable seats; to say nothing of the great discomfort which the douche occasioned them.

It would be difficult to guess what could be the object of the elephant in this curious performance. Perhaps it may have conceived a hope either of driving them out of the tree, or forcibly washing them from the branches; or perhaps it merely designed to make their situation as uncomfortable as possible, and thus to some extent satisfy its spite.

It would be equally difficult to tell how long the performance might have lasted. Perhaps for hours longer—since the supply of water was inexhaustible; but it was brought to a conclusion which neither the great pachyderm himself foresaw, nor they who were the subjects of his aqueous dispensation.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

SWALLOWED WHOLESALE.

Just while it was in the midst of its performance, keeping its water-battery in full play, and apparently with malicious enjoyment, it was seen all at once to desist; and then its huge body commenced rocking from side to side, one shoulder now upheaving, then the other, while the long trunk was swept in circles through the air, at the same time emitting, instead of water, shrill sounds that proclaimed either pain or terror.

What could it mean? The quadruped was evidently smitten with some sudden fear; but who and what was the enemy it dreaded? So mentally inquired Karl and Caspar; but before either had time to shape his thought into an interrogative speech, the shikaree had answered it.

"He-ho!" he exclaimed. "Goot! vair goot!—praise to the God of the Great Gangee! See, sahibs, the rogue he go down, down—he sinkee in de quicksand that near swalley Ossaroo; he-ho; sinkee! he sinkee!"

Karl and Caspar easily comprehended the meaning of Ossaroo's broken but exultant speeches. Bending their eyes on the brute below, and watching its movements, they at once perceived that the shikaree had spoken the truth. The elephant was evidently sinking in the quicksand!

They had noticed that when it first entered the bed of the stream, the water had not reached far above its knees. Now it was up to its sides, and slowly but gradually rising higher. Its violent struggles, moreover—the partial and alternate raising of its shoulders, its excited shrieks—and the proboscis, rapidly extended now to this side, now to that, as if searching to grasp some support—all proved the truth of Ossaroo's assertion—the rogue was sinking in the quicksand. And rapidly was the creature going down. Before the spectators had been watching it five minutes, the water lapped up nearly to the level of its back, and then inch by inch, and foot by foot, it rose higher, until the round shoulders were submerged, and only the head and its long trumpet-like extension appeared above the surface.

Soon the shoulders ceased to play; and the vast body exhibited no other motion, save that gentle descent by which it was being drawn down into the bowels of the earth!

The trunk still kept up its vibratory movement, now violently beating the water into foam, and now feebly oscillating, all the while breathing forth its accents of agony.

At length the upturned head and smooth protuberant jaws sank beneath the surface; and only the proboscis appeared, standing erect out of the water like a gigantic Bologna sausage. It had ceased to give out the shrill trumpet scream; but a loud breathing could still be heard, interrupted at intervals by a gurgling sound.

Karl and Caspar kept their seats upon the tree, looking down upon the strange scene with feelings of awe depicted in their faces. Not so the shikaree, who was no longer aloft. As soon as he had seen the elephant fairly locked in the deadly embrace of that quicksand that had so nearly engulfed his own precious person, he lowered himself nimbly down from the branches.

For some moments he stood upon the bank, watching the futile efforts which the animal was making to free itself, all the while talking to it, and taunting it with spiteful speeches—for Ossaroo had been particularly indignant at the loss of his skirt. When at length the last twelve inches of the elephant's trunk was all that remained above the surface, the shikaree could hold back no longer. Drawing his long knife, he rushed out into the water; and, with one clean cut, severed the muscular mass from its supporting stem, as a sickle would have levelled some soft succulent weed.

The parted tube sank instantly to the bottom; a few red bubbles rose to the surface; and these were the last tokens that proclaimed the exit of that great elephant from the surface of the earth. It had gone down into the deep sands, there to become fossilised—perhaps after the lapse of many ages to be turned up again by the spade and pick-axe of some wondering quarry-man.

Thus by a singular accident were our adventurers disembarrassed of a disagreeable neighbour—or rather, a dangerous enemy—so dangerous, indeed, that had not some chance of the kind turned up in their favour, it is difficult to conjecture how they would have got rid of it. It was no longer a question of pouring bullets into its body, and killing it in that way. The spilling of their powder had spoiled that project; and the three charges that still remained to them might not have been sufficient with guns of so small a calibre as theirs.

No doubt in time such gallant hunters as Caspar and Ossaroo, and so ingenious a contriver as Karl, would have devised some way to circumvent the rogue, and make an end of him; but for all that they were very well pleased at the strange circumstance that had relieved them of the necessity, and they congratulated themselves on such a fortunate result.

On hearing them talking together, and perceiving that they were no longer in the tree, Fritz, who had all this while been skulking only a few paces from the spot, now emerged from his hiding-place, and came running up. Little did Fritz suspect, while swimming across the straits to rejoin his masters, that the huge quadruped which had so frequently given him chase was at that moment so very near him; and that his own claws, while cutting the water, came within an inch of scratching that terrible trunk, now truncated to a frustrum of its former self!

But although Fritz had no knowledge of strange incident that had occurred during his absence—and may have been wondering in what direction the enemy had gone off—while swimming across the straits, the red colour of the water at a particular place, or more likely the scent of blood upon it, admonished him that some sanguinary scene had transpired; and drew from him a series of excited yelps as he buoyantly breasted the wave.

Fritz came in for a share of the congratulations. Although the faithful creature had retreated on each occasion of his being attacked, no one thought of casting a slur upon his canine courage. He had only exhibited a wise discretion: for what chance would he have stood against such a formidable adversary? He had done better, therefore, by taking to his heels; for had he foolishly stood his ground, and got killed in the first encounter by the obelisk, the elephant might still have been alive, and besieging them in the tree. Besides, it was Fritz who had sounded the first note of warning, and thus given time to prepare for the reception of the assailant.

All of the party regarded Fritz as worthy of reward; and Ossaroo had made up his mind that he should have it, in the shape of a dinner upon elephant's trunk. But in wading back into the stream, the shikaree perceived to his chagrin that the brave dog must be disappointed: since the piece which he had so skilfully lopped off, had followed the fortunes of the part from which it had been severed, and was now far below the surface of the sand!

Ossaroo made no attempt to dig it up again. He had a wholesome dread of that treacherous footing; and treading it gingerly, he lost no time in returning to the bank, and following the sahibs—who had already taken their departure from the water's edge, and were proceeding in the direction of the ruined hut.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE DEODAR.

The idea that had occurred to them—of making the cave their home—was no longer deemed worthy of being entertained. The dangerous proximity of the elephant had alone suggested it; and this no longer existed. It was not likely that there was another rogue in the valley. Indeed, Ossaroo was able to set their minds at rest on this point—assuring them that two animals of the kind are never found occupying the same district: since two creatures of such malignant dispositions would certainly enact the tragedy of the Kilkenny cats—though Ossaroo did not illustrate his meaning by quoting this celebrated expression.

Possibly there might be other animals in the neighbourhood as much to be dreaded as the elephant had been. There might be panthers, or leopards, or tigers, or even another bear; but against any of these the cave would be no safe asylum—not safer than their old hut. They could reconstruct it more strongly than ever; and put a stout door upon it to keep out any midnight intruder; and to this work did they apply themselves as soon as they had eaten dinner, and dried their garments—so thoroughly saturated by the colossal syringe of the defunct elephant.

Several days were spent in restoring the hovel—this time with considerable improvements. The winter weather had now fairly set in; and household warmth had become an important object: so that not only did they fill up the chinks with a thick coating of clay, but a fireplace and chimney were constructed, and a strong door was added.

They knew that it would take them a long time to make the ladders—more than a dozen long ladders—each of which must be light as a reed and straight as an arrow.

During the milder days of winter they might work in the open air; indeed, the greater part of their work they must needs do outside the hut. Still it would be necessary to have shelter not only during the nights, but in times of storm and severe weather.

Prudence therefore counselled them to providence; and before proceeding farther with their design of scaling the cliff, they made all snug within doors.

They had no fear of suffering from the winter's cold—either for want of clothing by day, or covering by night. Some of the yak-skins were still in good preservation—with the pelts of several other animals that had fallen before the double-barrel of Caspar—and these would suffice for warm clothing by day and bed-covering by night.

About their winter's food they were a little more anxious. The elephant had succeeded not only in destroying their means of obtaining provisions, but had also damaged the stock which was on hand, by trampling it in the mud. Those portions of the dried venison and yak-beef that the brute had not succeeded in completely spoiling, were once more collected, and stored in a safe place; while it was resolved, in the event of their not being able to procure more, that they should go on rations proportioned to the time which they might have to continue in their rock-bound prison. Of course, though their ammunition was exhausted, they were not without hopes of being able to add to their store of provisions. The arrows of Ossaroo still existed, independent of either powder or lead. Snares and traps would enable them to capture many of the wild creatures that, like themselves, appeared to have found a prison in that secluded and singular valley.

When all the arrangements regarding their winter residence were completed, they returned once more to the survey of the cliffs, which had been interrupted by the elephant.

After a prolonged examination of the ledges, that had been discovered on that eventful day, they continued on until they had made the circuit of the valley. Not a foot of the precipice was passed without the most elaborate inspection being bestowed upon it; and of course the twin cliffs which hemmed in the gorge of the glacier were examined with the rest.

There proved to be no place offering such advantages for an ascent by ladders as that already discovered; and although there was no positive certainty that they might be able to accomplish their formidable task, they determined to make a trial, and without further delay set about preparing the ladders.

The preliminary step was to select and cut down a sufficient quantity of timber of the right length. They were about to have recourse to the beautiful Thibet pine—the sort which had served them for bridging the crevasse—when a new tree was discovered by them, equally beautiful, and more suitable for their purpose. It was the cedar (Pinus deodara). Ossaroo once more lamented the absence of his beloved bamboos—alleging that with a sufficient number of these he could have made ladders enough for scaling the cliff, in less than a quarter of the time it would take to construct them out of the pines. This was no exaggeration: for the culm of the great bamboo, just as it is cut out of the brake, serves for the side of a ladder, without any pains taken with it, further than to notch out the holes in which to insert the rounds. Moreover, the bamboo being light, would have served better than any other timber for such ladders as they required—enabling them with less trouble to get them hoisted up to the ledges—an operation in which they apprehended no little difficulty. But although there was a species of cane growing in the valley—that known to the hill people as the "ringall"—its culms were neither of sufficient length nor thickness for their purpose. It was the great bamboo of the tropical jungles that Ossaroo sighed for; and which on their way up through the lower ranges of the Himalayas they had seen growing in vast brakes, its tall stems often rising to the height of a hundred feet.

The deodar, under favourable circumstances, attains to vast dimensions, trunks being often met with in the mountains upwards of ten feet in diameter, and rising to the height of one hundred feet. A few sticks of this description would have made their labour both short and easy.

Failing the bamboo, therefore, they selected the second best material which the forest afforded them—the tall "deodar." This tree, which is known to the Anglo-Indian residents of the Himalayan countries as the "cedar," has long since been introduced into English parks and arboretums, under the name of deodara—its specific botanical appellation. It is a true pine and is found in most of the hills and valleys of the Himalayan chain, growing at almost any elevation and on any kind of ground—in the low warm valleys, as well as near the line of everlasting snow. Its favourite habitat, however, is on the lower hills, and though by no means a beautiful tree, it is valuable on account of the great quantity of tar which can be extracted from its sap.

Where many deodar trees are growing together, they shoot up in long tapering shafts, with short branches, and present the acute conical form characteristic of the pines. When individual trees stand singly, or at some considerable distance apart, their habit is different. They then stretch out long massive arms in a horizontal direction; and as the separate twigs and leaves also extend horizontally, each branch thus presents a surface as level as a table. The deodar often reaches the height of one hundred feet.

The wood of the deodar is everywhere esteemed throughout the countries where it is found. It is excellent for building purposes, easily worked, almost imperishable, and can be readily split into planks—an indispensable requisite in a country where saws are almost unknown. In Cashmere, bridges are built of it: and the long time that some of these have been standing, affords a proof of its great durability. A portion of these bridges are under water for more than half the year; and although there are some of them nearly a hundred years old, they are still in good preservation, and safe enough to be crossed.

When the deodar is subjected to the process by which tar is extracted from other pines, it yields a much thinner liquid than tar—of a dark red colour, and very pungent smell. This liquid is known as "cedar oil;" and is used by the hill people as a remedy for skin diseases—as also for all scrofulous complaints in cattle.

The deodar is of very slow growth; and this unfits it for being introduced into European countries—except as an ornamental timber for parks and pleasure grounds.

It was chiefly on account of its property of being easily split into planks, or pieces of light scantling, that the deodar was selected for making the sides of the ladders. To have cut down the trunks of heavy trees to the proper thickness for light ladders—with such imperfect implements as they were possessed of—would have been an interminable work for our inexperienced carpenters. The little axe of Ossaroo and the knives were the only tools they possessed available for the work. As the deodar could be split with wedges, it was just the timber wanted under these circumstances.

While engaged in "prospecting" among the deodar trees, a pine of another species came under the observation of our adventurers. It was that known as the "cheel."

It might have been seen by them without attracting any particular notice, but for Karl; who, upon examining its leaves, and submitting them to a botanical test, discovered that within the body of the "cheel" there existed qualities that, in the circumstances in which they were placed, would be of great value to them. Karl knew that the "cheel" was one of those pines, the wood of which, being full of turpentine, make most excellent torches; and he had read, that for this very purpose it is used by all classes of people who dwell among the Himalaya mountains, and who find in these torches a very capital substitute for candles or lamps. Karl could also have told his companions, that the turpentine itself—which oozes out of the living tree—is used by the people as an ointment for sores—and that for chapped hands it is a speedy and effectual cure. The "cheel" pine is nearly always found side by side with the deodar—especially where the latter forms the chief growth of the forest.

Karl could also have informed them that the deodar and the cheel are not, the only pines indigenous to the Himalayas. He could have mentioned several other species, as the "morenda," a large and handsome tree, with very dark foliage, and one of the tallest of the coniferae—often rising to the stupendous height of two hundred feet; the "rye" pine, of almost equal height with the morenda, and perhaps even more ornamental; and the "Kolin," or common pine, which forms extensive forests, upon the ridges that rise from six to nine thousand feet above sea-level. The last thrives best in a dry, rocky soil and it is surprising in what places it will take root and grow. In the perpendicular face of a smooth granite rock, large trees of this species may be seen. In the rock there exists a little crevice. Into this a seed in some manner finds its way, vegetates, and in time becomes a great tree—flourishing perhaps for centuries, where, to all appearance, there is not a particle of soil to nourish it, and probably deriving sustenance from the rock itself!

It was with no slight gratification that Karl beheld the "cheel" growing so near. He knew that from it they would obtain brilliant torches—as many as they might stand in need of; so that during the dark nights, instead of sitting idle for the want of light, they could occupy themselves till a late hour within the hovel, in making the "rounds" of the ladders, and doing such other little "chores" as the occasion might require.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE SCALING LADDERS.

The cutting down of the trees did not occupy them a very long time. They chose only those of slender girth—the more slender the better, so long as they answered the requirements as to length. Trees of about fifty feet in total height were the best: as these, when the weaker part of the tops was cut off, yielded lengths of thirty or more feet. Where they were only a few inches in diameter, there was very little trouble in reducing them to the proper size for the sides of the ladders—only to strip off the bark and split them in twain.

Making the rounds was also an easy operation—except that it required considerable time, as there were so many of them.

The most difficult part of the work—and this they had foreseen—would be the drilling of the holes to receive the rounds; and it was the task which proved the most dilatory—taking up more time in its accomplishment than both the cutting of the timber, and reducing it to its proper shapes and dimensions.

Had they owned an auger or a mortising chisel, or even a good gimlet, the thing would have been easy enough. Easier still had they possessed a "breast bit." But of course not any of these tools could be obtained; nor any other by which a hole might be bored big enough to have admitted the points of their little fingers. Hundreds of holes would be needed; and how were they to be made? With the blades of their small knives it would have been possible to scoop out a cavity—that is, with much trouble and waste of time; but vast time and trouble would it take to scoop out four hundred; and at least that number would be needed. It would be a tedious task and almost interminable, even supposing that it could be accomplished; but this was doubtful enough. The blades of the knives might be worn or broken, long before the necessary number of holes could be made.

Of course, had they been possessed of a sufficient number of nails, they might have done without holes. The steps of the ladders could have been nailed upon the sides, instead of being mortised into them. But nails were a commodity quite as scarce with them as tools. With the exception of those in the soles of their shoes, or the stocks of their guns, there was not a nail in the valley.

It is not to be denied that they were in a dilemma. But Karl had foreseen this difficulty, and provided against it before a stick of timber had been cut. Indeed, close following on the first conception of the scaling ladders, this matter had passed through his mind, and had been settled to his satisfaction. Only theoretically, it is true; but his theory was afterwards reduced to practice; and, unlike many other theories, the practice proved in correspondence with it.

Karl's theory was to make the holes by fire—in other words, to bore them with a red-hot iron.

Where was this iron to be obtained? That appeared to offer a difficulty, as great as the absence of an auger or a mortise-chisel. But by Karl's ingenuity it was also got over. He chanced to have a small pocket pistol: it was single-barrelled, the barrel being about six inches in length, without any thimbles, beading, or ramrod attached to it. What Karl intended to do, then, was to heat this barrel red-hot, and make a boring-iron of it. And this was exactly what he did do; and after heating it some hundreds of times, and applying it as often to the sides of the different ladders, he at last succeeded in burning out as many holes as there were rounds to go into them, multiplied exactly by two.

It is needless to say that this wonderful boring operation was not accomplished at a single "spell," nor yet in a single day. On the contrary, it took Karl many an hour and many a day, and cost him many a wet skin—by perspiration, I mean—before he had completed the boring of those four hundred holes. Numerous were the tears drawn from the eyes of the plant-hunter—not by grief, but by the smoke of the seething cedar wood.

When Karl had finished the peculiar task he had thus assigned to himself, but little more remained to be done—only to set each pair of sides together, stick in the rounds, bind fast at each end, and there was a ladder finished and ready to be scaled.

One by one they were thus turned off; and one by one earned to the foot of the cliff, up which the ascent was to be attempted.

Sad are we to say that it was still only an attempt; and sadder yet that that attempt proved a failure.

One by one were the ladders raised to their respective ledges—until three-fourths of the cliff had been successfully scaled. Here, alas! was their climbing brought to a conclusion, by a circumstance up to this time unforeseen. On reaching one of the ledges—the fourth from the top of the cliff—they found, to their chagrin, that the rock above it, instead of receding a little, as with all the others, hung over— projecting several inches beyond the outer line of the ledge. Against that rock no ladder could have been set; none would have rested there— since it could not be placed even perpendicularly. There was no attempt made to take one up. Though the projection could not be discerned from below, Karl, standing on the topmost round of the last ladder that had been planted, saw at once, with the eye of an engineer, that the difficulty was insurmountable. It would be as easy for them to fly, is to stand a ladder upon that ill-starred ledge; and with this conviction fully impressed upon his mind, the young plant-hunter returned slowly and sorrowfully to the ground to communicate the disagreeable intelligence to his companions.

It was no use for either Caspar or Ossaroo to go up again. They had been on the ledge already; and had arrived at the same conviction. Karl's report was final and conclusive.

All their ingenuity defeated—all their toil gone for nothing—their time wasted—their hopes blighted—the bright sky of their future once more obscured with darkest clouds—all through that unforeseen circumstance.

Just as when they returned out of the cavern—after that patient but fruitless search—just as then, sate they down upon the rocks—each staggering to that which was nearest him—sad, dispirited, forlorn.

There sate they, with eyes now fixed upon the ground, now turning towards the cliff and gazing mechanically upon that serried line, like the stairway of some gigantic spider—those long ladders, planted with so much pains, climbed only once, and never to be climbed again!



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AN EMPTY LARDER.

Long sat they in this attitude, all three, observing a profound silence. The air was keenly cold, for it was now mid-winter, but none of them seemed to feel the cold. The deep disappointment, the bitter chagrin that filled their minds, hindered them from perceiving bodily pain; and at that moment had an avalanche threatened to slide down upon them from the snowy summit above, not one of the three would have much cared to escape out of its way.

So tired had they become of their aerial prison—so terrified by the prospect of its continuing for ever—or at least as long as they might live—they could have contemplated even death without additional terror.

The straw, to which they had so long and so fondly clung, was snatched from their grasp. Again were they drowning.

For nearly an hour sat they thus, moody and desponding. The purple-coloured tints, that began to play over the surface of the eternal snows above, admonished them that the sun was far down in the heavens, and that night was approaching.

Karl was the first to become conscious of this—the first to break silence.

"Oh, brothers!" said he, under the impress of their common misfortune including Ossaroo in the fraternal appellation. "Come away! It is useless to stay longer here. Let us go home!"

"Home!" repeated Caspar, with a melancholy smile. "Ah! Karl, I wish you had not spoken the word. So sweet at other times, it now rings in my ears like some unearthly echo. Home, indeed! Alas, dear brother! we shall ne'er go home."

To this pathetic speech Karl made no reply. He could offer no word of hope or consolation; and therefore remained silent. He had already risen to his feet—the others following his example—and all three walked moodily away from the spot, taking the most direct route towards their rude dwelling, which now more than ever they had reason to regard as their home.

On reaching the hut they found still another cause of inquietude. Their stock of provisions, which had survived the destructive onset of the elephant, had been economised with great care. But as they had been too busy in making the ladders to waste time on any other species of industry, nothing had been added to the larder—neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. On the contrary, it had dwindled down, until upon that clay when they issued forth to try their ladders against the cliff, they had left behind them only a single piece of dried yak-beef—about enough to have furnished them with a single meal.

Hungry after the day's fruitless exertion, they were contemplating a supper upon it, and not without some degree of pleasant anticipation: for nature under all circumstances will assert her rights, and the cravings of appetite are not to be stifled even by the most anguished suffering of the spirit.

As they drew nearer to the hut, but more especially when they came in sight of it, and perceived its rude but hospitable doorway open to receive them—as from the chill atmosphere through which they were passing they beheld its sheltering roof of thatch, and thought of its snug, cosy interior—as, keenly experiencing the pangs both of cold and hunger, they beheld in fancy a bright faggot fire crackling upon the hearth, and heard the yak-beef hissing and sputtering in the blaze, their spirits began to return to their natural condition, and if not actual joy, something that very much resembled cheerfulness might have been observed in the demeanour of all.

It is ever thus with the mind of man, and perhaps fortunate that it is so. The human soul finds its type in the sky—cloud and sunshine, sunshine and cloud.

With our adventurers the dark cloud had for the moment passed; and a gleam of light was once more shining upon their hearts.

It was not destined to shine long. A light had been struck, and a fire kindled that soon blazed brightly. So far one desire had been satisfied. They could warm themselves. But when they came to think of gratifying an appetite of a far more craving character—when they essayed to search for that piece of yak flesh that was to furnish forth their supper—they found it not!

During their absence, the burglar had also been abroad. Their larder had been assailed. The hung beef was hanging there no longer.

Some wild animal—wolf, panther, or other predatory creature—had entered by the open doorway,—left open in the excitement of that hopeful departure—found open upon their return—but, like the door of that oft-quoted stable, not worth shutting, since the steed had been stolen.

Not a morsel, not a mouthful remained—either of yak-beef or food of any other kind—and all three, Fritz making the fourth, had to go supperless to sleep.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

GOING ABROAD FOR BREAKFAST.

The exertions which they had made in carrying and erecting the ladders had so wearied them, that, despite their empty stomachs, all three were able to sleep. Their slumber, however, was neither profound nor prolonged; and one and another of them awoke at intervals during the night and lay awake, reflecting upon the miserable fate that had befallen them, and the poor prospects now before them.

They were even without the ordinary consolation of knowing that they might find something to eat in the morning. Before they could have any breakfast, they knew they would first have to find it in the forest. They would have to search, find, and kill, before they could eat.

But they had reason now not only to be in doubt about procuring their breakfast, but their dinner and supper—in short, their whole future subsistence. Circumstances had become changed. The larder, hitherto amply provided by Caspar's hunting skill, was now quite empty; and although he could soon have replenished it had their ammunition not been destroyed, it was now quite a different thing. Caspar's power was gone along with his powder; and the deer and other quadrupeds, which were known to be yet numerous in the valley—to say nothing of the winged creatures that frequented it, could now smile at any attempt on the part of Caspar to trouble them any longer with his double-barrelled detonator. The gun would hereafter be as useless as a bar of iron.

Only one charge of powder for each barrel remained, and one more for Karl's rifle. When these three should be fired off, not another shot might ever again be heard ringing through that silent valley, and waking the echoes of the surrounding cliffs.

But it had not yet entered their minds that they might be unable to kill any of the wild animals with which the place abounded. Had they thought so, they would have been unhappy indeed—perhaps so anxious as not to have slept another wink for that night. But they did not yet contemplate the future so despondingly. They hoped that, even without their guns, they would still be enabled to procure sufficient game for their support; and as they all lay awake, just before the breaking of the day, this became the subject of their conversation.

Ossaroo still felt full confidence in his bow and arrows; and should these fail, there was his fishing-net; and if that also were to draw blank, the experienced shikaree knew a score of other schemes for circumventing the beasts of the earth, the birds of the air, and the finny denizens of the water. Karl expressed his determination, as soon as spring should return, to commence cultivating certain edible roots and plants, which grew rather sparsely around, but, by the careful propagation of which, a crop might be procured of sufficient abundance. Moreover, they resolved that in the following year they should store up such wild fruits and berries as were fit for food; and thus insure themselves against any chance of famine for months to come. The failure of their late attempt with the ladders had reproduced within them the firm though fearful conviction, that for the rest of their lives they were destined to dwell within the mountain valley—never more to go beyond the bounds of that stupendous prison-like wall that encircled them.

With this impression now freshly stamped upon their minds, they returned to speculate on the means of present existence, as also on that of their more immediate future; and in this way did they pass the last hour of the night—that which was succeeded by the daybreak.

As the first streaks of dawning day appeared upon the snowy summits— several of which were visible from the door of the hut—all three might have been seen outside preparing themselves for the execution of some important design. Their purpose might easily be told from the character of their preparations. Caspar was charging his double-barrelled gun; and carefully too—for it was the "last shot in his locker."

Karl was similarly employed with his rifle, while Ossaroo was arming himself in his peculiar fashion, looking to the string of his bow, and filling the little wicker bag, that constituted his quiver, with sharp-pointed arrows.

From this it was evident that the chase was the occupation immediately intended, and that all three were about to engage in it. In truth, they were going out in search of something for their breakfast; and if a keen appetite could ensure success, they could scarce fail in procuring it: for they were all three as hungry as wolves.

Fritz, too, was as hungry as any of them; and looked as if he meant to do his best in helping them to procure the material for a meal. Any creature, beast or bird, that should be so unfortunate as to come within clutching distance of his gaunt jaws, would have but little chance on that particular morning of escaping from them.

It had been resolved upon that they should go in different directions: as by that means there would be three chances of finding game instead of one; and as something was wanted for breakfast, the sooner it could be procured the better. If Ossaroo should succeed in killing anything with his arrows, he was to give a shrill whistle to call the others back to the hut; while if either of them should fire, of course the shot would be heard, and that would be the signal for all to return.

With this understanding, and after some little badinage about who would be the successful caterer, they all set forth, Caspar going to the right, Ossaroo to the left, and Karl, followed by Fritz, taking the centre.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

CASPAR ON A STALK.

In a few minutes the three hunters had lost sight of one another, Karl and Caspar proceeding round the lake by opposite sides, but both keeping under cover of the bushes; while Ossaroo wended his way along the bottom of the cliff—thinking he might have a better chance in that direction.

The game which Caspar expected first might fall in his way was the "kakur," or barking-deer. These little animals appeared to be more numerous in the valley than any other creatures. Caspar had scarcely ever been abroad upon a shooting excursion without seeing one; and on several occasions a kakur had constituted his whole "bag." He had learnt an ingenious way of bringing them within range of his gun—simply by placing himself in ambush and imitating their call; which, as may be deduced from one of their common names, is a sort of bark. It is a sound very much resembling the bark of a fox, only that it is much louder. This the kakur sends forth, whenever it suspects the presence of an enemy in its neighbourhood; and keeps repeating it at short intervals, until it believes either that the danger has been withdrawn, or withdraws itself from the danger.

The simple little ruminant does not seem to be aware that this sound— perhaps intended as a note of warning to its companions—too often becomes its own death-signal, by betraying its whereabouts to the sportsman or other deadly enemy. Not only the hunter, man, but the tiger, the leopard, the cheetah, and other predatory creatures, take advantage of this foolish habit of the barking-deer; and stealing upon it unawares, make it their victim.

The bark is very easily imitated by the human voice; and after a single lesson, with Ossaroo as instructor, not only could Caspar do the decoy to a nicety, but even Karl, who only overheard the shikaree instructing his pupil, was able to produce a sound precisely similar.

Present hunger prompted Caspar to go in search of the kakur, as that would be the game most likely to turn up first. There were other quadrupeds, and some birds too, whose flesh would have served better, as being of superior delicacy: for the venison of the barking-deer is none of the sweetest. In the autumn it is not bad—nor up to a late period in the winter—though it is never very delicious at any season.

On that morning, however, Caspar was not at all fastidious; and he knew that neither were the others—hunger having robbed them of all delicacy of appetite. Even kakur venison would be palatable enough, could he procure it; and for this purpose was he going in a particular direction, and not wandering hither and thither, as sportsmen usually do when in search of game.

He knew of a spot where kakur were almost sure of being found. It was a pretty glade, surrounded by thick evergreen shrubbery—not far from the edge of the lake, and on the side opposite to that where the hut was built.

Caspar had never entered this glade—and he had gone through it several times—without seeing kakur browsing upon the grassy turf, or lying in the shade of the bushes that grew around its edge. It was but fair to presume, therefore, that on that morning, as upon others, the glade would furnish him with this species of game.

Without making stop anywhere else, he walked on till he had got within a few rods of the spot where he expected to procure the materials of the breakfast; and then, entering among the underwood, he advanced more slowly and with greater caution. To ensure success, he even dropped upon his knees, and crawled cat-like, using his arms as forelegs and his hands as paws! After this fashion he worked his way forward to the edge of the opening—all the while keeping a thick leafy bush before his body to screen himself from the eyes of any creature—kakur or other animal— that might be within the glade.

On getting close up behind the bush, he came to a halt; and then, cautiously raising his shoulders, he peeped through between the leafy branches.

It took him some seconds of time to survey the whole surface of the glade; but when he had finished his scrutiny, a shadow of disappointment might have been seen passing over his countenance. There was no game there—neither kakur nor animals of any other kind.

Not without a certain feeling of chagrin did the young hunter perceive that the opening was empty: for, to say nothing of the annoyance he felt on not being able to procure a joint of venison for breakfast, he had been flattering himself that, from his superior knowledge of the ground, he would be the first to find the material for their matutinal meal— about which he had some little feeling of hunter-pride and rivalry.

He did not permit this preliminary disappointment to rob him of all hope. If there were no kakur within the glade, there might be some in the bushes near its edge; and perhaps, by adopting the decoy he had several times already practised—that of imitating their call—he might entice one out into the open ground.

Acting upon this idea, he squatted close behind the bush, and commenced barking, as near as he could, a la kakur.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE DOUBLE DECOY.

It was some considerable time before he heard any response to cheer him, or observed any sign that indicated the presence or proximity of an animal.

He repeated his bark many times, with intervals of silence between—and was about yielding to the conviction, that not only the open ground, but the bushes around it, were going to draw blank.

He had uttered his last bark, with all the alluring intonation that he could throw into the sound; and was about starting to his feet to proceed elsewhere, when just then the real cry of the kakur responded to his feigned one—apparently coming from out the thicket on the opposite side of the glade.

The sound was heard only faintly, as if the animal was at a great distance off; but Caspar knew that if it was a response to his call— which he believed it to be—it would soon draw nearer. He lost no time, therefore, in giving utterance to a fresh series of barks of the most seductive character; and then once more strained his ears to listen for the reply.

Again the barks of the kakur came back upon the breeze—repeated serially, and so resembling his own, that had Caspar not known that they proceeded from the throat of a deer, he might have fancied them to be echoes. He did not allow many seconds to elapse before barking again, and again, with an equal straining at allurement.

This time, to the surprise of the young hunter, there was no response. He listened, but not a sound came back—not even an echo.

He barked again, and again listened. As before, silence profound, unbroken.

No—it was not unbroken. Although it was not the call of the kakur, another sound interrupted the stillness—a sound equally welcome to the ear of the young hunter. It was a rustling among the leaves on the opposite side of the glade; just such as might indicate the passage of an animal through the bushes.

Directing his eye towards the spot where the sound appeared to proceed, Caspar saw, or fancied he saw, some twigs in motion. But it was no fancy: for the moment after he not only saw the twigs move, but behind the bush to which they belonged he could just make out a darkish-coloured object. It could be nothing else than the body of the kakur. Although it was very near—for the glade was scarce twenty yards across, and the deer was directly behind the line of low shrubs which formed a sort of selvedge around it—Caspar could not get a good view of the animal. It was well screened by the foliage, and better perhaps by the absence of a bright light: for it was yet only the grey twilight of morning. There was light enough, however, to take aim; and as the intervening branches were only tiny twigs, Caspar had no fear that they would interfere with the direction of his ballet. There was no reason, therefore, why he should delay longer. He might not get a better chance; and if he waited longer, or barked again, the kakur might discover the decoy, and run back into the bushes.

"Here goes, then!" muttered Caspar to himself; at the same time placing himself firmly on one knee, raising his gun and cocking it.

It was a splendid lock—that upon the right-hand barrel of Caspar's gun—one in which the cock, on being drawn to the full, gives tongue to tell that the spring is in perfect order.

In the profound stillness of the morning-air the "click" sounded clear enough to have been heard across the glade, and much further. Caspar even feared that it might be loud enough to affright the deer; and kept his eye fixed upon the latter as he drew back the cock. The animal stirred not; but instead—almost simultaneous with the click of his gun, and as if it had been its echo—another click fell upon the hunter's ear, apparently coming from the spot on which the kakur was standing!

Fortunate was it for Caspar that his own spring had clicked so clear— and fortunate also he had heard that apparent echo—else he might either have shot his brother, or his brother him, or each might have shot the other!

As it was, the second click caused Caspar to start to his feet. Karl at the same instant was seen hurriedly rising erect upon the opposite side of the glade, while both with cocked guns in their hands stood eyeing each other, like two individuals about to engage in a deadly duel of rifles!

Had any one seen them at that moment, and in that attitude, their wild looks would have given colour to the supposition that such was in reality their intent; and some time would have elapsed before any action on the part of either would have contradicted this fearful belief: for it was several seconds before either could find speech to express their mutual surprise.

It was something more than surprise—it was awe—a deep tragical emotion of indefinable terror, gradually giving way to a feeling of heartfelt thankfulness, at the fortunate chance that had made them aware of each other's presence, and saved them from a mutual fratricide.

For some seconds I have said not a word was spoken; and then only short exclamations of similar import came trembling from the lips of both. Both, as if acting under a common impulse, flung their guns to the ground. Then, rushing across the glade, they threw their arms around each other; and remained for some moments locked in a brotherly embrace.

No explanation was needed by either. Karl, after passing round the lake by the other side, had strayed by chance in the direction of the glade. On nearing it, he had heard the barking of a kakur—not dreaming that it was Caspar acting as a decoy. He had answered the signal; and finding that the kakur still kept its place, he had advanced toward the opening with the intention of stalking it. On getting nearer he had ceased to utter the call, under the belief that he should find the deer out in the open ground. Just as he arrived by its edge, Caspar was mimicking the kakur in such an admirable manner, and so energetically, that Karl could neither fail to be deceived as to the character of the animal, nor remain ignorant of its position. The darkish disc visible behind the evergreen leaves could be no other than the body of the deer; and Karl was just about cocking his rifle, to bore it with a bullet, when the click of Caspar's double-barrel sounding ominously in his ear, fortunately conducted to a far different denouement than that fatal finale which was so near having occurred.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

The signal of the Shikaree.

As if sent to cheer and distract their minds from the feeling of dread awe which still held possession of them, just then the shrill whistle of Ossaroo came pealing across the lake, reverberating in echoes from the cliff toward which he had gone. Shortly after the signal sounded again in a slightly different direction—showing that the shikaree had succeeded in bagging his game, and was returning towards the hut.

On hearing the signal, Karl and Caspar regarded each other with glances of peculiar significance.

"So, brother," said Caspar, smiling oddly as he spoke, "you see Ossaroo with his despised bow and arrows has beaten us both. What, if either of us had beaten him?"

"Or," replied Karl, "what if we had both beaten him? Ah! brother Caspar," added he, shuddering as he spoke, "how near we were to making an end of each other! It's fearful to think of it!"

"Let us think no more of it then," rejoined Caspar; "but go home at once and see what sort of a breakfast Ossy has procured for us. I wonder whether it be flesh or fowl."

"One or the other, no doubt," he continued, after a short pause. "Fowl, I fancy: for as I came round the lake I heard some oddish screaming in the direction of the cliff yonder, which was that taken by Ossaroo. It appeared to proceed from the throat of some bird; yet such I think I have never heard before."