They had made a record journey
up country, stopping to present no letters of introduction, which are
the thieves of time. Now, as Lewis found himself in the strait valley,
with the eternal snows where the sky should be, and sniffed the dry air
from the granite walls, he glowed with the pleasure of recollection.
The place was the same as ever. The same medley of races perambulated
the streets. Sheep-skinned Central Asians and Mongolian merchants from
Yarkand still displayed their wares and their cunning; Hunza tribesmen,
half-clad Chitralis, wild-eyed savages from Yagistan mingled in the
narrow stone streets with the civilized Persian and Turcoman from beyond
the mountains. Kashmir sepoys, an untidy race, still took their ease in
the sun, and soldiers of South India from the Imperial Service Troops
showed their odd accoutrements and queer race mixtures. The place
looked and smelled like a kind of home, and Lewis, with one eye on the
gun-cases and one on the great hills, forgot his heart-sickness and had
leisure for the plain joys of expectation.
"I am going to get to work at once," he said, when he had washed the
dust out of his eyes and throat. "I shall go and call on the Logans
this very minute, and I expect we shall see Thwaite and some of the
soldiers at the club to-night." So George, much against his will, was
compelled to don a fresh suit and suffer himself to be conducted to the
bungalow of the British Resident.
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