the branches feathered with light snow, till the mother-monkeys
brought their sad-eyed little babies up from the warmer valleys
with the spring. There were few changes in the village. The
priest was older, and many of the little children who used to
come with the begging-dish sent their own children now; and when
you asked of the villagers how long their holy man had lived in
Kali's Shrine at the head of the pass, they answered, "Always."

Then came such summer rains as had not been known in the Hills
for many seasons. Through three good months the valley was
wrapped in cloud and soaking mist--steady, unrelenting downfall,
breaking off into thunder-shower after thunder-shower. Kali's
Shrine stood above the clouds, for the most part, and there was
a whole month in which the Bhagat never caught a glimpse of his
village. It was packed away under a white floor of cloud that
swayed and shifted and rolled on itself and bulged upward, but
never broke from its piers--the streaming flanks of the valley.

All that time he heard nothing but the sound of a million little
waters, overhead from the trees, and underfoot along the ground,
soaking through the pine-needles, dripping from the tongues of
draggled fern, and spouting in newly-torn muddy channels down
the slopes. Then the sun came out, and drew forth the good
incense of the deodars and the rhododendrons, and that far-off,
clean smell which the Hill people call "the smell of the snows."
The hot sunshine lasted for a week, and then the rains gathered
together for their last downpour, and the water fell in sheets
that flayed off the skin of the ground and leaped back in mud.
Purun Bhagat heaped his fire high that night, for he was sure
his brothers would need warmth; but never a beast came to the
shrine, though he called and called till he dropped asleep,
wondering what had happened in the woods.

It was in the black heart of the night, the rain drumming like a
thousand drums, that he was roused by a plucking at his blanket,
and, stretching out, felt the little hand of a langur. "It is
better here than in the trees," he said sleepily, loosening a
fold of blanket; "take it and be warm." The monkey caught his
hand and pulled hard. "Is it food, then?" said Purun Bhagat.
"Wait awhile, and I will prepare some." As he kneeled to throw
fuel on the fire the langur ran to the door of the shrine,
crooned and ran back again, plucking at the man's knee.

"What is it? What is thy trouble, Brother?" said Purun Bhagat,
for the langur's eyes were full of things that he could not
tell. "Unless one of thy caste be in a trap--and none set traps
here--I will not go into that weather. Look, Brother, even the
barasingh comes for shelter!"

The deer's antlers clashed as he strode into the shrine, clashed
against the grinning statue of Kali. He lowered them in Purun
Bhagat's direction and stamped uneasily, hissing through his
half-shut nostrils.

"Hai! Hai! Hai!" said the Bhagat, snapping his fingers, "Is THIS
payment for a night's lodging?" But the deer pushed him toward
the door, and as he did so Purun Bhagat heard the sound of
something opening with a sigh, and saw two slabs of the floor
draw away from each other, while the sticky earth below smacked
its lips.

"Now I see," said Purun Bhagat. "No blame to my brothers that
they did not sit by the fire to-night. The mountain is falling.
And yet-- why should I go?" His eye fell on the empty begging-
bowl, and his face changed. "They have given me good food daily
since--since I came, and, if I am not swift, to-morrow there
will not be one mouth in the valley. Indeed, I must go and warn
them below. Back there, Brother! Let me get to the fire."

The barasingh backed unwillingly as Purun Bhagat drove a pine
torch deep into the flame, twirling it till it was well lit.
"Ah! ye came to warn me," he said, rising. "Better than that we
shall do; better than that. Out, now, and lend me thy neck,
Brother, for I have but two feet."

He clutched the bristling withers of the barasingh with his
right hand, held the torch away with his left, and stepped out
of the shrine into the desperate night. There was no breath of
wind, but the rain nearly drowned the flare as the great deer
hurried down the slope, sliding on his haunches. As soon as they
were clear of the forest more of the Bhagat's brothers joined
them. He heard, though he could not see, the langurs pressing
about him, and behind them the uhh! uhh! of Sona. The rain
matted his long white hair into ropes; the water splashed
beneath his bare feet, and his yellow robe clung to his frail
old body, but he stepped down steadily, leaning against the
barasingh. He was no longer a holy man, but Sir Purun Dass,
K.C.I.E., Prime Minister of no small State, a man accustomed
to command, going out to save life. Down the steep, plashy path
they poured all together, the Bhagat and his brothers, down and
down till the deer's feet clicked and stumbled on the wall of a
threshing-floor, and he snorted because he smelt Man. Now they
were at the head of the one crooked village street, and the
Bhagat beat with his crutch on the barred windows of the
blacksmith's house, as his torch blazed up in the shelter of
the eaves. "Up and out!" cried Purun Bhagat; and he did not
know his own voice, for it was years since he had spoken aloud
to a man. "The hill falls! The hill is falling! Up and out, oh,
you within!"



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