“Well”—Ruth's voice was uncertain—“we'd been hunting up in Kashmir. Martin wanted to come over somewhere here. So we crossed the passes. That was about a month ago. The fourth day out we ran across what looked like a road running south.
“We thought we'd take it. It looked sort of old and lost—but it was going the way we wanted to go. It took us first into a country of little hills; then to the very base of the great range itself; finally into the mountains—and then it ran blank.”
“Bing!” interjected Ventnor, looking around for a moment. “Bing—just like that. Slap dash against a prodigious fall of rock. We couldn't get over it.”
“So we cast about to find another road,” went on Ruth. “All we could strike were—just strikes.”
“No fish on the end of 'em,” said Ventnor. “God! But I'm glad to see you, Walter Goodwin. Believe me, I am. However—go on, Ruth.”
“At the end of the second week,” she said, “we knew we were lost. We were deep in the heart of the range. All around us was a forest of enormous, snow-topped peaks. The gorges, the canyons, the valleys that we tried led us east and west, north and south.
“It was a maze, and in it we seemed to be going ever deeper. There was not the SLIGHTEST sign of human life. It was as though no human beings except ourselves had ever been there. Game was plentiful. We had no trouble in getting food. And sooner or later, of course, we were bound to find our way out. We didn't worry.
“It was five nights ago that we camped at the head of a lovely little valley. There was a mound that stood up like a tiny watch-tower, looking down it. The trees grew round like tall sentinels.
“We built our fire in that mound; and after we had eaten, Martin slept. I sat watching the beauty of the skies and of the shadowy vale. I heard no one approach—but something made me leap to my feet, look behind me.
“A man was standing just within the glow of firelight, watching me.”