How it may be in the winter I know not, and perhaps no one would care to know much about it then, but to me, who was used to very reasonable weather (sometimes dull and sometimes fickle, but scarcely ever furious, and generally comprehensible), the style of this Caucasian sun, whether as he asked his way among a crowd of pinnacles, or whether as he mounted high, strong, and hot above them, or even when he meant to be compassionate and genial in looking back at his long day's work—all I can say is, that to a man of Surrey, who lives out of doors nearly all day long, and can tell you the time within half an hour, whether it be cloudy or whether it be clear, the climate was incongruous. At home, you could look up at the sky, and after making wise allowances for the way of the wind, and the manner of the clouds, and the inclination of the quicksilver, you could generally say something, which could be explained away when a little incorrect. But here the only wisdom was to shake your head, and say the developments are complicated, pressure variable and conflicting, local showers not improbable, thunder not impossible. As our Scientific Staff begins to waver, after predicting rain every day, in a drought of three months' duration.
That Saturday evening the sun went down (so far as we could get a straight look at him through such ins and outs), genial, bountiful, a great globe of good will, squandering gold upon a maiden world of snow, which it blushed to accept, and yet spread upon its breast.
"The weather at any rate is on our side," was my cheerful remark to Captain Strogue; "if we can only find those fellows, we shall be all right."
"Don't you be too sure," he said, "there may be a hurricane to-morrow."
Travelling eastward all that day, we had passed the foot of Karthlos long ago, under Usi's guidance; for to climb the steep would be waste of time, as there was no strength of men there now. Then we descended into another valley, and Usi blew upon a horn, and listened. We heard no reply, but he heard something, and led us, as the yellow light turned grey, into a hollow place with huts around it, and out rushed two enormous dogs, and behold they were Kuban and Orla!
CHAPTER LI THE ROOT OF EVIL
The amazement of those dogs at sight of me was beyond anything I ever did behold. They had seen so much of the world by this time, including a good deal of England, that they had learned to doubt all the evidence which untravelled dogs wag tail to. They pulled up suddenly, and looked at one another, with the tawny curls of their ears in a tremble, and the hackles of their necks thrown back, and every hair to the tips of their tails quivering with incredulity. Then, like a fool, I pronounced their names, and the word that brings down the avalanche would have been a wiser utterance. They flung their great frames and golden crests in one shock of delight upon my breast, like a harvest-cart dashed against the rickyard post. Luckily I expected it, but even so was glad to be backed up by a rock, and there it was impossible for me to speak, all human emotion being swallowed up in dog.
However, they soon made amends for that, and the roar that rang from crag to crag brought every living being out. Foremost of these was our old friend Stepan, carrying a mighty gun, with Allai peeping through the loop of his elbow, and four or five more, who had been in our valley, staring at us over the packing-cases. I shouted to them with the old salute which they had taught me at St. Winifred's, and they made their salaams, and sang their welcome, while Stepan enfolded me in his capacious arms, and Allai hugged my knees and wept.