“Look, now, how it smokes; this great fire must mean something.”
“Yes, it is a regular will-o’-the-wisp, a Saint Elmo fire. The gods of the lake have lighted it to lead us astray.”
“I believe it is the post, but the fire looks uncanny,” said Rehim Ali, and rowed with all his might.
“Do not disturb yourself. If it is the post we shall hear of the messenger before evening; I believe that the camp-fire has not gone out, but has smouldered on in a sheltered spot all day long; when the wind changed, some reserve heap of dung caught fire, and, fanned by the north wind, it has burst into flames.”
At six o’clock we were home again. After I had taken a much-needed meal I summoned Muhamed Isa and Sonam Tsering to a consultation.
“How many horses have we left?”—“Forty.”
“How many mules?”—“Thirty-four.”
“Are they in fairly good condition?”—“No, Sahib, not all; four of my horses and six of Sonam’s are at the point of death, and five mules.”
“We shall, then, have more losses soon?” “Yes, alas! But to save all we can, the strongest animals must now have maize and barley; the sickly ones must forage for themselves till their hour comes. They are certainly doomed.”
“That is barbarous; give them at least something. Perhaps some may be saved.”—“We must be very sparing with the forage, Sahib.”