Towards The Summit, Where A
Slip Or False Step Would Be Fatal, A Dark Shapeless Mass Appears,
Completely Barring The Pathway, On The White Snow.
Closer inspection
reveals a dead camel, abandoned, doubtless, by the caravan we
have just passed, for the carcase is yet warm.
With considerable
difficulty, but aided by the hard slippery ground, we drag it to the
brink of the precipice, and send it crashing down through bush and
briar, to fall with a loud splash into a foaming torrent far below.
During this performance one of the ponies gets loose, and half an hour
is lost in catching him again.
So the journey wore on. Half-way down on the other side of the
mountain, my pony stumbled and shot me head first into a pool of
liquid mud, from which I was, with some difficulty, extricated wet
through and chilled to the bone. The discomfort was bad enough, but,
worse still, my sable pelisse, the valuable gift of a Russian friend,
was, I feared, utterly ruined.
It was nearly nine o'clock when we reached Rustemabad, to find rather
worse quarters than we had left at Koudoum. To make matters worse,
I had no change of clothes, and the black, ill-smelling mud had
penetrated to the innermost recesses of my saddle-bags, which did
not tend to improve the flavour of the biscuits and chocolate that
constituted my evening meal. No food of any kind was procurable at
the post-house, and all our own provisions were behind with Gerome.
Luckily, I had stuck to the flask of vodka!
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