Chapter Forty.Fritz and the falcons.With feelings of sad and bitter disappointment did our adventurers turn their backs upon these ladders—that had once more deluded them—and make their way towards the hut.As upon the former occasion, they walked with slow steps and downcast mien. Fritz, by his slouching gait and drooped tail, showed that he shared the general despondency.They had arrived nearly at the hut, before any of the three thought of speaking; when the sight of that rude homestead, to which they had so often fancied themselves on the eve of bidding farewell—and to which as often had they been compelled to return—suggested a theme to Karl: causing him to break silence as they advanced towards the doorway.“Our true friend,” said he, pointing to the hovel, “a friend, when all else fails us. Rough it is—like many a friend that is nevertheless worthy. I begin to like its honest look, and feel regard for it as one should for a home.”Caspar said nothing in reply. He only sighed. The young chamois-hunter of the Bavarian Alps thought of another home—far away towards the setting sun; and, so long as that thought was in his mind, he could never reconcile himself to a forced residence in the Himalayas.The thoughts of Ossaroo were equally absent from that spot. He was thinking of a bamboo hut by the borders of some crystal stream, overshadowed by palms and other tropical trees. He was thinking still more of rice curry and chutnee; but above all, of his beloved “betel,” for which the “bang” of thecannabis sativawas but a poor substitute.But Caspar had another thought in his mind; one which proved that he had not yet abandoned all hope of returning to the home of his nativity; and, after they had finished eating their supper of broiled venison, he gave utterance to it.He had not volunteered to break the silence. It was done in obedience to a request of Karl who, having noticed the abstracted air of his brother, had asked for an explanation.“I’ve been thinking,” said Caspar, “ever since the eagle has escaped us, of another bird I know something about—one that might perform the service we want quite as well, if not better, than a bearcoot.”“Another bird!” inquired Karl; “of what bird are you speaking? Do you mean one of those Brahminy geese upon the lake? We might catch one alive, it is true; but let me tell you, brother, that their wings are constructed just strong enough to carry their own ponderous bodies; and if you added another pound or two, by tying a cord to their legs, they could no more mount out of this valley than we can. No—no. I fancy we may as well give up that idea. There’s no bird but an eagle with wing strong enough to do what you wish.”“The bird I was thinking of,” rejoined Caspar, “is of the samegenusas the eagle. I believe that’s correctly scientific language. Isn’t it, my Buffon of a brother? Ha! ha! Well, shall I name it? Surely, you have already divined the sort of bird to which I allude?”“No, indeed,” replied Karl. “There are no other birds in this valley of the same genus as the eagle—except hawks; and according to the closet naturalists, they are not of the same genus—only of the samefamily. If you mean a hawk, there are several species in this place; but the largest of them could not carry anything over the cliff heavier than a string of twine. See, there’s a brace of them now!” continued Karl, pointing to two birds that were circling in the air, some twenty yards overhead. “‘Churk’ falcons they are called. They are the largest of the Himalayan hawks. Are these your birds, brother?”“A couple of kites, are they not?” interrogated Caspar, turning his eyes upward, and regarding the two winged creatures circling above, and quartering the air as if in search of prey.“Yes,” answered the naturalist, “they are of that species; and, correctly described, of the same genus as the eagles. You don’t mean them, I suppose?”“No—not exactly,” replied Caspar, in a drawling tone, and smiling significantly as he spoke; “but if they bekites—Ho! what now?” exclaimed the speaker, his train of thought, as well as speech, suddenly interrupted by a movement on the part of the falcons. “What the mischief are the birds about? As I live, they seem to be making an attack upon Fritz! Surely they don’t suppose they have the strength to do any damage to our brave old dog?”As Caspar spoke, the two falcons were seen suddenly to descend—from the elevation at which they had been soaring—and then sweep in quick short circles around the head of the Bavarian boar-hound—where he squatted on the ground, near a little copse, some twenty yards from the hut.“Perhaps their nest is there—in the copse?” suggested Karl; “That’s why they are angry with the dog: for angry they certainly appear to be.”So any one might have reasoned, from the behaviour of the birds, as they continued their attack upon the dog—now rising some feet above him, and then darting downward in a sort of parabolic curve—at each swoop drawing nearer and nearer, until the tips of their wings were almost flapped in his face. These movements were not made in silence: for the falcons, as they flew, kept uttering their shrill cries—that sounded like the voice of a pair of angry vixens.“Their young must be near?” suggested Karl.“No, sahib,” said Ossaroo, “no nest—no chickee. Fritz he hab suppa—de piece ob meat ob da ibex. Churk wantee take de dog suppa away.”“Oh! Fritz is eating something, is he?” said Caspar. “That explains it then. How very stupid of these birds, to fancy they could steal his supper from our valiant Fritz: more especially since he seems to relish it so much himself! Why he takes no notice of them!”It was quite true that Fritz, up to this time, had scarcely noticed the brace of winged assailants; and their hostile demonstrations had only drawn from him an occasional “yir.” As they swooped nearer, however, and the tips of their wings were “wopped” into his very eyes, the thing was growing unbearable; and Fritz began to lose temper. His “yirs” became more frequent; and once or twice he rose from his squatting attitude, and made a snap at the feathers that were nearest.For more than five minutes this curious play was kept up between the boar-hound and the birds; and then the episode was brought to a somewhat singular—and in Fritz’s estimation, no doubt—a very unpleasant termination.From the first commencement of their attack, the two falcons had followed a separate course of action. One appeared to make all its approaches from the front; while the other confined its attacks exclusively to Fritz’s rear. In consequence of these tactics on the part of his assailants, the dog was compelled to defend himself both before and behind: and to do this, it became necessary for him to look “two ways at once.” Now, he would snarl and snap at the assailant in front—anon, he must sieve himself round, and in like manner menace the more cowardly “churk” that was attacking him in the rear. Of the two, however, the latter was the more demonstrative and noisy; and at length, not content with giving Fritz an occasional “wop” with its wing, it had the daring audacity to strike its sharp talons into a part of his posteriors approximate to the seat of honour.This was something more than canine flesh and blood could bear; and Fritz determined not to submit to it any longer. Dropping the “quid” he had been chewing, he started up on all fours; wheeled suddenly towards the kite that had clawed him; and bounded aloft into the air with the design of clutching it.But the wary bird had foreseen this action on the part of the quadruped; and, ere the latter could lay a fang upon it, had soared off—far beyond the highest leap that any four-footed creature might accomplish.Fritz, with a disappointed growl, turned round again to betake himself to his piece of meat; but still more disappointed was his look, when he perceived that the latter was no longer within reach! Churk falcon number one had clawed him over the croup, but churk falcon number two had deprived him of his supper!The last look Fritz ever had of that piece of ibex venison, was seeing it in the beak of the bird, high up in air, growing smaller by degrees and beautifully less—until it disappeared altogether in the dim distance.
With feelings of sad and bitter disappointment did our adventurers turn their backs upon these ladders—that had once more deluded them—and make their way towards the hut.
As upon the former occasion, they walked with slow steps and downcast mien. Fritz, by his slouching gait and drooped tail, showed that he shared the general despondency.
They had arrived nearly at the hut, before any of the three thought of speaking; when the sight of that rude homestead, to which they had so often fancied themselves on the eve of bidding farewell—and to which as often had they been compelled to return—suggested a theme to Karl: causing him to break silence as they advanced towards the doorway.
“Our true friend,” said he, pointing to the hovel, “a friend, when all else fails us. Rough it is—like many a friend that is nevertheless worthy. I begin to like its honest look, and feel regard for it as one should for a home.”
Caspar said nothing in reply. He only sighed. The young chamois-hunter of the Bavarian Alps thought of another home—far away towards the setting sun; and, so long as that thought was in his mind, he could never reconcile himself to a forced residence in the Himalayas.
The thoughts of Ossaroo were equally absent from that spot. He was thinking of a bamboo hut by the borders of some crystal stream, overshadowed by palms and other tropical trees. He was thinking still more of rice curry and chutnee; but above all, of his beloved “betel,” for which the “bang” of thecannabis sativawas but a poor substitute.
But Caspar had another thought in his mind; one which proved that he had not yet abandoned all hope of returning to the home of his nativity; and, after they had finished eating their supper of broiled venison, he gave utterance to it.
He had not volunteered to break the silence. It was done in obedience to a request of Karl who, having noticed the abstracted air of his brother, had asked for an explanation.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Caspar, “ever since the eagle has escaped us, of another bird I know something about—one that might perform the service we want quite as well, if not better, than a bearcoot.”
“Another bird!” inquired Karl; “of what bird are you speaking? Do you mean one of those Brahminy geese upon the lake? We might catch one alive, it is true; but let me tell you, brother, that their wings are constructed just strong enough to carry their own ponderous bodies; and if you added another pound or two, by tying a cord to their legs, they could no more mount out of this valley than we can. No—no. I fancy we may as well give up that idea. There’s no bird but an eagle with wing strong enough to do what you wish.”
“The bird I was thinking of,” rejoined Caspar, “is of the samegenusas the eagle. I believe that’s correctly scientific language. Isn’t it, my Buffon of a brother? Ha! ha! Well, shall I name it? Surely, you have already divined the sort of bird to which I allude?”
“No, indeed,” replied Karl. “There are no other birds in this valley of the same genus as the eagle—except hawks; and according to the closet naturalists, they are not of the same genus—only of the samefamily. If you mean a hawk, there are several species in this place; but the largest of them could not carry anything over the cliff heavier than a string of twine. See, there’s a brace of them now!” continued Karl, pointing to two birds that were circling in the air, some twenty yards overhead. “‘Churk’ falcons they are called. They are the largest of the Himalayan hawks. Are these your birds, brother?”
“A couple of kites, are they not?” interrogated Caspar, turning his eyes upward, and regarding the two winged creatures circling above, and quartering the air as if in search of prey.
“Yes,” answered the naturalist, “they are of that species; and, correctly described, of the same genus as the eagles. You don’t mean them, I suppose?”
“No—not exactly,” replied Caspar, in a drawling tone, and smiling significantly as he spoke; “but if they bekites—Ho! what now?” exclaimed the speaker, his train of thought, as well as speech, suddenly interrupted by a movement on the part of the falcons. “What the mischief are the birds about? As I live, they seem to be making an attack upon Fritz! Surely they don’t suppose they have the strength to do any damage to our brave old dog?”
As Caspar spoke, the two falcons were seen suddenly to descend—from the elevation at which they had been soaring—and then sweep in quick short circles around the head of the Bavarian boar-hound—where he squatted on the ground, near a little copse, some twenty yards from the hut.
“Perhaps their nest is there—in the copse?” suggested Karl; “That’s why they are angry with the dog: for angry they certainly appear to be.”
So any one might have reasoned, from the behaviour of the birds, as they continued their attack upon the dog—now rising some feet above him, and then darting downward in a sort of parabolic curve—at each swoop drawing nearer and nearer, until the tips of their wings were almost flapped in his face. These movements were not made in silence: for the falcons, as they flew, kept uttering their shrill cries—that sounded like the voice of a pair of angry vixens.
“Their young must be near?” suggested Karl.
“No, sahib,” said Ossaroo, “no nest—no chickee. Fritz he hab suppa—de piece ob meat ob da ibex. Churk wantee take de dog suppa away.”
“Oh! Fritz is eating something, is he?” said Caspar. “That explains it then. How very stupid of these birds, to fancy they could steal his supper from our valiant Fritz: more especially since he seems to relish it so much himself! Why he takes no notice of them!”
It was quite true that Fritz, up to this time, had scarcely noticed the brace of winged assailants; and their hostile demonstrations had only drawn from him an occasional “yir.” As they swooped nearer, however, and the tips of their wings were “wopped” into his very eyes, the thing was growing unbearable; and Fritz began to lose temper. His “yirs” became more frequent; and once or twice he rose from his squatting attitude, and made a snap at the feathers that were nearest.
For more than five minutes this curious play was kept up between the boar-hound and the birds; and then the episode was brought to a somewhat singular—and in Fritz’s estimation, no doubt—a very unpleasant termination.
From the first commencement of their attack, the two falcons had followed a separate course of action. One appeared to make all its approaches from the front; while the other confined its attacks exclusively to Fritz’s rear. In consequence of these tactics on the part of his assailants, the dog was compelled to defend himself both before and behind: and to do this, it became necessary for him to look “two ways at once.” Now, he would snarl and snap at the assailant in front—anon, he must sieve himself round, and in like manner menace the more cowardly “churk” that was attacking him in the rear. Of the two, however, the latter was the more demonstrative and noisy; and at length, not content with giving Fritz an occasional “wop” with its wing, it had the daring audacity to strike its sharp talons into a part of his posteriors approximate to the seat of honour.
This was something more than canine flesh and blood could bear; and Fritz determined not to submit to it any longer. Dropping the “quid” he had been chewing, he started up on all fours; wheeled suddenly towards the kite that had clawed him; and bounded aloft into the air with the design of clutching it.
But the wary bird had foreseen this action on the part of the quadruped; and, ere the latter could lay a fang upon it, had soared off—far beyond the highest leap that any four-footed creature might accomplish.
Fritz, with a disappointed growl, turned round again to betake himself to his piece of meat; but still more disappointed was his look, when he perceived that the latter was no longer within reach! Churk falcon number one had clawed him over the croup, but churk falcon number two had deprived him of his supper!
The last look Fritz ever had of that piece of ibex venison, was seeing it in the beak of the bird, high up in air, growing smaller by degrees and beautifully less—until it disappeared altogether in the dim distance.
Chapter Forty One.Fritz offended.This odd little episode, between the boar-hound and the churk falcons, had interrupted the conversation of the two brothers on the subject which Caspar had introduced. Nor was it resumed immediately, on the termination of the affair: for the look with which Fritz regarded the departure of the bird, that had so adroitly bilked him out of his bit of venison, was so supremely ludicrous, as to elicit long loud peals of laughter from the spectators.Fritz’s “countenance” betrayed the presence of rare emotions. Profound surprise and chagrin—strongly blended with a feeling of concentrated rage—were visible not only in his eyes, but his attitude, and, for some time, he stood with head erect and muzzle high in air, his glances speaking unutterable vows of vengeance, as they followed the flight of the falcons.Never in all his life—not even when the trunk of the elephant was trumpeting at his tail—had Fritz so sensibly felt the want of wings. Never had he so regretted the deficiency in his structure that left him without those useful appendages; and had he been gifted with the “wand of a fairy,” the use to which he would at that moment have applied it would have been to furnish himself with a pair, not of “beautiful wings”—for that was a secondary consideration—but of strong and long ones, such as would have enabled him to overhaul those churk falcons, and punish them for their unheard-of audacity.For more than a minute Fritz preserved the attitude to which we have alluded: the demeanour of a dog that had been regularly duped and “sold” by a brace of beings, for whose strength and capacity he had exhibited supreme contempt; and it was this mingling of surprise and rage that imparted to him that serio-comic appearance that had set them all a-laughing. Nor was his countenance less ludicrous under the expression with which, on turning round, he regarded his trio of human companions. He saw that they were making merry at his expense; and his look of half-reproach half-appeal had no other effect than to redouble their mirth. Glancing from one to the other, he appeared to seek sympathy from each in turn—from Karl, Caspar, and Ossaroo.It was an idle appeal. All three had equally surrendered themselves to hilarity—unsympathetic, as it was uncontrollable. Fritz had not a friend on the ground.Full ten minutes must have elapsed before any of them could check his loud cachinnations; but long before that time, the butt of their ridicule had betaken himself out of sight—having moved away from the spot, where he had been robbed of his supper, and retired, with an offended and sneaking air, to the more friendly concealment of the hovel.It was some time before our adventurers could recover their serious mood; but the subject of their mirth being now out of their sight, went gradually also out of their minds.It might be wondered that, circumstanced as they were, they had thus given way to a fit of jollity. But, indeed, there was nothing wonderful about it. On the contrary, it was perfectly natural—perfectly true to the instincts of the human soul—to be thus stirred: joy and sorrow following each other in periodic succession—as certainly as day follows night, or fair weather succeeds to the storm.Though we know not the why and the wherefore of this, we can easily believe that a wise Providence has ordered it so. A poet who has sung sweetly says, that:—“Spring would be but gloomy weather,If we had nothing else but Spring;”and our own experience proclaims the truth conveyed in the distich.He who has lived in the tropical lands of ever-spring—where the leaves never fall, and the flowers never fade—can well confirm the fact: that even spring itself may in time become tiresome! We long for the winter—its frost and snow, and cold bitter winds. Though ever so enamoured of the gay green forest, we like at intervals to behold it in its russet garb, with the sky in its coat of grey, sombre but picturesque. Strange as it may appear, it is true: the moral, like the natural atmosphere, stands in need of the storm.
This odd little episode, between the boar-hound and the churk falcons, had interrupted the conversation of the two brothers on the subject which Caspar had introduced. Nor was it resumed immediately, on the termination of the affair: for the look with which Fritz regarded the departure of the bird, that had so adroitly bilked him out of his bit of venison, was so supremely ludicrous, as to elicit long loud peals of laughter from the spectators.
Fritz’s “countenance” betrayed the presence of rare emotions. Profound surprise and chagrin—strongly blended with a feeling of concentrated rage—were visible not only in his eyes, but his attitude, and, for some time, he stood with head erect and muzzle high in air, his glances speaking unutterable vows of vengeance, as they followed the flight of the falcons.
Never in all his life—not even when the trunk of the elephant was trumpeting at his tail—had Fritz so sensibly felt the want of wings. Never had he so regretted the deficiency in his structure that left him without those useful appendages; and had he been gifted with the “wand of a fairy,” the use to which he would at that moment have applied it would have been to furnish himself with a pair, not of “beautiful wings”—for that was a secondary consideration—but of strong and long ones, such as would have enabled him to overhaul those churk falcons, and punish them for their unheard-of audacity.
For more than a minute Fritz preserved the attitude to which we have alluded: the demeanour of a dog that had been regularly duped and “sold” by a brace of beings, for whose strength and capacity he had exhibited supreme contempt; and it was this mingling of surprise and rage that imparted to him that serio-comic appearance that had set them all a-laughing. Nor was his countenance less ludicrous under the expression with which, on turning round, he regarded his trio of human companions. He saw that they were making merry at his expense; and his look of half-reproach half-appeal had no other effect than to redouble their mirth. Glancing from one to the other, he appeared to seek sympathy from each in turn—from Karl, Caspar, and Ossaroo.
It was an idle appeal. All three had equally surrendered themselves to hilarity—unsympathetic, as it was uncontrollable. Fritz had not a friend on the ground.
Full ten minutes must have elapsed before any of them could check his loud cachinnations; but long before that time, the butt of their ridicule had betaken himself out of sight—having moved away from the spot, where he had been robbed of his supper, and retired, with an offended and sneaking air, to the more friendly concealment of the hovel.
It was some time before our adventurers could recover their serious mood; but the subject of their mirth being now out of their sight, went gradually also out of their minds.
It might be wondered that, circumstanced as they were, they had thus given way to a fit of jollity. But, indeed, there was nothing wonderful about it. On the contrary, it was perfectly natural—perfectly true to the instincts of the human soul—to be thus stirred: joy and sorrow following each other in periodic succession—as certainly as day follows night, or fair weather succeeds to the storm.
Though we know not the why and the wherefore of this, we can easily believe that a wise Providence has ordered it so. A poet who has sung sweetly says, that:—
“Spring would be but gloomy weather,If we had nothing else but Spring;”
“Spring would be but gloomy weather,If we had nothing else but Spring;”
and our own experience proclaims the truth conveyed in the distich.
He who has lived in the tropical lands of ever-spring—where the leaves never fall, and the flowers never fade—can well confirm the fact: that even spring itself may in time become tiresome! We long for the winter—its frost and snow, and cold bitter winds. Though ever so enamoured of the gay green forest, we like at intervals to behold it in its russet garb, with the sky in its coat of grey, sombre but picturesque. Strange as it may appear, it is true: the moral, like the natural atmosphere, stands in need of the storm.
Chapter Forty Two.A Kite!As soon as their mirth had fairly subsided, Karl and Caspar resumed the conversation, which had been broken off so abruptly.“And so, brother,” said Karl, who was the first to return to the subject, “you say there is a bird of the eagle genus, that might carry a rope over the cliff for us. Of what bird are you speaking?”“Why, Karl, you are dull of comprehension this morning. Surely the presence of the twokitesshould have suggested what I mean.”“Ha! you mean a kite, then?”“Yes, one with a very broad breast, a very thin body, and a very long tail: such as you and I used to make not so many years ago.”“Apaper kite,” said Karl, repeating the phrase mechanically, at the same time settling down, into a reflecting attitude. “True, brother,” he added, after a pause; “there might be something in what you have suggested. If we had a paper kite—that is, a very large one—it is possible it would carry a rope over the summit of the cliff; but, alas!—”“You need not proceed further, Karl,” said Caspar, interrupting him. “I know what you are going to say: that we have no paper out of which to make the kite; and that, of course, puts an end to the matter. It’s no use our thinking any more about it: since we have not got the materials. The body and bones we could easily construct; and the tail too. But then the wings—ah, the wings. I only wish we had a file of old newspapers. But what’s the use of wishing? We haven’t.”Karl, though silent, did not seem to hear, or at all events heed, what Caspar had been just saying. He appeared to be buried either in a reverie, or in some profound speculation.It was the latter: as was very soon after made manifest by his speech.“Perhaps,” said he, with a hopeful glance towards the wood, “we may not be so deficient in the material of which you have spoken.”“Of paper, do you mean?”“We are in the very region of the world where it grows,” continued Karl, without heeding the interrogation.“What! where papergrows?”“No,” replied Karl, “I do not mean that the paper itself grows here; but a ‘fabric’ out of which that useful article may be made.”“What is that, brother?”“It is a tree, or rather a shrub, belonging to the order of theThymelaceae, or ‘Daphnads.’ The plants of this order are found in many countries; but chiefly in the cooler regions of India and South America. There are even representatives of the order in England: for the beautiful ‘spurge laurel’ of the woods and hedges—known as a remedy for the toothache—is a true daphnad. Perhaps the most curious of all the Thymelaceae is the celebrated Lagetta, or lace-bark tree of Jamaica; out of which the ladies of that island know how to manufacture cuffs, collars, and berthas, that, when cut into the proper shapes, and bleached to a perfect whiteness, have all the appearance of real lace! The Maroons, and other runaway negroes of Jamaica, before the abolition of slavery, used to make clothing out of the lagetta; which they found growing in plenty in the mountain forests of the island. Previous also to the same abolition of slavery, there was another, and less gentle, use made of the lace-bark, by the masters of these same negroes. The cruel tyrants used to spin its tough fibres into thongs for their slave-whips.”“And you think that paper can be made out of these trees?” asked Caspar, impatient to know whether there might be any chance of procuring some for the covering of a kite.“There are several species of daphnads,” replied the botanist, “whose bark can be converted into paper. Some are found at the Cape of Good Hope, and others in the island of Madagascar; but the best kinds for the purpose grow in these very mountains, and in China. There is the ‘Daphne Bholua,’ in Nepaul; from which the Nepaulese make a strong, tough, packing-paper; and I have reason to believe that it also grows in the Bhotan Himalayas—at no very great distance from our position here. Besides, in China and Japan, on the other side of these mountains, there are two or three distinct kinds of the same plant—out of which the Chinese make the yellowish-coloured paper, you may have seen in their books, and pasted upon their tea-chests. So then,” added the botanist, looking wistfully towards the woods, “since the paper-yielding daphne grows in China, to the east of us, and in Nepaul and Bhotan to the west, it is but reasonable to conclude that some species of it may be found in this valley—where the climate is just that which it affects. Its seed may have been transported hither by birds: since many species of birds are fond of its berries, and eat them without receiving any injury; though, strange to say, they are poisonous to all kinds of quadrupeds!”“Do you think you would know the shrub, if you saw it, brother?”“Well, to say the truth, I do not think I could recognise it by its general appearance; but if I had a flower of thedaphne, I could no doubt tell it by its botanical characteristics. The leaves of the paper-yielding species are of a lanceolate form and purplish hue, glabrous and shining, like the leaves of laurels—to which genus thedaphneis closely allied. Unfortunately, the shrub would not be in flower at this season; but if we can find one of the berries, and a leaf or two, I fancy I shall be able to identify it. Besides, the bark, which is very tough, would help to guide us. Indeed, I have some reason to think that we shall find it not far off; and that is why I speak with such confidence, in saying, that we might not be so deficient in the materials for paper-making.”“What reason, brother Karl? Perhaps you have seen something like it?”“I have. Some time ago, when I was strolling about, I passed through a thicket of low shrubs—the tops of which reached up to my breast. They were then in flower—the flowers being of a lilac colour, and growing at the tops of the branches in little cymes. They had no corolla—only a coloured calyx. Now these characters correspond with those of the daphne. Besides, the leaves were lanceolate, velvety on the surface, and of purplish colour; and the flowers were of an exceedingly sweet scent—as is the case with all the daphnads. I did not think of examining them at the time; but, now that I recall these characteristics, I feel almost certain that the shrubs were of this genus.”“Do you think you can find the thicket again?”“Oh! yes, easily enough. It is not very distant from the place, where we were so near fighting that fearful duel.”“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Caspar, in reply to the significant remark of the botanist. “But, brother!” continued he, “suppose it should prove to be the shrub you speak of, what good would there be in our finding it, so long as we don’t understand the process of manufacturing it into paper?”“How do you know that we don’t?” said Karl, challenging the too positive declaration of Caspar. “I am not so sure that we don’t. I have read the whole account of the process, as given by one of the old writers upon China. It is very simple; and I think I remember enough to be able to follow it. Perhaps not to make fine paper, that one might write upon; but something that would serve our purpose just as well. We don’t want the best ‘cream-laid.’ Unfortunately, we have no post-office here. I wish we had. If we can fabricate anything as fine as the coarsest packing-paper, it will do well enough for a kite, I fancy.”“True,” replied Caspar. “It would be all the better to be coarse and strong. But, dear Karl, suppose we go at once, and see if we can discover the trees.”“That is just what we shall do,” replied Karl, rising as he spoke, and preparing to set out in search of the daphne.All, of course, went together: for Ossaroo was as much interested in the result of the exploration as any of them; and Fritz, from within the hut, perceiving that they were about to depart upon some new expedition, managed partially to coax himself out of his ill-humour; and, sallying forth from his hiding-place, trotted silently after them.
As soon as their mirth had fairly subsided, Karl and Caspar resumed the conversation, which had been broken off so abruptly.
“And so, brother,” said Karl, who was the first to return to the subject, “you say there is a bird of the eagle genus, that might carry a rope over the cliff for us. Of what bird are you speaking?”
“Why, Karl, you are dull of comprehension this morning. Surely the presence of the twokitesshould have suggested what I mean.”
“Ha! you mean a kite, then?”
“Yes, one with a very broad breast, a very thin body, and a very long tail: such as you and I used to make not so many years ago.”
“Apaper kite,” said Karl, repeating the phrase mechanically, at the same time settling down, into a reflecting attitude. “True, brother,” he added, after a pause; “there might be something in what you have suggested. If we had a paper kite—that is, a very large one—it is possible it would carry a rope over the summit of the cliff; but, alas!—”
“You need not proceed further, Karl,” said Caspar, interrupting him. “I know what you are going to say: that we have no paper out of which to make the kite; and that, of course, puts an end to the matter. It’s no use our thinking any more about it: since we have not got the materials. The body and bones we could easily construct; and the tail too. But then the wings—ah, the wings. I only wish we had a file of old newspapers. But what’s the use of wishing? We haven’t.”
Karl, though silent, did not seem to hear, or at all events heed, what Caspar had been just saying. He appeared to be buried either in a reverie, or in some profound speculation.
It was the latter: as was very soon after made manifest by his speech.
“Perhaps,” said he, with a hopeful glance towards the wood, “we may not be so deficient in the material of which you have spoken.”
“Of paper, do you mean?”
“We are in the very region of the world where it grows,” continued Karl, without heeding the interrogation.
“What! where papergrows?”
“No,” replied Karl, “I do not mean that the paper itself grows here; but a ‘fabric’ out of which that useful article may be made.”
“What is that, brother?”
“It is a tree, or rather a shrub, belonging to the order of theThymelaceae, or ‘Daphnads.’ The plants of this order are found in many countries; but chiefly in the cooler regions of India and South America. There are even representatives of the order in England: for the beautiful ‘spurge laurel’ of the woods and hedges—known as a remedy for the toothache—is a true daphnad. Perhaps the most curious of all the Thymelaceae is the celebrated Lagetta, or lace-bark tree of Jamaica; out of which the ladies of that island know how to manufacture cuffs, collars, and berthas, that, when cut into the proper shapes, and bleached to a perfect whiteness, have all the appearance of real lace! The Maroons, and other runaway negroes of Jamaica, before the abolition of slavery, used to make clothing out of the lagetta; which they found growing in plenty in the mountain forests of the island. Previous also to the same abolition of slavery, there was another, and less gentle, use made of the lace-bark, by the masters of these same negroes. The cruel tyrants used to spin its tough fibres into thongs for their slave-whips.”
“And you think that paper can be made out of these trees?” asked Caspar, impatient to know whether there might be any chance of procuring some for the covering of a kite.
“There are several species of daphnads,” replied the botanist, “whose bark can be converted into paper. Some are found at the Cape of Good Hope, and others in the island of Madagascar; but the best kinds for the purpose grow in these very mountains, and in China. There is the ‘Daphne Bholua,’ in Nepaul; from which the Nepaulese make a strong, tough, packing-paper; and I have reason to believe that it also grows in the Bhotan Himalayas—at no very great distance from our position here. Besides, in China and Japan, on the other side of these mountains, there are two or three distinct kinds of the same plant—out of which the Chinese make the yellowish-coloured paper, you may have seen in their books, and pasted upon their tea-chests. So then,” added the botanist, looking wistfully towards the woods, “since the paper-yielding daphne grows in China, to the east of us, and in Nepaul and Bhotan to the west, it is but reasonable to conclude that some species of it may be found in this valley—where the climate is just that which it affects. Its seed may have been transported hither by birds: since many species of birds are fond of its berries, and eat them without receiving any injury; though, strange to say, they are poisonous to all kinds of quadrupeds!”
“Do you think you would know the shrub, if you saw it, brother?”
“Well, to say the truth, I do not think I could recognise it by its general appearance; but if I had a flower of thedaphne, I could no doubt tell it by its botanical characteristics. The leaves of the paper-yielding species are of a lanceolate form and purplish hue, glabrous and shining, like the leaves of laurels—to which genus thedaphneis closely allied. Unfortunately, the shrub would not be in flower at this season; but if we can find one of the berries, and a leaf or two, I fancy I shall be able to identify it. Besides, the bark, which is very tough, would help to guide us. Indeed, I have some reason to think that we shall find it not far off; and that is why I speak with such confidence, in saying, that we might not be so deficient in the materials for paper-making.”
“What reason, brother Karl? Perhaps you have seen something like it?”
“I have. Some time ago, when I was strolling about, I passed through a thicket of low shrubs—the tops of which reached up to my breast. They were then in flower—the flowers being of a lilac colour, and growing at the tops of the branches in little cymes. They had no corolla—only a coloured calyx. Now these characters correspond with those of the daphne. Besides, the leaves were lanceolate, velvety on the surface, and of purplish colour; and the flowers were of an exceedingly sweet scent—as is the case with all the daphnads. I did not think of examining them at the time; but, now that I recall these characteristics, I feel almost certain that the shrubs were of this genus.”
“Do you think you can find the thicket again?”
“Oh! yes, easily enough. It is not very distant from the place, where we were so near fighting that fearful duel.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Caspar, in reply to the significant remark of the botanist. “But, brother!” continued he, “suppose it should prove to be the shrub you speak of, what good would there be in our finding it, so long as we don’t understand the process of manufacturing it into paper?”
“How do you know that we don’t?” said Karl, challenging the too positive declaration of Caspar. “I am not so sure that we don’t. I have read the whole account of the process, as given by one of the old writers upon China. It is very simple; and I think I remember enough to be able to follow it. Perhaps not to make fine paper, that one might write upon; but something that would serve our purpose just as well. We don’t want the best ‘cream-laid.’ Unfortunately, we have no post-office here. I wish we had. If we can fabricate anything as fine as the coarsest packing-paper, it will do well enough for a kite, I fancy.”
“True,” replied Caspar. “It would be all the better to be coarse and strong. But, dear Karl, suppose we go at once, and see if we can discover the trees.”
“That is just what we shall do,” replied Karl, rising as he spoke, and preparing to set out in search of the daphne.
All, of course, went together: for Ossaroo was as much interested in the result of the exploration as any of them; and Fritz, from within the hut, perceiving that they were about to depart upon some new expedition, managed partially to coax himself out of his ill-humour; and, sallying forth from his hiding-place, trotted silently after them.
Chapter Forty Three.The paper-tree.To the great delight of the party, it turned out just as Karl had conjectured. The thicket that he had spoken of was composed chiefly of daphne shrubs—judging by the appearance of the fallen leaves, and some berries that still remained on the branches, Karl believed them to be of this species. But the bark was also a characteristic: being exceedingly tenacious, and moreover of a strongly acrid taste—so much so as to cauterise he skin of Ossaroo’s mouth, who had been foolish enough to chew it too freely.After duly examining the leaves, berries, and bark, the botanist came to the conclusion that the shrub must be a true daphne; and so in reality it was—that species known in Nepaul as theDaphne Bholua—from which, as already stated, the Nepaulese manufacture a coarse, but soft paper.As soon as this point was determined to their satisfaction, they resolved upon carrying Caspar’s hint into execution—by trying the experiment of a paper kite.But for Karl’s practical education—which had made him acquainted not only with the botanical characters of plants and trees, but also with their uses—and in some cases with the mode of using them—the mere discovery of the daphne would have availed them nothing. As it stood in the thicket, it was no more like paper than any of the trees that grew around it. Indeed, there were many others that would have yielded bark in broader flakes than it, and much more resembling paper: for that of the daphne, stripping off as it did in narrow pieces, looked like the last thing in the world of which to make a kite out of. But Karl knew the process by which it could be metamorphosed into paper; and without further delay, he entered upon the performance—the others placing their services at his disposal, and acting in obedience to his orders.The knife-blades of all three were called into requisition; and in an incredibly short space of time, some scores of the little trees were stripped of their bark—from their roots up to the lower branches. The trees themselves were not cut down; as that was not necessary. They could be peeled more readily, as they stood; and for this reason they were left standing.Up to the hour of sunset did these “cascarilleros” work—with only a few minutes of interruption, while they went back to the hut, and ate a hurried luncheon of ibex-meat—and just as the sun was sinking behind the summit of the great Chumulari, they might have been seen trudging homeward—each bearing a heavy bundle of bark, with Fritz following gleefully at their heels.The thicket from which they had taken their departure, gave evidence of the industry with which they had been working all day long. Over a space, of nearly half an acre in extent, the trees were seen standing, each with its tiny trunk completely divested of bark: as if a whole gang of goats had been browsing upon them!On reaching the hovel, our bark-gatherers did not desist from their labour. They only entered upon a new branch of industry: by becomingpaper manufacturers.It was after night; and they had to work by the light of their torches of cheel-pine, already prepared. But as these burnt with a clear steady flame, they served quite as well as candles would have done.The first process in the paper-making did not require much nicety in its execution; and, moreover, it could be performed as well inside the hut as in the largest room of a paper-mill. All they had to do was to pick the bark to shreds. This occupied them the whole evening—during which there was much conversation of a cheerful kind, with a joke or two about oakum-picking in a prison; and of this, not only the task in which they were engaged, but the situation in which they were executing it, did not fail to remind them.When they had finished, they ate their frugal supper and retired to rest—full of the idea of continuing the paper manufacture in the morning.When morning came, they had not much to do: for the next process was one which required the exercise of patience rather than of labour.When the bark of the daphne has been thoroughly picked to pieces, it is put into a large pot or cauldron filled with water. A lixivium of wood-ashes is then thrown in along with it; and it is suffered to boil for several hours.As our manufacturers were without pot or cauldron of any kind, there would have been here an interruption of an insurmountable kind: had it not been that they had plenty of water already on the boil, and perpetually boiling—in the hot-spring near the hut.Apparently all they should have to do would be, to immerse the prepared bark in the spring, and there leave it for a proper length of time. But then the water, where it was hottest, was constantly in motion—bubbling up and running off; so that not only would the strings of bark be carried away, but the ashes would be separated from the mass, and consequently of no service in aiding to macerate it.How was this difficulty to be got over? Easily enough. They had not proceeded thus far without thinking of a plan; and this plan was, to place the bark along with the ashes in one of the large yâk-skins still in good preservation, and after making it up into a sort of bundle—like clothes intended for the laundry—to plunge the skin and its contents into the spring, and there leave them—until the boiling water should perform its part. By this ingenious contrivance, did they get over the difficulty, of not being provided with a not.When Karl thought that the bark was sufficiently boiled, it was taken out of the water, and also out of its yâk-skin wrapper. It was then placed, in mass, upon a flat rock near by—where it was left to drip and get dry.During the time that it was in the water—and also while it was dripping and drying on the rock—none of them were idle. Caspar was engaged in fashioning a stout wooden mallet—a tool which would be needed in some after operations—while Ossaroo was equally busy upon an article of a very different kind. This was a sort of sieve made of thin splints of cane, set in a frame of thicker pieces of the same cane—ringall bamboo.Ossaroo had undertaken this special task: as none of the others knew so well, how to fashion the bamboo into any required utensil; and although he was now making something altogether new to him, yet, working under the direction of Karl, he succeeded in making a sieve that was likely to serve the purpose for which plant-hunter designed it. That purpose will presently be spoken of.As soon as the fibre was nearly dry, the mallet was brought into requisition; and with this the mass was pounded upon the flat surface of the rock—until it became reduced to a complete state of “pulp.”This pulp was once more put into the yâk-skin—which had been gathered up around the edges so as to form a sort of concavity or rude vat—and again immersed under water—not of the boiling spring, but the cool water of the lake—until the bag became full. The pulp was next stirred with a stick—which brought the coarse dirty parts to the surface. These were skimmed off, and thrown away as refuse; and the process was repeated with fresh water—until the whole substance, which was of a mucilaginous character, was rendered pure, and soft to the touch. The next and last operation was in fact the making of the paper; and was performed by Karl himself. It was simple enough, though requiring a certain dexterity, or sleight of hand, to do it well. It consisted in placing a quantity of the pulp upon the sieve before mentioned; and cradling the frame about—all the time held under water—until the substance became equally and uniformly spread over the whole surface. The sieve was then taken out of the water—being raised gently and kept in a horizontal position—so as not to derange the even stratum of pulp that severed it. This done, nothing more remained but to place the frame across a pair of bars, and leave the pulp to get drained and eventually become dry. When dry, it would bepaper!Of course, with one sieve, the whole quantity required could not be made at a single cast; but, as soon as one sheet became sufficiently dry to be taken off the frame, the sieve was again repulped; and so on, till the whole of the boiled bark was converted into paper; and they found themselves in possession of a sufficient number of broad sheets to make a kite as big as a coach-house-door.In consequence of their having to wait for the drying of each sheet, the process occupied them for several days; but during this time they had not been either idle or inactive. Karl and Caspar had been hard at work, in getting up the “bones” of the kite; while Ossaroo had undertaken to fabricate the tail.The rope with which it was to be “flyed,” occupied more time, and required more care, than any other portion of their work. Every strand had to be twisted with the greatest exactness; and almost every fibre tested, as to its strength and fitness. Could they have used a rope of stouter build, it would not have been necessary to be so particular; but a thick rope would have been too heavy for the kite to carry—just as it had been too heavy for the strength of the eagle. A slender cord, therefore, like that they were obliged to make, required to be faultless—else the life of some one of them might be sacrificed while attempting the ascent.With a foreknowledge of this, it is hardly necessary to say that Ossaroo did his best in the manufacture of that rope—every strand of it being twisted between his index finger and his thumb, as smoothly and evenly as if he had been spinning it for a fishing-line.The framework of the kite was made out of split culms of the ringall bamboo; which, on account of its strength, elasticity, and lightness, was far superior for the purpose to any species of exogenous wood; while the glue for laying on the paper was procured from the root of an arum—grated, and then boiled into a glutinous starch.In about a week after the notion of a kite had been “hatched” in the brain of Caspar, the bird itself might have been seen outside the door of the hut—full-fledged and ready for flight!
To the great delight of the party, it turned out just as Karl had conjectured. The thicket that he had spoken of was composed chiefly of daphne shrubs—judging by the appearance of the fallen leaves, and some berries that still remained on the branches, Karl believed them to be of this species. But the bark was also a characteristic: being exceedingly tenacious, and moreover of a strongly acrid taste—so much so as to cauterise he skin of Ossaroo’s mouth, who had been foolish enough to chew it too freely.
After duly examining the leaves, berries, and bark, the botanist came to the conclusion that the shrub must be a true daphne; and so in reality it was—that species known in Nepaul as theDaphne Bholua—from which, as already stated, the Nepaulese manufacture a coarse, but soft paper.
As soon as this point was determined to their satisfaction, they resolved upon carrying Caspar’s hint into execution—by trying the experiment of a paper kite.
But for Karl’s practical education—which had made him acquainted not only with the botanical characters of plants and trees, but also with their uses—and in some cases with the mode of using them—the mere discovery of the daphne would have availed them nothing. As it stood in the thicket, it was no more like paper than any of the trees that grew around it. Indeed, there were many others that would have yielded bark in broader flakes than it, and much more resembling paper: for that of the daphne, stripping off as it did in narrow pieces, looked like the last thing in the world of which to make a kite out of. But Karl knew the process by which it could be metamorphosed into paper; and without further delay, he entered upon the performance—the others placing their services at his disposal, and acting in obedience to his orders.
The knife-blades of all three were called into requisition; and in an incredibly short space of time, some scores of the little trees were stripped of their bark—from their roots up to the lower branches. The trees themselves were not cut down; as that was not necessary. They could be peeled more readily, as they stood; and for this reason they were left standing.
Up to the hour of sunset did these “cascarilleros” work—with only a few minutes of interruption, while they went back to the hut, and ate a hurried luncheon of ibex-meat—and just as the sun was sinking behind the summit of the great Chumulari, they might have been seen trudging homeward—each bearing a heavy bundle of bark, with Fritz following gleefully at their heels.
The thicket from which they had taken their departure, gave evidence of the industry with which they had been working all day long. Over a space, of nearly half an acre in extent, the trees were seen standing, each with its tiny trunk completely divested of bark: as if a whole gang of goats had been browsing upon them!
On reaching the hovel, our bark-gatherers did not desist from their labour. They only entered upon a new branch of industry: by becomingpaper manufacturers.
It was after night; and they had to work by the light of their torches of cheel-pine, already prepared. But as these burnt with a clear steady flame, they served quite as well as candles would have done.
The first process in the paper-making did not require much nicety in its execution; and, moreover, it could be performed as well inside the hut as in the largest room of a paper-mill. All they had to do was to pick the bark to shreds. This occupied them the whole evening—during which there was much conversation of a cheerful kind, with a joke or two about oakum-picking in a prison; and of this, not only the task in which they were engaged, but the situation in which they were executing it, did not fail to remind them.
When they had finished, they ate their frugal supper and retired to rest—full of the idea of continuing the paper manufacture in the morning.
When morning came, they had not much to do: for the next process was one which required the exercise of patience rather than of labour.
When the bark of the daphne has been thoroughly picked to pieces, it is put into a large pot or cauldron filled with water. A lixivium of wood-ashes is then thrown in along with it; and it is suffered to boil for several hours.
As our manufacturers were without pot or cauldron of any kind, there would have been here an interruption of an insurmountable kind: had it not been that they had plenty of water already on the boil, and perpetually boiling—in the hot-spring near the hut.
Apparently all they should have to do would be, to immerse the prepared bark in the spring, and there leave it for a proper length of time. But then the water, where it was hottest, was constantly in motion—bubbling up and running off; so that not only would the strings of bark be carried away, but the ashes would be separated from the mass, and consequently of no service in aiding to macerate it.
How was this difficulty to be got over? Easily enough. They had not proceeded thus far without thinking of a plan; and this plan was, to place the bark along with the ashes in one of the large yâk-skins still in good preservation, and after making it up into a sort of bundle—like clothes intended for the laundry—to plunge the skin and its contents into the spring, and there leave them—until the boiling water should perform its part. By this ingenious contrivance, did they get over the difficulty, of not being provided with a not.
When Karl thought that the bark was sufficiently boiled, it was taken out of the water, and also out of its yâk-skin wrapper. It was then placed, in mass, upon a flat rock near by—where it was left to drip and get dry.
During the time that it was in the water—and also while it was dripping and drying on the rock—none of them were idle. Caspar was engaged in fashioning a stout wooden mallet—a tool which would be needed in some after operations—while Ossaroo was equally busy upon an article of a very different kind. This was a sort of sieve made of thin splints of cane, set in a frame of thicker pieces of the same cane—ringall bamboo.
Ossaroo had undertaken this special task: as none of the others knew so well, how to fashion the bamboo into any required utensil; and although he was now making something altogether new to him, yet, working under the direction of Karl, he succeeded in making a sieve that was likely to serve the purpose for which plant-hunter designed it. That purpose will presently be spoken of.
As soon as the fibre was nearly dry, the mallet was brought into requisition; and with this the mass was pounded upon the flat surface of the rock—until it became reduced to a complete state of “pulp.”
This pulp was once more put into the yâk-skin—which had been gathered up around the edges so as to form a sort of concavity or rude vat—and again immersed under water—not of the boiling spring, but the cool water of the lake—until the bag became full. The pulp was next stirred with a stick—which brought the coarse dirty parts to the surface. These were skimmed off, and thrown away as refuse; and the process was repeated with fresh water—until the whole substance, which was of a mucilaginous character, was rendered pure, and soft to the touch. The next and last operation was in fact the making of the paper; and was performed by Karl himself. It was simple enough, though requiring a certain dexterity, or sleight of hand, to do it well. It consisted in placing a quantity of the pulp upon the sieve before mentioned; and cradling the frame about—all the time held under water—until the substance became equally and uniformly spread over the whole surface. The sieve was then taken out of the water—being raised gently and kept in a horizontal position—so as not to derange the even stratum of pulp that severed it. This done, nothing more remained but to place the frame across a pair of bars, and leave the pulp to get drained and eventually become dry. When dry, it would bepaper!
Of course, with one sieve, the whole quantity required could not be made at a single cast; but, as soon as one sheet became sufficiently dry to be taken off the frame, the sieve was again repulped; and so on, till the whole of the boiled bark was converted into paper; and they found themselves in possession of a sufficient number of broad sheets to make a kite as big as a coach-house-door.
In consequence of their having to wait for the drying of each sheet, the process occupied them for several days; but during this time they had not been either idle or inactive. Karl and Caspar had been hard at work, in getting up the “bones” of the kite; while Ossaroo had undertaken to fabricate the tail.
The rope with which it was to be “flyed,” occupied more time, and required more care, than any other portion of their work. Every strand had to be twisted with the greatest exactness; and almost every fibre tested, as to its strength and fitness. Could they have used a rope of stouter build, it would not have been necessary to be so particular; but a thick rope would have been too heavy for the kite to carry—just as it had been too heavy for the strength of the eagle. A slender cord, therefore, like that they were obliged to make, required to be faultless—else the life of some one of them might be sacrificed while attempting the ascent.
With a foreknowledge of this, it is hardly necessary to say that Ossaroo did his best in the manufacture of that rope—every strand of it being twisted between his index finger and his thumb, as smoothly and evenly as if he had been spinning it for a fishing-line.
The framework of the kite was made out of split culms of the ringall bamboo; which, on account of its strength, elasticity, and lightness, was far superior for the purpose to any species of exogenous wood; while the glue for laying on the paper was procured from the root of an arum—grated, and then boiled into a glutinous starch.
In about a week after the notion of a kite had been “hatched” in the brain of Caspar, the bird itself might have been seen outside the door of the hut—full-fledged and ready for flight!
Chapter Forty Four.Flying the kite.The kite having been thus prepared, they only waited for an opportunity of flying it—for a day when the wind should be sufficiently strong, and blowing from the right quarter—that is, towards that portion of the precipice over which it appeared best that the paper-bird should be dispatched. This was the same place, where the ladders had been set, and where they had unsuccessfully endeavoured to send up the bearcoot.They had already ascended one of the isolated cairns of rock, that stood within the valley nearly opposite this part of the cliff; and from its top they had been able to get a view—though not a very good one—of a portion of the sloping declivity of the mountain above. It appeared to be covered with snow—here and there supporting huge masses of something, either boulders of rock, or dark-coloured lumps of ice. The eyes of our adventurers rested on these with the greatest interest: as they had done upon a former occasion, when about to send the bearcoot among them. Now they had conceived higher hopes than ever—founded upon the presence of these masses. If they should succeed in flying the kite into their midst, and there dropping it, it was not only possible, but highly probable, that it might either get the rope warped around one of them, or itself become caught between two, so as to hold fast. To render this the more practicable, they had furnished its wings with spurs—in other words, they had left the cross-piece of bamboo to extend on each side about a foot beyond the edge of the paper; and near the end of each extension, they had placed other pieces transversely, and lashed them firmly—so that they might act as the flukes of an anchor.They had spared neither pains nor ingenuity to ensure success. They had done all, that man could do, to deserve it.Fortune was so far favourable, as not to keep them long in suspense. Only two or three days had passed, when one came, on which the wind blew in their favour—exactly as they wanted it. It was a stiff breeze, steady in the right direction, and strong enough to carry up the largest of paper kites.Proceeding to the place, where the ladders were set, with the huge bird carried in the arms of Ossaroo, they made ready for its flight. Karl was to start the kite, and guide its ascent from the ground; while Caspar and the shikaree were to run out with the rope: as it would require the united strength of both to hold such a broad-breasted bird against the wind. They had taken the precaution to cut away the bushes to a long distance backwards from the cliff, and so clear the track: there was therefore nothing to impede them while paying out the string.It was arranged that Karl should have direction of the movement, and give out the signal for them to start.It was a moment of vivid emotion, as each of he three placed himself in the position assigned to him—Karl by the kite, with its backbone in one hand, and its tail in the other—Ossaroo clutching the rope—and Caspar by his side, holding the great coil in readiness for delivery.Karl poised the creature upon the stump of its tail; and then, lifting with all his strength—so as to raise it several feet from the ground—he gave forth the signal at the highest pitch of his voice.At the same instant, Caspar and the shikaree ran backward—tightening the rope as they went; and like a vast vulture with outspread wings, the bird soared silently upward into the air.It rose with a regular majestic motion, soon overtopping the trees that grew near, and still mounting on towards the summit of the cliff.Karl cheered as he saw it ascend. The others were too busy in the performance of their parts to find time for this expression of triumph; and not until the kite had soared high into the heavens, and appeared many yards above the brow of the beetling precipice, did Caspar and Ossaroo respond to the cheering of Karl. Then both together gave vent to their excited feelings in a long-continued hurrah!“Let go now, Ossaroo!” cried Karl, shouting so as to be heard above the wind. “You, Caspar, keep hold of the end of the cord.”Ossaroo, obedient to the order, suddenly slackened his hold—at the same time springing towards Caspar, and prudently seizing the end along with him.The kite, thus released, like some huge bird that had received its death-wound, turned head downwards towards the earth; and, after making various sinuous evolutions through the air, flouting its long tail first in one direction then in another—it was seen darting down towards the acclivity of the mountain. At length, passing behind the summit of the cliffs, it was no longer visible to the eyes of those who had aided it in its lofty flight, and then left it helplessly to fall.So far they had succeeded to the utmost of their expectations. The kite had alighted, just where they wanted it.But now arose the question—would it stay there? In other words, would it be caught among the rocks, and hold fast?If not, they would have to fly it again and again, until it should get fastened above, or until the experiment should prove a failure.Karl stepped forward to decide the point—the others looking on with an eagerness of glance, that betrayed how deep was their interest in the result.Karl’s hand trembled as he laid hold of the cord. At first he pulled upon it in a gentle way—hand over hand—so as merely to take in the slack.At length it began to tighten, requiring greater strength to take it in: as if the kite was still free, and dragging over the snow.This produced anything but a pleasant anticipation; and as the rope came to hand, foot after foot, and yard after yard, a shadow, that had stolen over the countenances of all three, became sensibly darker.Only for a short while did this shadow remain. It vanished, more suddenly than it had arisen: when they saw the running cord become abruptly checked, and then tighten as Karl continued to draw it in. He pulled upon it, at first exerting only a part of his strength, as if afraid that it might again come loose. After awhile, gaining confidence, he pulled with all his power. It still held fast!Ossaroo and Caspar now joined their strength to his; and all three pulled together.Hurrah! the kite would not come! The cord kept its place, stretching to the bottom of the cliff, as taut as the main-stay of a ship!Ejaculations of joy escaped from all three at the same instant of time: and for some moments they stood, tightly clutching the rope, and holding it firmly: as if in dread of its being dragged out of their grasp by some hostile and invisible hand.At length Karl suggested the propriety of making the cord secure, by fastening it to some object. A large upright stone, close by the bottom of the cliff, appeared to be the most proper thing; and to this they determined upon tying it.Still keeping it taut—lest by slackening it they might disturb the anchor aloft—they moved hand over hand along the rope, until they had got close to the bottom of the precipice. Then, while Karl and Caspar still held on, Ossaroo gathered up the slack; and, turning it several times round the stone, securelybelayedit.Nothing more remained but to make the steps—which had been already designed—adjust them in their places—climb up to the top of the cliff—and be free as the mountain breeze, which would there be blowing around them!The thought of such a lucky deliverance filled them once more with joyous imaginings; and they stood around the stone, to which the rope had been attached—congratulating themselves, as if they had already escaped.They knew there would still be some time required to make the steps, and fix them in their places; but, since they no longer doubted their ability to accomplish the ascent, the interval of time might be passed cheerfully enough; and, with this pleasant anticipation, they went back to their workshop in the best of spirits, and cooked themselves a more careful dinner than they had eaten since the discovery of the daphne trees.
The kite having been thus prepared, they only waited for an opportunity of flying it—for a day when the wind should be sufficiently strong, and blowing from the right quarter—that is, towards that portion of the precipice over which it appeared best that the paper-bird should be dispatched. This was the same place, where the ladders had been set, and where they had unsuccessfully endeavoured to send up the bearcoot.
They had already ascended one of the isolated cairns of rock, that stood within the valley nearly opposite this part of the cliff; and from its top they had been able to get a view—though not a very good one—of a portion of the sloping declivity of the mountain above. It appeared to be covered with snow—here and there supporting huge masses of something, either boulders of rock, or dark-coloured lumps of ice. The eyes of our adventurers rested on these with the greatest interest: as they had done upon a former occasion, when about to send the bearcoot among them. Now they had conceived higher hopes than ever—founded upon the presence of these masses. If they should succeed in flying the kite into their midst, and there dropping it, it was not only possible, but highly probable, that it might either get the rope warped around one of them, or itself become caught between two, so as to hold fast. To render this the more practicable, they had furnished its wings with spurs—in other words, they had left the cross-piece of bamboo to extend on each side about a foot beyond the edge of the paper; and near the end of each extension, they had placed other pieces transversely, and lashed them firmly—so that they might act as the flukes of an anchor.
They had spared neither pains nor ingenuity to ensure success. They had done all, that man could do, to deserve it.
Fortune was so far favourable, as not to keep them long in suspense. Only two or three days had passed, when one came, on which the wind blew in their favour—exactly as they wanted it. It was a stiff breeze, steady in the right direction, and strong enough to carry up the largest of paper kites.
Proceeding to the place, where the ladders were set, with the huge bird carried in the arms of Ossaroo, they made ready for its flight. Karl was to start the kite, and guide its ascent from the ground; while Caspar and the shikaree were to run out with the rope: as it would require the united strength of both to hold such a broad-breasted bird against the wind. They had taken the precaution to cut away the bushes to a long distance backwards from the cliff, and so clear the track: there was therefore nothing to impede them while paying out the string.
It was arranged that Karl should have direction of the movement, and give out the signal for them to start.
It was a moment of vivid emotion, as each of he three placed himself in the position assigned to him—Karl by the kite, with its backbone in one hand, and its tail in the other—Ossaroo clutching the rope—and Caspar by his side, holding the great coil in readiness for delivery.
Karl poised the creature upon the stump of its tail; and then, lifting with all his strength—so as to raise it several feet from the ground—he gave forth the signal at the highest pitch of his voice.
At the same instant, Caspar and the shikaree ran backward—tightening the rope as they went; and like a vast vulture with outspread wings, the bird soared silently upward into the air.
It rose with a regular majestic motion, soon overtopping the trees that grew near, and still mounting on towards the summit of the cliff.
Karl cheered as he saw it ascend. The others were too busy in the performance of their parts to find time for this expression of triumph; and not until the kite had soared high into the heavens, and appeared many yards above the brow of the beetling precipice, did Caspar and Ossaroo respond to the cheering of Karl. Then both together gave vent to their excited feelings in a long-continued hurrah!
“Let go now, Ossaroo!” cried Karl, shouting so as to be heard above the wind. “You, Caspar, keep hold of the end of the cord.”
Ossaroo, obedient to the order, suddenly slackened his hold—at the same time springing towards Caspar, and prudently seizing the end along with him.
The kite, thus released, like some huge bird that had received its death-wound, turned head downwards towards the earth; and, after making various sinuous evolutions through the air, flouting its long tail first in one direction then in another—it was seen darting down towards the acclivity of the mountain. At length, passing behind the summit of the cliffs, it was no longer visible to the eyes of those who had aided it in its lofty flight, and then left it helplessly to fall.
So far they had succeeded to the utmost of their expectations. The kite had alighted, just where they wanted it.
But now arose the question—would it stay there? In other words, would it be caught among the rocks, and hold fast?
If not, they would have to fly it again and again, until it should get fastened above, or until the experiment should prove a failure.
Karl stepped forward to decide the point—the others looking on with an eagerness of glance, that betrayed how deep was their interest in the result.
Karl’s hand trembled as he laid hold of the cord. At first he pulled upon it in a gentle way—hand over hand—so as merely to take in the slack.
At length it began to tighten, requiring greater strength to take it in: as if the kite was still free, and dragging over the snow.
This produced anything but a pleasant anticipation; and as the rope came to hand, foot after foot, and yard after yard, a shadow, that had stolen over the countenances of all three, became sensibly darker.
Only for a short while did this shadow remain. It vanished, more suddenly than it had arisen: when they saw the running cord become abruptly checked, and then tighten as Karl continued to draw it in. He pulled upon it, at first exerting only a part of his strength, as if afraid that it might again come loose. After awhile, gaining confidence, he pulled with all his power. It still held fast!
Ossaroo and Caspar now joined their strength to his; and all three pulled together.
Hurrah! the kite would not come! The cord kept its place, stretching to the bottom of the cliff, as taut as the main-stay of a ship!
Ejaculations of joy escaped from all three at the same instant of time: and for some moments they stood, tightly clutching the rope, and holding it firmly: as if in dread of its being dragged out of their grasp by some hostile and invisible hand.
At length Karl suggested the propriety of making the cord secure, by fastening it to some object. A large upright stone, close by the bottom of the cliff, appeared to be the most proper thing; and to this they determined upon tying it.
Still keeping it taut—lest by slackening it they might disturb the anchor aloft—they moved hand over hand along the rope, until they had got close to the bottom of the precipice. Then, while Karl and Caspar still held on, Ossaroo gathered up the slack; and, turning it several times round the stone, securelybelayedit.
Nothing more remained but to make the steps—which had been already designed—adjust them in their places—climb up to the top of the cliff—and be free as the mountain breeze, which would there be blowing around them!
The thought of such a lucky deliverance filled them once more with joyous imaginings; and they stood around the stone, to which the rope had been attached—congratulating themselves, as if they had already escaped.
They knew there would still be some time required to make the steps, and fix them in their places; but, since they no longer doubted their ability to accomplish the ascent, the interval of time might be passed cheerfully enough; and, with this pleasant anticipation, they went back to their workshop in the best of spirits, and cooked themselves a more careful dinner than they had eaten since the discovery of the daphne trees.
Chapter Forty Five.The rope-ladder.It took them another day—with their blades all busy from morning till night—to prepare the pegs which were to constitute the “rounds” of their rope-ladder. More than a hundred were required: as the cliff where the rope passed up was over a hundred yards in height; and the steps were intended to be placed at equal distances of about two feet apart.It had been their design at first to insert the steps in the rope—between the strands of which it was composed; but, on reflection, a better plan suggested itself. By opening the strands to let in the pieces of wood, the rope might be weakened, so much as to endanger its breaking; and this alone, above all things, was to be avoided. It was deemed more prudent to leave the cord untouched, and place the sticks crosswise outside of it. Whipped round with strong pieces of other cord, they could easily be made to keep their places—more especially as, with the hands of the climber grasping the rope above, no one stick would have to carry the full weight of his body; and, even should one of them slip a little out of place, there would be no great danger of an accident arising out of the circumstance.It occupied them a second day in twining the pieces of string, required for tying the sticks in their places; and, upon the morning of the third, they returned to the cliff, with the intention of transforming the cord, that the kite had carried up, into a rope-ladder.The mode by which they intended to effect this purpose will be easily understood—after what has been already said respecting it. The little sticks were to be laid transversely against the rope, and then so tightly tied in their places, as to prevent them from slipping down. The first was to be attached about the height of a man’s waist from the ground; and the second on a level with his chin. Then with the feet resting upon the first, and the left hand grasping the rope above, it would be possible to fix another at the height of the chin, as it would then be. By climbing up to the second, a fourth could be placed at a little distance above; and thus in succession, till the top of the cliff should be attained.It was not supposed, that any one could continue the process of attaching the steps, till all were set in their places; nor did they contemplate being able to complete the work in a little time. On the contrary, they expected it to occupy them for days; and they knew, moreover, that long intervals of rest would be required by any one who should have to execute it. Standing upon such unstable footing, for any considerable length of time, would be both irksome and fatiguing; and they were about to enter upon the task with a full knowledge of its difficulties.On reaching the cord they at once set to work upon it. Rather should it be said, that one of them did so: for only one could work at a time in this, the last labour, as they supposed, they would have to perform in that lone valley.In attaching the steps to the rope, Ossaroo was allowed to act as sole operator: since neither of the others understood the handling of cordage so well as he. They could but act as spectators and the only purpose which their presence could serve, was to cheer the shikaree by their company and conversation.By good fortune it was not necessary for Ossaroo to fix any steps to the first thirty feet of the kite cord. One of the long ladders which they had made enabled him to ascend that far without using the sticks; and, indeed, all of the ladders might have served in this way, had the kite carried its cord up the cliff within reach of them. Unfortunately, this did not happen to be the case; and only the first ladder could be made available.Placing it nearly parallel with the rope, Ossaroo mounted up; and, when near its top, commenced attaching the steps. He had carried up along with him about a dozen of the little sticks, with cords to correspond—in a sort of pouch, which he had formed with the skirts of his cotton tunic.Karl and Caspar below, seated upon stones, and Fritz squatted on the ground, watched the movements of the shikaree with deep and speechless interest.It was not a very long time, before he had adjusted the first two pegs in their proper places; and, then letting himself off the ladder, and placing both his feet upon the first cross-piece, in a way that they balanced one another and kept the stick in a horizontal position—he proceeded to attach the third about the height of his chin.To do this required, a good deal of adroitness; but Ossaroo was gifted with this quality to a high degree; and, so far as his footing was concerned, the Hindoo was as much at home upon a rope, as would have been one of those monkeys sacred to the believers in his Brahministic creed.Any other feet would soon have become tired—resting upon such a slender support; but Ossaroo had been accustomed to climbing the tall lofty palms, until his toes had acquired a certain degree of prehensile power; and the smallest branch or protuberance on the trunk of a tree, or even a knot on a rope, was footing enough to enable him to hold on for many minutes at a time. He had no difficulty, therefore, in balancing himself upon the sticks, which he had already attached; nor ascending from one to the other, as each was got into its place. In this way he proceeded, until the stock which he had taken up with him was exhausted, and his apron hung empty. Then, letting himself down from step to step, and cautiously returning to the wooden ladder, he descended to the bottom of the cliff.Karl or Caspar might have rendered his coming down unnecessary, as either could have carried so light a “hod” up the ladder; but there was good reason why Ossaroo should make the descent—that was, to rest and refresh himself.He did not remain very long below—just long enough to let the blood circulate along the soles of his naked feet—and then, with his apron distended—being once more full of sticks—he reclimbed the ladder, swung himself out upon the cord, and clambered up the steps he had already fixed in their places.His second stock of sticks becoming exhausted as the first, he again revisited the earth; again allowed himself an interval of rest; and then ascended as before.With Ossaroo proceeding in this fashion, the remainder of the day was spent—a long interval being allowed for dinner; which Karl and Caspar, having nothing else to do, had cooked with extra care. They did not go home to the hut to perform their culinary operations. There would have been no advantage in doing so: since the kitchen accommodation there was not a whit better than where they were at work; and the larder contained nothing more than what they had brought along with them—some dried ibex-meat. But Karl had not been idle for a portion of the time; and had collected various roots and fruits that, when roasted, not only helped out the meal, but rendered it sufficiently luxurious for stomachs like theirs, no longer fastidious.After dinner, Ossaroo indulged in a long smoke of his favourite “bang;” and, stimulated by this, returned to his task with renewed energy.So successful was he in its accomplishment, that, before sunset he had full fifty steps in place; which, along with the wooden ladder, enabled him to climb nearly a third of the way up the cliff.Of course darkness put an end to his operations for that day; and with the intention of continuing them on the morrow, both the operator and spectators wended their way back to the hut—Karl and Caspar showing as much respect to Ossaroo, as if he had been the master architect, and they only his assistants or labourers. Even Fritz appeared to be impressed with the belief that the shikaree was the most important personage in the party: for every time that the latter descended from the cliff the dog had paid his “devoirs” to him, frisking around, leaping up, and looking steadfastly in his face, as if congratulating him on being their deliverer!On the road home Fritz continued these demonstrations—springing against the legs of the shikaree so as occasionally to impede his progress, evidently convinced—either from his own observation or from the respect which he saw the others were paying him—that the Hindoo was the hero of the day!
It took them another day—with their blades all busy from morning till night—to prepare the pegs which were to constitute the “rounds” of their rope-ladder. More than a hundred were required: as the cliff where the rope passed up was over a hundred yards in height; and the steps were intended to be placed at equal distances of about two feet apart.
It had been their design at first to insert the steps in the rope—between the strands of which it was composed; but, on reflection, a better plan suggested itself. By opening the strands to let in the pieces of wood, the rope might be weakened, so much as to endanger its breaking; and this alone, above all things, was to be avoided. It was deemed more prudent to leave the cord untouched, and place the sticks crosswise outside of it. Whipped round with strong pieces of other cord, they could easily be made to keep their places—more especially as, with the hands of the climber grasping the rope above, no one stick would have to carry the full weight of his body; and, even should one of them slip a little out of place, there would be no great danger of an accident arising out of the circumstance.
It occupied them a second day in twining the pieces of string, required for tying the sticks in their places; and, upon the morning of the third, they returned to the cliff, with the intention of transforming the cord, that the kite had carried up, into a rope-ladder.
The mode by which they intended to effect this purpose will be easily understood—after what has been already said respecting it. The little sticks were to be laid transversely against the rope, and then so tightly tied in their places, as to prevent them from slipping down. The first was to be attached about the height of a man’s waist from the ground; and the second on a level with his chin. Then with the feet resting upon the first, and the left hand grasping the rope above, it would be possible to fix another at the height of the chin, as it would then be. By climbing up to the second, a fourth could be placed at a little distance above; and thus in succession, till the top of the cliff should be attained.
It was not supposed, that any one could continue the process of attaching the steps, till all were set in their places; nor did they contemplate being able to complete the work in a little time. On the contrary, they expected it to occupy them for days; and they knew, moreover, that long intervals of rest would be required by any one who should have to execute it. Standing upon such unstable footing, for any considerable length of time, would be both irksome and fatiguing; and they were about to enter upon the task with a full knowledge of its difficulties.
On reaching the cord they at once set to work upon it. Rather should it be said, that one of them did so: for only one could work at a time in this, the last labour, as they supposed, they would have to perform in that lone valley.
In attaching the steps to the rope, Ossaroo was allowed to act as sole operator: since neither of the others understood the handling of cordage so well as he. They could but act as spectators and the only purpose which their presence could serve, was to cheer the shikaree by their company and conversation.
By good fortune it was not necessary for Ossaroo to fix any steps to the first thirty feet of the kite cord. One of the long ladders which they had made enabled him to ascend that far without using the sticks; and, indeed, all of the ladders might have served in this way, had the kite carried its cord up the cliff within reach of them. Unfortunately, this did not happen to be the case; and only the first ladder could be made available.
Placing it nearly parallel with the rope, Ossaroo mounted up; and, when near its top, commenced attaching the steps. He had carried up along with him about a dozen of the little sticks, with cords to correspond—in a sort of pouch, which he had formed with the skirts of his cotton tunic.
Karl and Caspar below, seated upon stones, and Fritz squatted on the ground, watched the movements of the shikaree with deep and speechless interest.
It was not a very long time, before he had adjusted the first two pegs in their proper places; and, then letting himself off the ladder, and placing both his feet upon the first cross-piece, in a way that they balanced one another and kept the stick in a horizontal position—he proceeded to attach the third about the height of his chin.
To do this required, a good deal of adroitness; but Ossaroo was gifted with this quality to a high degree; and, so far as his footing was concerned, the Hindoo was as much at home upon a rope, as would have been one of those monkeys sacred to the believers in his Brahministic creed.
Any other feet would soon have become tired—resting upon such a slender support; but Ossaroo had been accustomed to climbing the tall lofty palms, until his toes had acquired a certain degree of prehensile power; and the smallest branch or protuberance on the trunk of a tree, or even a knot on a rope, was footing enough to enable him to hold on for many minutes at a time. He had no difficulty, therefore, in balancing himself upon the sticks, which he had already attached; nor ascending from one to the other, as each was got into its place. In this way he proceeded, until the stock which he had taken up with him was exhausted, and his apron hung empty. Then, letting himself down from step to step, and cautiously returning to the wooden ladder, he descended to the bottom of the cliff.
Karl or Caspar might have rendered his coming down unnecessary, as either could have carried so light a “hod” up the ladder; but there was good reason why Ossaroo should make the descent—that was, to rest and refresh himself.
He did not remain very long below—just long enough to let the blood circulate along the soles of his naked feet—and then, with his apron distended—being once more full of sticks—he reclimbed the ladder, swung himself out upon the cord, and clambered up the steps he had already fixed in their places.
His second stock of sticks becoming exhausted as the first, he again revisited the earth; again allowed himself an interval of rest; and then ascended as before.
With Ossaroo proceeding in this fashion, the remainder of the day was spent—a long interval being allowed for dinner; which Karl and Caspar, having nothing else to do, had cooked with extra care. They did not go home to the hut to perform their culinary operations. There would have been no advantage in doing so: since the kitchen accommodation there was not a whit better than where they were at work; and the larder contained nothing more than what they had brought along with them—some dried ibex-meat. But Karl had not been idle for a portion of the time; and had collected various roots and fruits that, when roasted, not only helped out the meal, but rendered it sufficiently luxurious for stomachs like theirs, no longer fastidious.
After dinner, Ossaroo indulged in a long smoke of his favourite “bang;” and, stimulated by this, returned to his task with renewed energy.
So successful was he in its accomplishment, that, before sunset he had full fifty steps in place; which, along with the wooden ladder, enabled him to climb nearly a third of the way up the cliff.
Of course darkness put an end to his operations for that day; and with the intention of continuing them on the morrow, both the operator and spectators wended their way back to the hut—Karl and Caspar showing as much respect to Ossaroo, as if he had been the master architect, and they only his assistants or labourers. Even Fritz appeared to be impressed with the belief that the shikaree was the most important personage in the party: for every time that the latter descended from the cliff the dog had paid his “devoirs” to him, frisking around, leaping up, and looking steadfastly in his face, as if congratulating him on being their deliverer!
On the road home Fritz continued these demonstrations—springing against the legs of the shikaree so as occasionally to impede his progress, evidently convinced—either from his own observation or from the respect which he saw the others were paying him—that the Hindoo was the hero of the day!
Chapter Forty Six.Ossaroo makes a quick descent.Next morning, as soon as they had despatched an early meal, they returned to their work—that is, Ossaroo to work, the others to watch.Unfortunately on this day the weather was unfavourable for operations. There was a high wind, not continuous, but blowing in short, quick puffs—gusty and violent.As Ossaroo hung upon the rope half-way up the precipice, the wind acting upon his body, carried him at times several feet out from the face of the cliff—causing him also to oscillate violently from side to side, notwithstanding that the rope was fast at both ends.It was fearful to look at him thus suspended, and swinging in mid-air. At times the hearts of the spectators were filled with consternation, lest the brave shikaree should either have his brains dashed out against the beetling cliff; or, being forced to let go his hold, be flung far out, and falling upon the rocks below, get crushed to atoms.Often during the earlier part of the day were the alarms of Karl and Caspar raised to such a height, that they shouted to Ossaroo to come down; and when down, entreated him not to go up again until, by the lulling of the wind, the danger should become diminished.Their entreaties, however, were of no avail. The shikaree, accustomed all his life to braving the elements, felt no fear of them; but on the contrary, seemed to feel a pride, if not an actual pleasure, in thus daring danger.Even while swinging out from the cliff, and oscillating along itsfaçade—like the pendulum of some gigantic clock—he was seen tying the strings and adjusting the pieces of stick, as coolly, as if he had been standing uponterra firmaat the bottom!Thus, nearly to the hour of noon, did Ossaroo continue his arduous undertaking—of course with the usual intervals of rest, during each of which Karl and Caspar reiterated their entreaties for him to desist and leave the work to be executed at a more favourable opportunity. Fritz, too, while lavishing his caresses on the daring climber, seemed to look persuadingly into his face—as if he knew there was danger in what the Hindoo was doing.It was all in vain. The shikaree, while resisting all their efforts to restrain him, seemed to scorn the danger which they dreaded; and, without hesitation, returned to his perilous task.And no doubt he would have succeeded in accomplishing it, allowing due time for its completion. It was not the wind that would have shaken him from that rope, to which he clung with the tenacity of a spider. Had the support proved true, he could have held on, even though it had been blowing a hurricane!It was not in this that his chief danger lay; nor from such source was it to come; but from one altogether unexpected and unthought-of.It was near the hour of noon, and Ossaroo had already succeeded in setting the steps up to about half the height of the cliff. He had descended for a fresh supply of sticks; and, having gone up the tree-ladder, and swung himself back upon the kite cord, was just commencing to clamber up it—as he had already done nearly a score of times.The eyes of Karl and Caspar were upon him, following his movements, as they had been doing all along; for, despite his frequent repetition of the ascent, it was always a perilous performance, and interesting to behold.Just as he had got free from the ladder, and fairly out upon the rope, a cry came from his lips that thrilled the hearts of the spectators with alarm: for they knew that the utterance was one of terror. They needed no explanation of that cry; for at the same moment that it reached their ears, they perceived the danger that had caused Ossaroo to utter it. He was descending along the façade of the cliff—not gliding down the rope of his own free will, but as if the kite had got loose at the top, and, yielding to the weight of his body, was being dragged over the surface of the snow!At first, he appeared to be descending only very slowly; and, but for the cries he was putting forth, and the slackening of the rope below, they upon the ground might not have been aware of what was going on. But they had not regarded his movements for many seconds, before perceiving the true state of the case, and the fearful peril in which their faithful shikaree was now placed.Beyond doubt the kite had become detached above; and, yielding to the strain upon the rope, caused by Ossaroo’s weighty was being pulled towards the edge of the precipice!Would the resistance be equal to the weight of the man’s body? Would it let him down easily? Or would the dragging anchor arrive at a place where the surface was smooth, and then gliding rapidly over it, increase the velocity of the descent? In other words, was the shikaree about to be projected through a fall of thirty feet to the bottom of the cliff?The spectators were left but little time to speculate on probabilities. Not a moment was allowed them to take measures for securing the safety of their companion. Before they could recover from the surprise, with which his first shout had inspired them, they saw that his descent was every moment becoming more accelerated: now in gradual declination, then in quick, short jerks—until he had got within about twenty-feet of the ground. They were in hopes that he might continue to descend in this fashion for a few yards further, and then the danger would be over; but, just at that moment, the broad breast of the kite was seen poising itself over the top of the cliff; and like a great living bird, it sprang off from the rocks, and soared out over the valley!Ossaroo, still clinging to the cord, was carried some distance from the cliff; but, fortunately for him, the weight of his body overbalanced the resistance which the atmosphere offered to the broad surface of the kite; else he might have been carried much higher into the air. Equally fortunate was it, that the amount of overbalance was exceedingly slight—otherwise he might have been dashed with violence to the earth!As it was, he came down as gently as a dove, alighting upon his legs, and remaining erect upon them, like Mercury upon the top of his “sky-kissing mountain.”The moment that the shikaree felt his feet touchingterra firma, he sprang nimbly to one side, at the same instant letting go the rope, as if it had been a rod of red-hot iron!The great kite, no longer held in poise against the wind, commenced darting hither and thither; at each turn descending lower and lower—until by one last swoop, in which it seemed to concentrate all its failing strength, it came down towards Ossaroo like a gigantic bird of prey descending upon its victim!It was just as much as the shikaree could do to get out of the way; and, had he not ducked his head in the very nick of time, he would certainly have received a blow upon his skull, that would have endangered its entirety.
Next morning, as soon as they had despatched an early meal, they returned to their work—that is, Ossaroo to work, the others to watch.
Unfortunately on this day the weather was unfavourable for operations. There was a high wind, not continuous, but blowing in short, quick puffs—gusty and violent.
As Ossaroo hung upon the rope half-way up the precipice, the wind acting upon his body, carried him at times several feet out from the face of the cliff—causing him also to oscillate violently from side to side, notwithstanding that the rope was fast at both ends.
It was fearful to look at him thus suspended, and swinging in mid-air. At times the hearts of the spectators were filled with consternation, lest the brave shikaree should either have his brains dashed out against the beetling cliff; or, being forced to let go his hold, be flung far out, and falling upon the rocks below, get crushed to atoms.
Often during the earlier part of the day were the alarms of Karl and Caspar raised to such a height, that they shouted to Ossaroo to come down; and when down, entreated him not to go up again until, by the lulling of the wind, the danger should become diminished.
Their entreaties, however, were of no avail. The shikaree, accustomed all his life to braving the elements, felt no fear of them; but on the contrary, seemed to feel a pride, if not an actual pleasure, in thus daring danger.
Even while swinging out from the cliff, and oscillating along itsfaçade—like the pendulum of some gigantic clock—he was seen tying the strings and adjusting the pieces of stick, as coolly, as if he had been standing uponterra firmaat the bottom!
Thus, nearly to the hour of noon, did Ossaroo continue his arduous undertaking—of course with the usual intervals of rest, during each of which Karl and Caspar reiterated their entreaties for him to desist and leave the work to be executed at a more favourable opportunity. Fritz, too, while lavishing his caresses on the daring climber, seemed to look persuadingly into his face—as if he knew there was danger in what the Hindoo was doing.
It was all in vain. The shikaree, while resisting all their efforts to restrain him, seemed to scorn the danger which they dreaded; and, without hesitation, returned to his perilous task.
And no doubt he would have succeeded in accomplishing it, allowing due time for its completion. It was not the wind that would have shaken him from that rope, to which he clung with the tenacity of a spider. Had the support proved true, he could have held on, even though it had been blowing a hurricane!
It was not in this that his chief danger lay; nor from such source was it to come; but from one altogether unexpected and unthought-of.
It was near the hour of noon, and Ossaroo had already succeeded in setting the steps up to about half the height of the cliff. He had descended for a fresh supply of sticks; and, having gone up the tree-ladder, and swung himself back upon the kite cord, was just commencing to clamber up it—as he had already done nearly a score of times.
The eyes of Karl and Caspar were upon him, following his movements, as they had been doing all along; for, despite his frequent repetition of the ascent, it was always a perilous performance, and interesting to behold.
Just as he had got free from the ladder, and fairly out upon the rope, a cry came from his lips that thrilled the hearts of the spectators with alarm: for they knew that the utterance was one of terror. They needed no explanation of that cry; for at the same moment that it reached their ears, they perceived the danger that had caused Ossaroo to utter it. He was descending along the façade of the cliff—not gliding down the rope of his own free will, but as if the kite had got loose at the top, and, yielding to the weight of his body, was being dragged over the surface of the snow!
At first, he appeared to be descending only very slowly; and, but for the cries he was putting forth, and the slackening of the rope below, they upon the ground might not have been aware of what was going on. But they had not regarded his movements for many seconds, before perceiving the true state of the case, and the fearful peril in which their faithful shikaree was now placed.
Beyond doubt the kite had become detached above; and, yielding to the strain upon the rope, caused by Ossaroo’s weighty was being pulled towards the edge of the precipice!
Would the resistance be equal to the weight of the man’s body? Would it let him down easily? Or would the dragging anchor arrive at a place where the surface was smooth, and then gliding rapidly over it, increase the velocity of the descent? In other words, was the shikaree about to be projected through a fall of thirty feet to the bottom of the cliff?
The spectators were left but little time to speculate on probabilities. Not a moment was allowed them to take measures for securing the safety of their companion. Before they could recover from the surprise, with which his first shout had inspired them, they saw that his descent was every moment becoming more accelerated: now in gradual declination, then in quick, short jerks—until he had got within about twenty-feet of the ground. They were in hopes that he might continue to descend in this fashion for a few yards further, and then the danger would be over; but, just at that moment, the broad breast of the kite was seen poising itself over the top of the cliff; and like a great living bird, it sprang off from the rocks, and soared out over the valley!
Ossaroo, still clinging to the cord, was carried some distance from the cliff; but, fortunately for him, the weight of his body overbalanced the resistance which the atmosphere offered to the broad surface of the kite; else he might have been carried much higher into the air. Equally fortunate was it, that the amount of overbalance was exceedingly slight—otherwise he might have been dashed with violence to the earth!
As it was, he came down as gently as a dove, alighting upon his legs, and remaining erect upon them, like Mercury upon the top of his “sky-kissing mountain.”
The moment that the shikaree felt his feet touchingterra firma, he sprang nimbly to one side, at the same instant letting go the rope, as if it had been a rod of red-hot iron!
The great kite, no longer held in poise against the wind, commenced darting hither and thither; at each turn descending lower and lower—until by one last swoop, in which it seemed to concentrate all its failing strength, it came down towards Ossaroo like a gigantic bird of prey descending upon its victim!
It was just as much as the shikaree could do to get out of the way; and, had he not ducked his head in the very nick of time, he would certainly have received a blow upon his skull, that would have endangered its entirety.