"The rains will soon be
on, lass; and when the rains are on, by all accounts, they're precious
heavy hereabouts--rare fine rains, so that a man's half-flooded out of
his bed o' nights--which won't suit YOU, my lady."
The poor little woman clasped her twitching hands in feeble agony. "Oh,
Ivor, how dreadful! Is it what they call the mongoose, or monsoon, or
something? But if they're so bad here, surely they'll be worse in the
hills--and camping out, too--won't they?"
"Not if you go the right way to work. Ah'm told it never rains t'other
side o' the hills. The mountains stop the clouds, and once you're
over, you're safe enough. Only, you must take care to keep well in the
Maharajah's territory. Cross the frontier t'other side into Tibet,
an' they'll skin thee alive as soon as look at thee. They don't like
strangers in Tibet; prejudiced against them, somehow; they pretty well
skinned that young chap Landor who tried to go there a year ago."
"But, Ivor, I don't want to be skinned alive! I'm not an eel, please!"
"That's all right, lass. Leave that to me. I can get thee a guide, a
man that's very well acquainted with the mountains.
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