We took dozens, as we went along,
of little villages on our route, wood-built villages with quaint houses
and turrets; and as Hilda had brought her collection of prints with
her, for comparison of the Indian and Nepaulese monuments, we spent the
evenings after our short day's march each day in arranging and collating
them. We had planned to be away six weeks, at least. In that time the
monsoon would have burst and passed. Our guide thought we might see all
that was worth seeing of the Buddhist monasteries, and Sir Ivor thought
we should have fairly escaped the dreaded wet season.
"What do you make of our guide?" I asked of Hilda on our fourth day out.
I began somehow to distrust him.
"Oh, he seems all right," Hilda answered, carelessly--and her voice
reassured me. "He's a rogue, of course; all guides and interpreters, and
dragomans and the like, in out-of-the-way places, always ARE rogues. If
they were honest men, they would share the ordinary prejudices of their
countrymen, and would have nothing to do with the hated stranger. But
in this case our friend, Ram Das, has no end to gain by getting us
into mischief. If he had, he wouldn't scruple for a second to cut our
throats; but then, there are too many of us.
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