Once upon a time there was a King who lived on the road to Thibet, very many miles in the Himalayas.  His Kingdom was eleven thousand feet above the sea and exactly four miles square; but most of the miles stood on end owing to the nature of the country.  His revenues were rather less than four hundred pounds yearly, and they were expended in the maintenance of one elephant and a standing army of five men.  He was tributary to the Indian Government, who allowed him certain sums for keeping a section of the Himalaya-Thibet road in repair.  He further increased his revenues by selling timber to the Railway companies; for he would cut the great deodar trees in his one forest, and they fell thundering into the Sutlej river and were swept down to the plains three hundred miles away and became railway-ties.  Now and again this King, whose name does not matter, would mount a ringstraked horse and ride scores of miles to Simla-town to confer with the Lieutenant-Governor on matters of state, or to assure the Viceroy that his sword was at the service of the Queen-Empress.  Then the Viceroy would cause a ruffle of drums to be sounded, and the ringstraked horse and the cavalry of the State—­two men in tatters—­and the herald who bore the silver stick before the King, would trot back to their own place, which lay between the tail of a heaven-climbing glacier and a dark birch-forest.

Now, from such a King, always remembering that he possessed one veritable elephant, and could count his descent for twelve hundred years, I expected, when it was my fate to wander through his dominions, no more than mere license to live.

The night had closed in rain, and rolling clouds blotted out the lights of the villages in the valley.  Forty miles away, untouched by cloud or storm, the white shoulder of Donga Pa—­the Mountain of the Council of the Gods—­upheld the Evening Star.  The monkeys sang sorrowfully to each other as they hunted for dry roosts in the fern-wreathed trees, and the last puff of the day-wind brought from the unseen villages the scent of damp wood-smoke, hot cakes, dripping undergrowth, and rotting pine-cones.  That is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if once it creeps into the blood of a man, that man will at the last, forgetting all else, return to the hills to die.  The clouds closed and the smell went away and there remained nothing in all the world except chilling white mist and the boom of the Sutlej river racing through the valley below.  A fat-tailed sheep, who did not want to die, bleated piteously at my tent door.  He was scuffling with the Prime Minister and the Director-General of Public Education, and he was a royal gift to me and my camp servants.  I expressed my thanks suitably, and asked if I might have audience of the King.  The Prime Minister readjusted his turban, which had fallen off in the struggle, and assured me that the King would be very pleased to see me.  Therefore, I despatched two bottles as a foretaste, and when the sheep had entered upon another incarnation went to the King’s Palace through the wet.  He had sent his army to escort me, but the army stayed to talk with my cook.  Soldiers are very much alike all the world over.