It was in such a spot as this that, nearly at noon on the appointed day, my dooly-bearers set me down and warned me I was at my journey’s end.  I stepped out and stood on the narrow way, pausing to look and to enjoy all that I saw.  I had been in other parts of the lower Himalayas before, and the first sensations I had experienced had given way to those of a contemplative admiration.  No longer awed or overpowered or oppressed by the sense of physical insignificance in my own person, I could endure to look on the stupendous panorama before me, and could even analyse what I felt.  But before long my pardonable reverie was disturbed by a well-known voice.  The clear tones rang like a trumpet along the mountain-side in a glad shout of welcome.  I turned and saw Isaacs coming quickly towards me, bounding along the edge of the precipice as if his life had been passed in tending goats and robbing eagles’ nests.  I, too, moved on to meet him, and in a moment we clasped hands in unfeigned delight at being again together.  What was Ghyrkins or his party to me?  Here was the man I sought; the one man on earth who seemed worth having for a friend.  And yet it was but three weeks since we first met, and I am not enthusiastic by temperament.

“What news, friend Griggs?”

“She greets you and sends you this,” I said, taking from my bosom the parcel she had thrust into my hand as I left in the dark.  His face fell suddenly.  It was the silver box he had given her; was it possible she had taken so much trouble to return it?  He turned it over mournfully.

“You had better open it.  There is probably something in it.”

I never saw a more complete change in a man’s face during a single second than came over Isaacs’ in that moment.  He had not thought of opening it, in his first disappointment at finding it returned.  He turned back the lid.  Bound with a bit of narrow ribbon and pressed down carefully, he found a heavy lock of gold-white hair, so fair that it made everything around it seem dark—­the grass, our clothes, and even the white streamer that hung down from Isaacs’ turban.  It seemed to shed a bright light, even in the broad noon-day, as it lay there in the curiously wrought box—­just as the body of some martyred saint found jealously concealed in the dark corner of an ancient crypt, and broken in upon by unsuspecting masons delving a king’s grave, might throw up in their dusky faces a dazzling halo of soft radiance—­the glory of the saint hovering lovingly by the body wherein the soul’s sufferings were perfected.

The moment Isaacs realised what it was, he turned away, his face all gladness, and moved on a few steps with bent head, evidently contemplating his new treasure.  Then he snapped the spring, and putting the casket in his vest turned round to me.

“Thank you, Griggs; how are they all?”

“It was worth a two-hundred mile ride to see your face when you opened that box.  They are pretty well.  I left them swearing that the party was broken up, and that they would all go back to Simla.”