melting into the haze of the vast distance, the icy apex of Mount Everest itself, in a straight line nearly 200 miles away, but distinctly visible in the clear morning atmosphere. And, between the low-lying rice fields, nearly at sea-level, and the towering 29,000 feet of that distant peak, lies embosomed the country of Nepal.
It is 75 miles from Raxaul to Katmandu, and, regarded dispassionately, it seems no exaggeration to describe at least 60 miles of this journey as a materialized nightmare. The first few miles is that common dream of walking along a well-made road and being suddenly confronted by a great section cut out of it, the gap going down into nothingness, over which one sways and shudders. In the case of the high road to Nepal the bottom of the cutting is a river, which, discharging from the saturated rice fields has playfully gouged a channel for itself out of the thoroughfare. These interruptions occur at frequent intervals, and to negotiate them a detour into the adjoining crops is necessary. It had been casually communicated to us that the road
