And when the little breeze walked upon them it was as though they bent beneath the soft tread and were brushed by the sweeping skirts of unseen, hastening Presences.
Like a vast prayer-rug, sapphire and silken, the poppies stretched to the gray feet of the mountain.

Between their southern edge and the clustering summits a row of faded brown, low hills knelt--like brown-robed, withered and weary old men, backs bent, faces hidden between outstretched arms, palms to the earth and brows touching earth within them--in the East's immemorial attitude of worship.
I half expected them to rise--and as I watched a man appeared on one of the bowed, rocky shoulders, abruptly, with the ever-startling suddenness which in the strange light of these latitudes objects spring into vision.

As he stood scanning my camp there arose beside him a laden pony, and at its head a Tibetan peasant.

The first figure waved its hand; came striding down the hill.
As he approached I took stock of him.

A young giant, three good inches over six feet, a vigorous head with unruly clustering black hair; a clean-cut, clean-shaven American face.
"I'm Dick Drake," he said, holding out his hand.