CHAPTER TWO.
A VIEW FROM CHUMULARI.
Our scene lies in the very heart of the Himalayas--in that district of them least explored by English travellers, though not the most distant from the Anglo-Indian capital, Calcutta.

Almost due north of this city, and in that portion of the Himalayan ranges embraced by the great bend of the Burrampooter, may be found the spot upon which our interest is to be fixed.

Literally may it be termed a spot, when compared in superficies with the vast extent of wilderness that surrounds it--a wilderness of bleak, barren ridges, of glistening glaciers, of snow-clad summits, soaring one above another, or piled incongruously together like cumuli in the sky.
In the midst of this chaos of rock, ice, and snow, Chumulari raises his majestic summit, crowned and robed in white, as becomes his sacred character.

Around are other forms, his acolytes and attendants, less in stature, but mighty mountains nevertheless, and, like him, wearing the vestment of everlasting purity.
Could you stand upon the top of Chumulari, you would have under your eye, and thousands of feet below your feet, the scene of our narrative-- the arena in which its various incidents were enacted.

Not so unlike an amphitheatre would that scene appear--only differing from one, in the small number of the _dramatis persona_, and the entire absence of spectators.
From the top of Chumulari, looking down among the foot hills of this majestic mountain, you might behold a valley of a singular character--so singular as at once to fix your attention.