"Are you quite sure that this lake is the home of the gods?" I inquired of Kachi. "Why, even on the Devil's Lake we had better weather than this." "Yes, sir," replied Kachi. "But you make the gods angry, and that is why they send thunder, hail, and rain to stop your progress. You are going on against the gods, sir." "Never mind, Kachi. It cannot pour forever." At midnight we had no idea where we were; still we pushed on. "Have we passed the Gomba? Have we not yet reached it?" were the questions we asked one another. It seemed to me that, at the rate we were going, we should have been near the place, and yet after another hour's tramp we had not struck it. I was under the impression that we had gone about nine miles. I expressed the opinion that we had passed it, but the Shokas insisted that we had not, so we again proceeded. We had hardly gone five hundred yards when we heard the faint, distant, and most welcome bark of a dog. It came from the north-west, and we surmised that it must come from Tucker. We had steered too far south of the place, which accounted for our missing it in the darkness. Guided by the yelping, we hastily directed our steps toward the settlement. Suddenly the first dog was joined by fifty others, all angry and noisy; but though we knew by the sound that we were approaching the village, it was so dark and stormy that we could not find the place. Only when we found ourselves close to the mud huts could we be certain that we had at last arrived. It was then between 2 and 3 A.M. The rain still came down in torrents. There was no sign of the inhabitants being willing to give us shelter. It was quite out of the question to pitch our little _tente d'abri_, for our things were already wringing wet. We knocked on a door so hard that the door itself nearly gave way. This was a shelter-house, a _serai_ for pilgrims, and as we claimed to be pilgrims, we had, by the laws of the country, a right to admission. Nattoo, who had once before reached this lake by a different route, led us to this house. "You are bandits," said a hoarse voice from inside, "or you would not come at this hour." "No, we are not," we entreated. "Please open. We are well-to-do people. We will harm no one, and pay for all." "_Middu, Middu!_" (Cannot be, no!) "You are brigands. I will not open." To show that we were not what they imagined, Chanden Sing and Dola tapped again so gently at the door that the bolt gave way. The next moment ten strangers were squatting down round a warm fire drying their shrivelled-up, soaked skins by the flame of dried tamarisk and dung. The landlord--a doctor, by-the-way--was reassured when he saw that we had no evil intentions, and found some silver coins in the palm of his hand. Yet, he said, he rather wished we would go and sleep somewhere else. There was a capital empty hut next door, he suggested.