And the pilgrim gazes with awestruck eyes, for he sees not only the marks of the demon’s rope, but also, in the narrower bands higher up the mountain, the coils of the serpent that he has often seen in his images of Siva; and, in the ragged edges of the snow-clad peaks and the icicles that hang from the glaciers, he sees the matted hair of the god. He is tired and weary, for it is months since he left his home in the plains. First he marched through tangled jungle, through grass three times as tall as himself, and under great cane stalks and feathery bamboo trees. In these early stages of his walk he sang and shouted to frighten away the heavy sleepy bear, and to scare the quick-limbed panther that might be resting on any overhanging branch. Then he climbed up through forests of dark cedar and pine, with the white flowers of the magnolia, and the wealth of rhododendrons bright against the dark tree stems. On and on he went into the cold grey passes where his fear of wild beasts was lost in the fear of the spirits of the mountains, and he walked in silence and awe lest avalanche or storm should prove to him their anger. For he felt that he was indeed amongst the homes of the gods. Each moment as he mounted higher new snow-clad peaks rose before him, and those he had already seen seemed higher and greater. His heart was filled with the dream of a rich land somewhere amongst these glittering heights to which his soul might go after death, if only his pilgrimage should win him merit. So, as the sun sent flashes of light across the snowy peaks, the weary man plucked up courage and stepped out more bravely, till at length through a last ravine he saw the hoary head of the mountain he sought, and as he saw it he tore from his threadbare loin-cloth a little rag to tie to a bit of scrub. Other rags hung there, for many pilgrims when they reached that spot had been so poor that they had nothing left to offer at the sacred bush except a bit of the cloth they wore. And so he added another, and left the rags to flutter there in the cold winds of that high land, while he hastened on to finish his pilgrimage, and walk round the sacred mountain. Other places are sacred besides this mountain that stands for Mount Meru, the centre of the world lotus. Each rock and stream has its spirit, and everywhere amongst the mountains there are shrines and temples and far-off holy places to which pilgrims go in their endless search for rest. Through all the land of India the mountains of the north are held sacred, and often the eyes of men who will never be able to reach them as pilgrims look longingly towards those homes of the gods. CHAPTER II THE STORY OF THE GANGES