On the other side of this mountain, as we descended into the valley, we found a village which presented a very different aspect from any we had yet seen. The houses were not made of a basket work of twigs filled in with mud, like the ordinary native dwellings, but of heavy logs. The little compounds surrounding each house were enclosed with high fences made of strong timbers, each sharpened to a point at the top and firmly bound together, instead of the usual hedge of blossoming bushes or tile-covered mud wall. It all looked as if these farmers and foresters were prepared for a siege, but from what enemy? There were no Indians or wild tribes here. It was a most picturesque place. The mountains rose grandly above us, all around were woods, and a beautiful stream rippled along between them and the village. It was a glorious moonlit night, the atmosphere seemed fairly to sparkle with brilliancy. Again, after supper, we prepared to take a walk. Few indeed had been our opportunities for such honeymoon observances as this, which are supposed to be the peculiar privilege and bounden duty of all the good newly married. As has been noted already, the large crowds which watched our every movement, and from whose observation not the smallest motion was lost, precluded any such folly on our part, but here, far off in the wild recesses of the woods and mountains, in a village whose inhabitants seemed nobly exceptional in the praise-worthy habit of keeping at home, here we might wander at will, in the enchanting light, listening anon to the silvery cadences of the stream. So we sauntered along in the most approved fashion of honeymooners until a few steps beyond the confines of the village, where woods closed in on all sides. We had observed here and there as we passed along what looked like a sort of huge pen made of logs, weighted with great stones on top, strangely constructed, as if for the housing of some large animal. Now as we stood on the edge of the brook trying to decide whether to cross into the woods, a sound as of heavy and yet stealthy footsteps on the dry leaves in the shadow of the trees arrested our attention. An uncanny mystery seemed to hang over everything. Slightly startled by the sound, we awakened to the fact that the pens we had seen must be tiger traps, that this was a famous tiger tramping ground (they would naturally come to the brook to drink), that the enemy against whom the village was so strongly fortified were these beasts of prey, and that it would be in every way profitable to us to postpone our moonlight rambles for some more propitious time and place. So with a less lover-like and more business-like pace we returned to the prosaic but welcome shelter of the huts.