In another ten minutes the intense stillness of the dawn held all things in its grip, and that had its effect on our two beasts. This time I could see clearly both of them lifting their heads and listening. What sounds were they trying to catch? I did not have long to wait. In a tree not far off a bird shook itself, then another did the same thing, on another bough. One of them sang. It was a song sparrow and its cry roused all nature. Other song sparrows trilled; then other birds, and still others! By now shapes and colours were coming to light with blinding rapidity. Thus passed the short tropical twilight, and Ghond got up to say his prayers. That day our wanderings brought us to the Lamasery near Singalele of which I have spoken before. The Lamas were glad to give us all the news of Gay-Neck. They informed me that the previous afternoon Gay-Neck and the flock of swifts who nested under the eaves of the monastery had flown southwards. Again with the blessings of the Lamas we said farewell to their hospitable serai, and set out on Gay-Neck's trail. The mountains burnt like torches behind us as we bestowed on them our last look. Before us lay the autumn tinted woods glimmering in gold, purple, green, and cerise. CHAPTER VII GAY-NECK'S STORY In the preceding chapter I made scanty references to the places and incidents through which Gay-Neck was recovered. Ghond found his track with certainty the first day of our ten days' search for him, but in order to see those things clearly and continuously, it would be better to let Gay-Neck tell his own Odyssey. It is not hard for us to understand him if we use the grammar of fancy and the dictionary of imagination. The October noon when we boarded the train at Darjeeling for our return journey to town, Gay-Neck sat in his cage, and commenced the story of his recent truancy from Dentam to Singalele and back. "O, Master of many tongues, O wizard of all languages human and animal, listen to my tale. Listen to the stammering wandering narrative of a poor bird. Since the river has its roots in the hill, so springs my story from the mountains. "When near the eagle's nest I heard and beheld the wicked hawk's talons tear my mother to pieces, I was so distressed that I decided to die, but not by the claws of those treacherous birds. If I was to be served up for a meal let it be to the king of the air; so I went and sat on the ledge near the eagle's nest, but they would do me no harm. Their house was in mourning. Their father had been trapped and killed, and their mother was away hunting for pheasants and hares. Since up to now the younglings had only eaten what had been killed for them, they dared not attack and finish poor me who was alive. I do not know yet why no eagle has harmed me; during the past days I have seen many.