A bank of cloud still lay across the face of the mountain when Bullock and I left the crest where we were established. It was late in the afternoon. We had looked down into the gorge and watched our little donkeys crossing the stream. Now we proceeded to follow their tracks across the plain. The wind was fiercely blowing up the sand and swept it away to leeward, transforming the dead flat surface into a wriggling sea of watered silk. The party were all sheltering in their tents when we rejoined them. Our camp was situated on a grassy bank below which by some miracle a spring wells out from the sand. We also sought shelter. But a short while after sunset the wind subsided. We all came forth and proceeded to a little eminence near at hand; and as we looked down the valley there was Everest calm in the stillness of evening and clear in the last light. I have dwelt upon this episode at some length partly because in all our travels before we reached the mountain it is for me beyond other adventures unforgettable; and not less because the vision of Everest inhabiting our minds after this day had no small influence upon our deductions when we came to close quarters with the mountain. We made other opportunities before reaching Tingri to ascend likely hills for what we could see; notably from Shekar Dzong we made a divergence from the line of march and from a hill above Ponglet, on a morning of cloudless sunrise, saw the whole group of mountains of which Everest is the centre. But no view was so instructive as that above Shiling and we added little to the knowledge gained that day.