The unknown life of Jesus Christ : $b the original text of Nicolas Notovitch's 1877 discoveryNotovitch, Nicolas
Religion
The unknown life of Jesus Christ : $b the original text of Nicolas Notovitch's 1877 discovery
Notovitch, Nicolas
Christianity and other religions -- Buddhism; Jesus Christ -- Biography -- Apocryphal and legendary literature
Abandoning the tonga, I hired saddle horses--not without considerable
difficulty--and evening had arrived when we started to descend from
Muré, which is at an altitude of 5,000 feet. This stage of our journey
had nothing playful in it. The road was torn in deep ruts by the late
rains, darkness came upon us and our horses rather guessed than saw
their way. When night had completely set in, a tempestuous rain
surprised us in the open country, and, owing to the thick foliage of the
centenarian oaks which stood on the sides of our road, we were plunged
in profound darkness. That we might not lose each other, we had to
continue exchanging calls from time to time. In this impenetrable
obscurity we divined huge masses of rock almost above our heads, and
were conscious of, on our left, a roaring torrent, the water of which
formed a cascade we could not see. During two hours we waded in the mud
and the icy rain had chilled my very marrow, when we perceived in the
distance a little fire, the sight of which revived our energies. But how
deceitful are lights in the mountains! You believe you see the fire
burning quite near to you and at once it disappears, to reappear again,
to the right, to the left, above, below you, as if it took pleasure in
playing tricks upon the harassed traveller. All the time the road makes
a thousand turns, and winds here and there, and the fire--which is
immovable--seems to be in continual motion, the obscurity preventing you
realizing that you yourself modify your direction every instant.
I had quite given up all hope of approaching this much-wished-for fire,
when it appeared again, and this time so near that our horses stopped
before it.
I have here to express my sincere thanks to the Englishmen for the
foresight of which they gave proof in building by the roadsides the
little bengalows--one-story houses for the shelter of travellers. It is
true, one must not demand comfort in this kind of hotel; but this is a
matter in which the traveller, broken down by fatigue, is not exacting,
and he is at the summit of happiness when he finds at his disposal a
clean and dry room.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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