What was the meaning of the statue-like form? I would inquire at the first opportunity; and that very day, accordingly, I spoke my mind to Yasma. But again she was to fail me. Like the Afghan guides, she was reluctant to discuss the subject; her lips wrinkled with a faint displeasure, and her eloquent dark eyes were averted. Only upon being urgently pressed would she answer at all; and then, from her hasty attempts to change the subject, I judged that she knew more than she wished to admit; I suspected that she was just a little shocked and frightened, almost like a pious lady tempted into a profane discussion. But her resistance merely whetted my curiosity. And at length I coaxed her into a partial explanation. "There is a story among our people," she said, while her eyes took on an unusual gravity, "that five thousand years ago the gods placed that stone image on the peak to watch over us and guide us. Yulada we call her, a name given by the early seers of our tribe. So long as we obey Yulada's wishes, she will bless us and bring us happiness; but if we forget her commands, she will scourge us with earthquake and lightning." Upon uttering these words, Yasma startled me by stooping toward the floor, bending her neck low as if in supplication, and mumbling a series of apparently meaningless phrases. "Then the stone image is some sort of god?" I questioned. Yasma continued muttering to herself. And as I stood watching in perplexity, I was enticed once more by that same rash idea which had almost cost my life. "Sometime I'm going up to Yulada," I vowed, my curiosity piqued to the utmost. "Then I'll find out for myself what's she's like." An expression of alarm, almost of horror, distorted the clear, mobile features. "Oh, you must not!" she cried, interrupting the ceremonies, and resuming an erect attitude. "You must not ever, ever go up to Yulada!" "Why not?" "None of our people," she explained, hurriedly, and still with that look of fright, "must ever go within five stones' throws of Yulada. It would be terrible, terrible to go too close!" "But why?" She hesitated, in pitiable uncertainty; then hastily narrated, "Long, long ago our soothsayers foretold that great sorrow would come to whoever climbed within touching distance of the stone woman. And so, in fact, it has proved to be. Only three men, within living memory, have ever defied the warning; and all have learned the way of bitter wisdom. One fell to his death in a crevasse of the mountain, and one was bitten by a serpent and perished in agony, and one lost his wife and first-born son, and passed the rest of his days in loneliness and despair." Yasma paused again, sadly as though brooding on some personal grief; then passionately demanded, "Promise me, promise that whatever happens, you will never, never go up to Yulada!"