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Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion), 1854-1909

"Mr. Isaacs"

I
stepped out and stood on the narrow way, pausing to look and to enjoy
all that I saw. I had been in other parts of the lower Himalayas before,
and the first sensations I had experienced had given way to those of a
contemplative admiration. No longer awed or overpowered or oppressed by
the sense of physical insignificance in my own person, I could endure to
look on the stupendous panorama before me, and could even analyse what I
felt. But before long my pardonable reverie was disturbed by a
well-known voice. The clear tones rang like a trumpet along the
mountain-side in a glad shout of welcome. I turned and saw Isaacs coming
quickly towards me, bounding along the edge of the precipice as if his
life had been passed in tending goats and robbing eagles' nests. I, too,
moved on to meet him, and in a moment we clasped hands in unfeigned
delight at being again together. What was Ghyrkins or his party to me?
Here was the man I sought; the one man on earth who seemed worth having
for a friend. And yet it was but three weeks since we first met, and I
am not enthusiastic by temperament.
"What news, friend Griggs?"
"She greets you and sends you this," I said, taking from my bosom the
parcel she had thrust into my hand as I left in the dark. His face fell
suddenly. It was the silver box he had given her; was it possible she
had taken so much trouble to return it? He turned it over mournfully.


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