Below us lay a narrow valley or gorge, about a mile broad, separating us from the low range of hills on the far side of which lay Bideshk.

The depth of the snow we were about to make a way through was easily calculated by the telegraph-posts, which in places were covered to within two or three feet of the top.

"You see, sahib," said the Shagird, pointing with his whip to a huge drift some distance to the left of the wires; "two men lying under that." The intelligence did not interest me in the least.

Could we or not get over this "Valley of Death"?
was the only question my mind was at that moment capable of considering.
[Illustration: A DAY IN THE SNOW] In less than a quarter of an hour we were in the thick of it, up to our waists in the snow, and pulling, rather than leading, our horses after us.

It reminded me of a bad channel passage from Folkestone to Boulogne, and took about the same time--two hours, although the actual distance was under a mile and a half.