The heavy stone archway of the temple of Kailasa closed behind them with a deep rumble, like the sigh of an ancient titan. Arthur Carey and Ram Babu stood blinking in the pale light of dawn, their lungs drinking in the icy air of the lower Himalayas. The mountain range stretched endlessly around them, jagged and white, the valleys cradling mists that clung to the slopes like veils. For a moment Arthur allowed himself the luxury of silence, of feeling the ground solid beneath his boots after the strange and dreamlike beauty of Shamballa.
Ram Babu, in contrast, immediately collapsed to his knees. “By all the gods,” he wheezed, slapping his thighs, “the journey out of that cursed temple has taken my last breath! Sahib, if I live to see lunch, I shall build a shrine to thank the gods for keep
