go. We hang on to each
other, avoiding the trickles as best we can. Hullo! this plant is a
cardamom, carrying little seeds rather like spicy pepper; nibble one, it
may keep off the effects of the wetting we have been unable to avoid
altogether. How cold it seems to have grown all of a sudden! Is it the
rain, or because we are so much higher up? I suppose really it is the
latter, because I remember now that the planters always live on the tops
of hills to get the fresh air, which is more healthy there than in the
stifling valleys.

It is a long time before the storm passes, and when at last it dies down
to a few drops and we emerge and shake ourselves, all trace of the
coolie boy has vanished! Yes, it is true! He has gone, and the bag too!
Well, he must have gone upward or we should have seen him pass, so let
us hope he is honest and has taken the bag to the house. There is only
one path, so we can do nothing but follow.

On we climb again, and presently the scene changes; we have got into the
tea-scrub, and wander among rows of bushes about the size of gooseberry
bushes, receiving deluges of cold water against our legs. The path
zigzags this way and that, rising each time so that we can look back and
see it lying below us in fold after fold. At last! There is an opening!
I see a glimpse of green lawn and some poinsettias! This must be the
place! Yes, I can see the bungalow, and here is a mackintosh-clad figure
hastening down the path to greet us.

"My dear fellow! However did you get here? Why on earth didn't you let
us know? We'd have sent to meet you!"

As we grasp hands I explain about the telegram. "Oh, then I shall get it
with the letters to-morrow morning!" he says lightly. "No matter, so
long as you are here and safe. I was afraid you had got lost upon the
mountain-top, and was setting forth to seek you."

"But how did you know?"

"Your coolie arrived with the bag a quarter of an hour ago, and your
name is written on the label very large and clear. Delighted to see you!
The missus is romping round getting your beds aired and pinning up
curtains in your honour!"

[Illustration: RUANVELI DAGOBA AT THE "BURIED CITY."]

CHAPTER XVI

A SACRED TREE

Do you remember that just about this time last week we were crouching in
a hole in a muddy bank waiting for the thunderstorm to pass on? How
different now, though we are still in Ceylon and, as crow flies, not so
many miles from the Hunters' mountain-s