sky as to a rendezvous of witches.
This was a different display. These clouds came slowly sailing from the
distant horizon, like ships on an aerial voyage. Some were below us,
some on our level; they were all in well-defined, distinct masses,
molten silver on deck, below trailing rain, and attended on earth
by gigantic shadows that moved with them. This strange fleet of
battle-ships, drifted by the shifting currents, was maneuvering for an
engagement. One after another, as they came into range about our peak
of observation, they opened fire. Sharp flashes of lightning darted from
one to the other; a jet of flame from one leaped across the interval
and was buried in the bosom of its adversary; and at every discharge the
boom of great guns echoed through the mountains. It was something more
than a royal salute to the tomb of the mortal at our feet, for the
masses of cloud were rent in the fray, at every discharge the rain
was precipitated in increasing torrents, and soon the vast hulks were
trailing torn fragments and wreaths of mist, like the shot-away shrouds
and sails of ships in battle. Gradually, from this long-range practice
with single guns and exchange of broadsides, they drifted into
closer conflict, rushed together, and we lost sight of the individual
combatants in the general tumult of this aerial war.

We had barely twenty minutes for our observations, when it was time
to go; and had scarcely left the peak when the clouds enveloped it. We
hastened down under the threatening sky to the saddles and the luncheon.
Just off from the summit, amid the rocks, is a complete arbor, or
tunnel, of rhododendrons. This cavernous place a Western writer has made
the scene of a desperate encounter between Big Tom and a catamount, or
American panther, which had been caught in a trap and dragged it there,
pursued by Wilson. It is an exceedingly graphic narrative, and is
enlivened by the statement that Big Tom had the night before drunk up
all the whisky of the party which had spent the night on the summit. Now
Big Tom assured us that the whisky part of the story was an invention;
he was not (which is true) in the habit of using it; if he ever did take
any, it might be a drop on Mitchell; in fact, when he inquired if we
had a flask, he remarked that a taste of it would do him good then and
there. We regretted the lack of it in our baggage. But what inclined Big
Tom to discredit the Western writer's story altogether was the fact th