It was not till after dinner that I discovered some one had cut a square foot
of velvet from the centre of my best camera-cloth. This made me so angry that I
wandered down the valley in the hope of meeting the big brown bear. I could
hear him grunting like a discontented pig in the poppy field as I waited
shoulder deep in the dew-dripping Indian corn to catch him after his meal. The
moon was at full and drew out the scent of the tasseled crop. Then I heard the
anguished bellow of a Himalayan cow--one of the little black crummies no bigger
than Newfoundland dogs. Two shadows that looked like a bear and her cub hurried
past me. I was in the act of firing when I saw that each bore a brilliant red
head. The lesser animal was trailing something rope-like that left a dark track
on the path. They were within six feet of me, and the shadow of the moonlight
lay velvet-black on their faces. Velvet-black was exactly the word, for by all
the powers of moonlight they were masked in the velvet of my camera-cloth. I
marveled, and went to bed.
Next morning the kingdom was in an uproar. Namgay Doola, men said, had gone
forth in the night and with a sharp knife had cut off the tail of a cow
belonging to the rabbit-faced villager who had betrayed him.
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