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All around the country is red, sterile
and burnt up. In front the great wall of hills rises dark and ominous.
At length Dargai at the foot of the pass is reached. It is another mud
fort, swelled during the operations into an entrenched camp, and
surrounded by a network of barbed wire entanglement. The Malakand Pass
can now be seen--a great cleft in the line of mountains--and far up the
gorge, the outline of the fort that guards it, is distinguishable.
The graded road winds up, with many a turn, the long ascent from Dargai
to the top of the pass. The driver flogs the wretched, sore-backed
ponies tirelessly. At length the summit is neared. The view is one worth
stopping to look at. Behind and below, under the haze of the heat, is
the wide expanse of open country--smooth, level, stretching away to the
dim horizon. The tonga turns the corner and enters a new world. A cooler
breeze is blowing. A single step has led from peace to war; from
civilisation to savagery; from India to the mountains.


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