•-*> The Caves of Pha-gat
waiting for a wind to blow it away. They go every
evening, say my boatmen, to drink the salt water
of the s e a ; and they cross in their flight the crests o f
the Zingyaik hills.
We move slowly on along the dead water, the half-
moon overhead. White mists gather on the shadowy
face on the river, and the air grows chill.
