Excerpt from the book:

I met Anthony Moss by sheer chance at the foot of Adam’s Peak. A large footprint is imbedded in stone on top of Adam’s Peak, seven thousand feet above sea level. A billion people in the Orient think that this footprint is holy, and thousands of them make the climb every year. . . .

I introduced him to my friends and he shook hands politely with five of them, and then paused momentarily when the swami, instead of putting out his hand, pressed his palms together in front of his chest in a gesture called namaskar. It must have been a little startling for Moss, even in the heart of Ceylon, to meet a turbaned, blond-bearded, barefoot Englishman in a white sarong. He recovered quickly, pressed his own palms in front of his chest, and thanked us for inviting him to join our party. We turned to the mountain.

After we had climbed a few hundred feet the road narrowed, people began walking two by two, and Moss became my companion, immediately behind the swami and Ramanathan. Piodasa walked alone behind us, carrying a large basket on his head. There were more than a thousand pilgrims on the road that night, old and young, men and women, all except the saffron-robed monks dressed in white, some carrying children, others bearing packages on their heads. A few of the men carried burning torches; George Burton had a flashlight. Except for the narrow footpath, everything around us was thick jungle, forest untouched by man for thousands of years. Ordinarily, I suppose, the jungle was quiet. But tonight the pilgrims were making noises that carried into the jungle, and as we walked I could identify the cry of the leopard, the call of the sambhur deer, the chattering of monkeys, and at long intervals the trumpeting of elephants. I heard the sounds and distinguished among them, but my attention was centered on avoiding the boulders and gnarled roots that blocked the road.