One day, some two or three years after the time of which I am writing, I was riding in this direction with Mr. Collins, the geologist, when, just as we rounded the corner of the Peshawur Road, which leads off directly opposite the Bala Hissar, we heard the rattle of kettledrums. We pulled up, knowing that the Amîr must be at hand. Presently, there came in sight right opposite the Bala Hissar the Amîr’s mounted guard of Barakzais. Then came the drummers, who rode just in front of His Highness. We dismounted as the Amîr approached. He was seated in his palanquin, and the bearers scuffled along rapidly, leaning on the pole. His Highness carries a walking-stick when he rides in the palanquin, and if the pace is not speedy enough, the nearest bearer receives a reminder in the shape of a prod in the back. His Highness, when he saw us, halted the cavalcade and enquired if we were well. He told us he had been duck shooting on the Bala Hissar marsh. It was a pretty sight. The young Page boys in their gold-embroidered uniforms scampered about on their horses. The guard rode steadily, and the servants, with their turbans and many-coloured garments--one with the chillim, another with a charcoal brazier, a third with a samovar for tea, a fourth with the Amîr’s chair, and so on--these followed in great numbers. Altogether, with the background of the Bala Hissar, it made a striking sight. [Sidenote: The Sick Chief.] At the end of October, the Chief, whose brother was at the Court of the Amîr as hostage, came to Kabul to salaam His Highness. The brother, whom I knew in Turkestan, called one morning upon me to say that the Chief, who had wished to come and see me, was ill with fever; would I visit and prescribe for him. Accordingly, I accompanied my friend to the house the Chief had taken in Kabul. A large following of dependants and servants had arrived with him. They treated me with great respect, and I was shown in an upper-room, where the Chief lay ill with fever. He was a broad-shouldered stout man, about five feet seven inches in height, and I should say about thirty-five years old. He was not alone: the room was nearly full of people; I think an Afghan hates nothing more than his own company: he is bored in no time. The province belonging to the Chief has a very hot climate. It lies in the south-east. In Kabul, at this time, though the sun was still hot, there was a cutting wind blowing, and the Chief and his people did not wrap themselves up as they should have done. Tea, cigars, and sweets were brought, and after examining the Chief’s condition, I sat and talked to him and his brother for some time. He was an intelligent man. One of his favourite amusements was photography; he dabbled, too, in chemistry, and showed me a scar in his hand, where he had been injured by an explosion when he was learning something about the science. Afterwards, I examined some of his retinue; eight of them were ill with the fever.