It rained somewhat when we got among the mountains, and Jan Mahomed, who had on a purple velvet tunic, put up an umbrella to protect himself. I found he had brought his little son, four years old with him. The youngster was seated in a little chair, which was securely fastened on the back of a steady horse, an attendant holding a leading rein. I was not on very good terms myself with my horse. He was a very showy creature, and had been given me by the Prince, but he had evidently not been ridden lately, and was very fresh. A march is a fatiguing function at the best of times, and my horse was not up to the quick shuffling walk which is so restful. He would do anything else--buck, kick, gallop, or trot. Finally Jan Mahomed ordered one of the soldiers, an iron Afghan, to change with me, and I was at peace again. Sometimes we stopped at a village and put up in the different houses; other times the tents were pitched near a stream. When we got among the Paghman offshoot of the Hindu Kush mountains we had pelting rain and sleet for hours; a violent storm of thunder and lightning; then had to ford a wide roaring stream with a stony irregular bed, and, finally, to camp outside a Hazara fortified village in the sloppy melting snow. [Sidenote: Courtesy of Jan Mahomed.] The village (Kharzar) was too filthy inside for us to enter, and too cramped in space to accommodate us, if we had entered. I went to look--for my tent had not arrived. For food the villagers were too ill provided themselves to be able to sell us anything, and hungry, wet, and tired, it seemed likely we should have a cheerless night. When Jan Mahomed’s tent was ready he kindly invited me to enter it. I took off my soaked ulster, sloshed and slipped into the dusk of the tent, sat on a stool, and shivered miserably. Nothing else seeming to be forthcoming, a pipe was the only resource, and with shaking hand I tried to light it. Match after match fizzed in the damp and went out. The pipe chattered in my teeth, and, woe is me, I felt that the cold and the wet and the hungry emptiness would last for ever. But it did not. Jan Mahomed Khan noticed presently that I seemed uncomfortable. He rose from the camp stool on which he was sitting enveloped in the voluminous folds of a huge sheepskin postîn, came across the tent, slipped the postîn from his shoulders and threw it around me. I tried to refuse; but he insisted. He said nothing, for he could not speak English nor I Persian, then he smiled, bowed and sat down again. I felt very grateful, and at the same time rather ashamed at having robbed him, but presently a soldier brought him a cloak in which he wrapped himself.