There he lay, like fallen Hassan, “his back to earth, his face to heaven,” his mouth open, as if to put forth a cry which had died unborn with the passing pang; one blood-red spot on his cheek, where a bullet had entered, lending its frightful contrast to the marbly hue of his features; the heel of one foot rested on the coffin, the other on the ground; his hands open and on their backs. A short pause now ensued, which was soon followed by a stir of mounted officers galloping to and fro, and the loud command to “wheel back into open column,” and “march!” In this order the whole force advanced, the bands of the several regiments playing in succession, as they marched past the corpse, the deep and solemn strains of the _Adeste Fideles_, or Portuguese Hymn, a dirge-like air, admirably adapted for such occasions, and which breathes the very soul of melancholy. As the flanks of each company passed, almost touching the dead man, it was curious to observe the various expressions in the countenances of the soldiers, European and sepoy, as they stole their almost scared and sidelong glances at it. The non-military reader will be a little surprised, as I am sure I was, when I tell him that each regiment, after having passed the body a few hundred yards, changed the slow to quick march, and diverged to their several lines, playing “The girl I left behind me,” or some similar lively air, with a view, I presume, to dissipate the recent impression. The wisdom of such a proceeding is by no means self-evident; it seems indecent, to say the least of it: to be consistent, we should always ring a merry peal after a funeral, or a gallopade home from church. Bidding adieu to my friend the major, and duly equipped for the march, I left Cawnpore for Futtyghur, and the following was the composition of my rather patriarchal turn-out—hating the red coats and muskets of my escort: a naick and six sepoys of Nizamut, or militia; we might have passed pretty well for the section of a nomade tribe on the move in search of clearer streams and greener pastures. A two-bullock hackery or country cart, a very primitive lumbering locomotive, whose wheels, utter strangers to grease, emitted the most excruciating music, conveyed my tent, trunks, and hen-coops, with the dobie’s lady and family perched a-top of all. Then there was a bangy-burdah, with two green petaras, containing my breakfast and dinner apparatus, whilst Ramdial, my sirdar, trudged on, bearing the bundle containing my change of linen, and dragging my milch-goat (for Nanny did not approve of marching) after him, _nolens volens_. Nunco led my dogs in a leash; to wit, Teazer, and a nondescript substitute for the bull, with a few evanescent shades of the greyhound, which I had purchased at Cawnpore. I named this animal, rather ironically, “Fly,” which Nunco manufactured into “Pillai.”