At Futtyghur my tent was besieged by the venders of cloth, &c., and one man brought a number of tulwars (swords) made at Rampore, in Rohilcund, a place celebrated for them, for sale. After some higgling, I purchased one, a keen and well-poised blade, for the small sum of Rs. 4. I longed to try it upon some neck or other, and, as luck would have it, soon had the desired opportunity, on a felonious pariar dog, which had made free with a portion of my dinner. I had advanced some four or five marches beyond Furruckabad, each day diversified by some novelty in the scenery—some fresh object, in the shape of travellers, pilgrims, buildings, and the like—but still beginning to feel the want of a companion whose language was the same as my own, when one morning, as I was strolling, with my pellet-bow in my hand (for I had resumed it, in spite of the crack on the thumb), I observed at a distance a horseman slowly approaching. As he came nearer, I observed he was mounted on a tall Rosinante-looking steed, with a flowing tail and mane; his head-stall was of a sort of red bell-rope-looking cord; a bunch of red cloth, something like a handkerchief, dangled under his horse’s chin, from whence a standing martingale passed between his legs. Amulets and chains were round his animal’s neck, and the saddle (or cushion, rather) was covered with a square broad cloth of red and yellow chequers. The cavalier himself, a dark-bearded Mahomedan, was a fine specimen of the Hindoostanee irregular horseman. His _chupkun_, or vest, of yellow broad cloth, reached to his knee, and his legs were encased in long wrinkled boots, something like Jack Sheppard’s, and which would not have been the worse for a touch of Day and Martin. On his head he wore a cylindrical Cossack-looking cap of black felt or lambskin. A long matchlock was poised on his shoulder; a tulwar, or scimitar, was stuck in his cummerbund or girdle, and a circular black shield, of buffalo’s hide, swung on his shoulders. Altogether, though I was brought up in the orthodox belief that one Englishman is equal to three Frenchmen, and of course, to an indefinite number of blacks, I cannot say I should have liked to encounter him upon my tatoo. However, his was a mission of peace, as I soon discovered. On seeing me, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and was soon beside me. Throwing himself off, he saluted me with an off-handed _salaam_, in which _hauteur_ and civility were oddly blended, and then, taking off his cap, he extracted therefrom a letter, somewhat pinguinized and sudorificated, which he respectfully placed in my hands. It was addressed to “Ensign Francis Gernon, on his march to Delhi,” and ran thus:— “MY DEAR SIR,