A few days more brought me to my last day’s march on the banks of the Jumna, and the mosques and minarets of the ancient capital of India broke on my delighted view. I had scarcely dismounted from my pony at my tent door, which commanded a distant glimpse of the blue and “soft stealing” Jumna, when I perceived three Europeans on horseback approaching at a hard gallop. As they drew near, I recognized in one of the three my friend and Mentor, Captain Marpeet. He was soon up, and warm and cordial was our greeting. “Well, my boy, long looked-for comes at last; glad to have you amongst us, Gernon,” said he, presenting me to his companions, two laughing, beardless ensigns; “let me introduce you to my two boys, Wildfire and Skylark; two intractable dogs,” added he, laughing; “have given me twice the trouble to break in that you did.” Wildfire and Skylark shook hands with me, and in ten minutes we were as intimate as if we had known each other for six months. “Come, mount again, Gernon,” said Marpeet; “you are but a few miles from Delhi, and it is useless for you to remain here all day. Come along; I have breakfast all ready for you at my shop; your things, you know, can follow to-morrow; you don’t, though, appear to be overburthened with baggage, Frank, eh? Dogs, too—hah—regular terrier bunnow.[56] Great a griff as ever, I see—hah! hah!” We pursued our course towards cantonments, Marpeet riding in the midst of his _protégés_ as proudly as an old gander on a green at the head of three orphan goslings. We crossed the river Jumna in a broad, square, flat-bottomed ferry-boat; and after riding through some rich cultivation on its banks, joined a road skirting part of the ruins of ancient Delhi, which from that point exhibited a confused assemblage of ruins—fort, mosque, tomb, and palace—stretching far away behind us in the distance, towards what I afterwards learned was the mausoleum of Humaioon. I was particularly struck, as I rode on, by one large desolate building, which Captain Marpeet informed me was the ancient palace of Firoze Shah. A lofty pillar of stone, something like one of the round towers of Ireland, rose out of the centre of it, whilst the whole mass of building exhibited a touching picture of loneliness and desolation; long grass and the silvery roots of the peepul grew around the battered arches and casements, out of one of which a couple of fat and saucy jackals were peeping, to reconnoitre us as we rode beneath. We entered the modern city near the mansion of the Nawaub Ahmed Buksh Khan,[57] through an embattled gateway occupied by a guard of Nujjeebs, a sort of highly picturesque militia, attired in the Hindoostanee garb, and armed and equipped with crooked-stocked matchlocks, mull-shaped powder-horns, and other paraphernalia of a very primitive and extraordinary description. These men, who were upon guard, were smoking, sleeping, and doing their best to kill old Time, that enemy who, in the long run, is pretty sure to kill us.