“Well, you gave your word not to photograph or sketch--as if one wanted to when every bit of it is stamped on one’s brain! And you went up to Jumrood Fort at the entrance. Did they tell you it is an old Sikh Fort and has been on duty in that turbulent place for five hundred years And did you see the machine guns in the court? And every one armed--even the boys with belts of cartridges? Then you went up the narrow winding track between the mountains, and you said to yourself, ‘This is the road of pure romance. It goes up to silken Samarkhand, and I can ride to Bokhara of the beautiful women and to all the dreams. Am I alive and is it real?’ You felt that?” “All. Every bit. Go on!” She smiled with pleasure. “And you saw the little forts on the crags and the men on guard all along the bills, rifles ready! You could hear the guns rattle as they saluted. Do you know that up there men plough with rifles loaded beside them? They have to be men indeed.” “Do you mean to imply that we are not men?” “Different men at least. This is life in a Border ballad. Such a life as you knew in France but beautiful in a wild--hawk sort of way. Don’t the Khyber Rifles bewilder you? They are drawn from these very Hill tribes, and will shoot their own fathers and brothers in the way of duty as comfortably as if they were jackals. Once there was a scrap here and one of the tribesmen sniped our men unbearably. What do you suppose happened? A Khyber Rifle came to the Colonel and said, ‘Let me put an end to him, Colonel Sahib. I know exactly where he sits. He is my grandfather.’ And he did it!” “The bond of bread and salt?” “Yes, and discipline. I’m sometimes half frightened of discipline. It moulds a man like wax. Even God doesn’t do that. Well--then you had the traders--wild shaggy men in sheepskin and women in massive jewelry of silver and turquoise,-great earrings, heavy bracelets loading their arms, wild, fierce, handsome. And the camels--thousands of them, some going up, some coming down, a mass of human and animal life. Above you, moving figures against the keen blue sky, or deep below you in the ravines. “The camels were swaying along with huge bales of goods, and dark beautiful women in wicker cages perched on them. Silks and carpets from Bokhara, and blue--eyed Persian cats, and bluer Persian turquoises. Wonderful! And the dust, gilded by the sunshine, makes a vaporous golden atmosphere for it all.” “What was the most wonderful thing you saw there?” “The most beautiful, I think, was a man--a splendid dark ruffian lounging along. He wanted to show off, and his swagger was perfect. Long black onyx eyes and a tumble of black curls, and teeth like almonds. But what do you think he carried on his wrist--a hawk with fierce yellow eyes, ringed and chained. Hawking is a favourite sport in the hills. Oh, why doesn’t some great painter come and paint it all before they take to trains and cars? I long to see it all again, but I never shall.”