We prepared to pass the hot hours of the day in this sacred retreat, delighted to be left alone to our thoughts, which must, under the circumstances, be somewhat solemn. Our hopes of solitude were doomed to disappointment, for, entering the portals of the temple, a salaaming figure advanced, and, having arrived at a respectful distance, squatted down on the ground before us. He was a young, well-dressed Pundit, and, as we were actually reposing in a Hindoo temple, we received him courteously, though, like many callers, his absence would have been preferable to his presence. He observed that the ruins were very large, to which undoubted fact we, of course, agreed. He produced a long roll of parchment signed by many names, and pointed with pride to the signature of Vigne. This roll had belonged to his father. He then brought out several ‘chits’ or characters, and requested me to give him one. Being rather puzzled what to write, I looked over the numerous sheets of note-paper, one of which particularly attracted my attention. ‘This is to certify that Pundit--is the greatest bore and nuisance I ever met. Signed ----.’ They were all to the same effect. Having never met this worthy man before in my life, and being most anxious to get rid of him, I wrote, ‘This to certify that Pundit--is the son of his own father,’ and signed it. He received this certificate with great pleasure; but, as he did not understand a word of English, I cannot make out what good he could possibly derive from it. I bowed him out, as is the custom in the East, and sincerely hoped we had seen the last of him. We passed a very quiet day, and when the sun began to sink to rest we prepared to leave this grand old monument of ancient Cashmere. We sallied forth from the venerable ruin, and who should be there but the Pundit? He said a good deal, but all I could make out was backsheesh. So we gave him a small silver coin, and he asked for more, ‘as his day was spoilt.’ The quiet and the calm of the time-worn temple was forgotten, and with wrath we turned away from this extortionate beggar, and, with ruffled tempers, began our return march to Islamabad. Instead of retracing our steps to Bowun, we continued along the kuraywah on which Martund is built. After riding for two or three miles, we descended a steep path and entered again the road on which we had been in the morning. As the evening was very close, we dismounted, and, seating ourselves under the shade of a wide-spreading tree, we made our syces take the horses to a clear, running stream close to our resting-place, and our thirsty nags enjoyed a cool drink. As there was no water to be had at the temple, a coolie carried a serai of drinking water for us. But the shades of night warned us to loiter no longer, so we remounted, and soon found ourselves once more in our pleasant camping-ground.