Our time in Cashmere was drawing very near to its end. We began to count the days of our holiday. One more expedition we resolved to make, to the Lolab, said to be a beautiful and fertile valley, situated on the north-western side of Cashmere. As the way to it was partly on our return journey, we sent off our horses to meet us at Sopoor. Our return to Srinagur was uneventful. We floated down the stream from Kunbul, where we embarked. There seemed to be a calm everywhere, and, as we stole past gardens, the perfume of flowers came to us on the breeze, and the sound of children’s voices was toned down to music by distance. We remained a day or two at Srinagur, during which time a grand parade of the Maharajah’s troops took place, and his army nearly came to grief, for somehow or other the ammunition in one of the men’s pouches took fire, and a most extraordinary scene ensued, as the fire went down the whole of one of the ranks, and some men were badly wounded. I daresay the men would do well enough if called on to fight, but their ideas of discipline are different from ours. It came on to rain one day, and a sentry posted near where we were taking shelter coolly took off all his clothes and waited till the storm was over till he dressed again! Baboo Mohas Chander came to see us, and looked quite sorrowful at our departure; but he showed his white teeth with delight when we expressed our hopes of returning some day to Cashmere. He gave us some skinny fowls and a tray of sweetmeats, and then vanished from our sight. In all probability I shall never see the Baboo again, and can say with truth that he always was most courteous to us and attentive to our wants. But oh, how we loathed the skinny fowls! The very sight of chicken was enough to make us shudder. Now in England a chicken is a delicacy--not so, however, in Ireland. Many years ago, the dépôt of the Rangers marched all through Ireland, and we never could get anything to eat at the inns on which we were billeted but cock and bacon. At length we really had cock and bacon on the brain. It was always our question, on arriving at the inn, when the waiter appeared, ‘Pat, what can we have for dinner?’ and the invariable answer was, ‘Anything yer honour chooses to order.’ ‘Well, then, we’ll have a roast leg of mutton.’ ‘Faith, sorr, there’s not a sheep been killed for the last month or two.’ ‘Oh, then,’ we frantically exclaimed, ‘roast beef.’ ‘Sorra a bit of beef at all, at all.’ ‘What _can_ we have?’ we all shouted in despair. ‘Cock and bacon, sorr,’ triumphantly roared our present tormentor. Fish at Srinagur was very difficult to be procured. The large mahseer are coarse food, and no fish were allowed to be caught between the two bridges on that part of the river on which the palace is situated, as the soul of the Maharajah’s father now dwells in a fish. The Maharajah, who is very attentive to his religious duties according to his light, visited the faqueer’s temple every day.