We rode along the wooded road that leads from Murree, breathing the balmy afternoon breeze, which was laden with the sweet perfume of the pine forest. How glorious it was to feel free from all troubles, and to leave behind us all annoyances!... What is this we see before us, left in the solemn woods? Our bedding, deserted by the coolie whose duty it was to carry it, and who had absconded altogether. I shouted, but only echo answered. The evening was closing fast, and nothing could be done. All along the line of march various articles belonging to us were left nestling among the mountain flowers, so we gave up attempting to collect our baggage, as some of our servants formed a rear-guard, and we pushed on to Deywal. Deywal is a good-sized village, situated on the right side of a deep gorge, traversed by a stream, which flows into the Jhellum some miles down the mountain. There is now a good dāk bungalow near the village, but in 1868 there was only a rest-house. A couple of chairs, a table, and a charpoy (the bedstead of India), formed the furniture of this inhospitable dwelling, as in India travellers provide all their own necessaries of life, and our comforts were resting on the line of march, so we had to make the best of it; but our cook, having preceded us, we got some dinner. We had to repose our wearied limbs without any mattress, sheets, or pillows. My wife gallantly placed her head on her leather hand-bag, and declared she was ‘very comfortable.’ I used the privilege of a British soldier, and grumbled to my heart’s content. Previous to retiring for the night, we sat outside, enjoying the cool evening air. Immediately in front of us was the deep valley dividing us from high mountains on the other side. Light sparkled on this dark and lowering curtain from villages scattered over the distant view. High up on these fir-clad hills we could only guess, by the aid of the soft light of the moon, where our soldiers, who were occupied in making a princely road from Murree to Abbottabad, were encamped. The whole scene was grand to a degree, and as we adjourned for the night we cast our longing eyes towards the Cashmere hills, whose everlasting snow seemed ghost-like in the moon’s white beams.