‘Or to see it by moonlight--when mellowly shines The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines, When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool shining walks where the young people meet.’[6] As we lingered under the shade of the green-leaved trees, I endeavoured to make a sketch, and thought I had succeeded pretty well. Seeing M’Kay pass near me, I called, and asked her how she liked my drawing. As she did not answer, I said, ‘You know where that is?’ Poor M’Kay was always anxious to give pleasure to anyone, so she said, in her pleasant Scotch voice, ‘Oh yes, sir; that’s your bungalow at Murree.’ Alas for my fine sketch of the Cashmere mountains! Time fled very pleasantly in our gipsy encampment. The scene was occasionally varied by the presence of the Maharajah as he went past in his gilded barge, followed by his courtiers in large and picturesque boats. Sometimes we paid visits to the gardens of Shalimar, and rested during the heat of the day in Nourmahal’s Pavilion. This pavilion is built of marble, and the pillars which support it are of black marble. It is in the centre of a reservoir of clear water, and there are one hundred and forty-four large fountains springing from it. ‘Th’ Imperial Selim held a feast In his magnificent Shalimar: In whose saloons, when first the star Of evening o’er the waters trembled, The valley’s loveliest all assembled; All the bright creatures that, like dreams, Glide through the foliage, and drink beams Of beauty from its fount and streams.’[7] Now all is silent. The palace is forsaken, and the gardens deserted. But, happier than our old Scotland, the nightingale is heard among the trees which surround this fairy place; although, according to a Scotch assistant-surgeon, there are nightingales in our Highland homes. The surgeon being asked to describe one, he gave his impression of the lovely songster in these terms:-- ‘It’s got a heed like a caat: aboot the beegness of a pigion; and flits aboot at night; and cries, hewt! hewt!’ We could linger no longer among the fine forest of chenars near that beautiful lake, so our camp was broken up, and we reluctantly departed for the Scind Valley. We were fortunate in having the moon to light us on our way. Very beautiful was the lake enshrined among the giant hills. As we moved slowly along, a storm rushed up, sweeping the waters into real waves. The flash of the lightning was incessant, and the roar of the thunder never ceased as it rattled among the mountains. But the storm passed almost as suddenly as it had arrived. We allowed our boatmen to take us wherever they liked best, only stipulating that we should find ourselves halted in the morning at some suitable camping-ground for breakfast.