The only drawback to Noonur was an excessively holy fakeer, who appeared at unexpected moments, gesticulating furiously, evidently perfectly mad. The Cashmerians looked on him with intense respect, and our servants told us that the Maharajah had begged the holy man to come and live with him, and had offered him beautiful presents, but the fakeer had refused his highness’s offers, and had thrown the gifts in his face. We had not had any rain for a week, so the Tickedar was summoned, and coolies ordered. Bitterly cold it was at half-past three in the morning, as we felt our way out of the tent ropes, and we were only too glad to walk and keep our blood circulating. When day broke, we had fairly entered the Scind Valley, in which we overtook numbers of flat-faced, Chinese-looking coolies, all laden, travelling generally in the employment of some merchant back to Ladâk. At first the path was good, but we were soon in difficulties. The river had carried away one part of the track, and in others the water had overflowed and then receded, leaving a most slippery road. So there was nothing for it but to ride our horses into the river, the Scind, which had covered the whole of the low ground. At last we had to retrace our steps, clamber up the mountain-side, and hit off another approach to the bridge. Many misgivings assailed us when about a mile from where our guide told us was Kangan. We saw what was evidently a sahib’s horse grazing, and its syce squatting on the bank opposite to us. We asked him why he was there. He did not dare to face the waters, he said, so he was waiting till the river subsided, or till his sahib returned. On we rode beside the foaming torrent to a place where it widened into three branches. The chokedar called a halt; we had arrived at the bridges. There were two very rapid rivers to cross, which we had to do by wading, and then the main body was bridged. A native went first, and, although the waters surged around him, he was able to hold his own against the tide.