Off we went, through the village and across the stream by a rickety bridge, then down the left bank for about a mile, when we came to a small hamlet,—­I forget its name,—­and here I fell out and paid a visit to the house of Mahomed Rafi, the Hakim of the Laspur district.  This hoary-headed old rascal had been playing fast and loose for a long time, but had at last cast in his lot openly with the enemy; he had a long list of offences to answer for, and is believed to be one of the actual murderers of Hayward about 1872.

Hayward was globe-trotting up Yasin way when these ruffians rushed his camp, seized him, and carried him into a wood with the intention of killing him.  He asked them to defer the performance until daylight, as he should like to look on the world once more.  This they agreed to, and soon after dawn made him kneel down and hacked off his head.  Such is the story.  Poor Hayward’s body was brought into Gilgit, and he lies in an orchard close to the British Agency.  I can quite imagine Hayward, or any man who has any appreciation of the grandeur of Nature in her wilder moods, wishing to see the sun rise once again over these tumbled masses of snow peaks and bare cliffs.  The startling sensation of the immensity of these hills in comparison with man’s minuteness strikes home with almost the stunning effect of a sudden blow.

It is said that the calm pluck of Hayward touched even his murderers, callous as they are to bloodshed It makes a sensational picture:  a solitary figure in the foreground standing alone on the edge of a pine wood high up in the lonely grandeur of the everlasting hills, the first flush of dawn reddening the snow on peak after peak, changing the pure white to pink, the cold blue to purple, the tumbled sea of mountain summits gradually growing in distinctness, the soft mist rising from the valleys, and the group of wild figures standing within the shade of the pines.  Hayward takes one long look on all this loveliness, and turns towards his executioners—­men say that even they hesitated.

Mahomed Rafi, who was supposed to have actually killed Hayward, was now Hakim of Laspur, and, as I have said, had joined the enemy.

When I had travelled through Laspur in November last, the old ruffian had come to pay his respects, and accompanied me part of the way to Mastuj, and while doing so, had stopped at a house to give some orders, and had informed me that this was one of his houses.  On passing it now, I thought a visit might be useful, so, getting Shah Mirza and his Levies, I got permission to search the house.  It had evidently only recently been occupied for on bursting in the door we found the cooking pots in the fireplace and fresh meat hanging in one of the rooms.  After a short search we found the grain store, with several mounds of grain, which was afterwards taken into Laspur.  There was nothing much more that we could find in our hasty search, but I picked up an empty spectacle-case, astonished at finding it in such a place, as Mahomed Rafi never wore spectacles in his life.  I showed it to Colonel Kelly, who promptly annexed it, as he was in want of one, having mislaid his own.  Shah Mirza also collared a fowl, which no doubt formed his next meal.