Long before we had left our beds, and blissfully unconscious of our awful danger, we were striking out for Bandipur, which haven we safely reached about 8 A.M. on a still and glorious morning.

Then came the business of collecting coolies and ponies, and loading them up with the tents and lesser baggage under the direction of Sabz Ali and the shikari.

By nine o’clock we were off.  Charlotte and Jane, mounted astride a brace of native ponies, led the way, and, in ragged array, the rest of the procession followed.  A quarter of a mile from the landing-place, clustered at the foot of a steep little hill—­a spur from the higher ranges—­lies the village of Bandipur, dirty and picturesque, with, its rickety-looking wooden houses, and its crowded little bazaar.  It is a place of some importance in Kashmir, being the starting-point for the Astor country and Gilgit—­and here the sahib on shikar bent, obtains coolies and ponies to take him over the Tragbal Pass into Gurais.  A post and telegraph office stands proudly in the middle of the little village, and behind it lies a range of “godowns” filled with stores for the use of a flying column should the British Raj require to send troops quickly along the Gilgit road.

Passing through into the open country, we found ourselves on a good road—­good, that is to say, for riding or marching, as no roads in Kashmir are adapted for wheeled traffic excepting the main artery from Baramula to Srinagar, and the greater portion of the route from Srinagar to Gulmarg.  This road we followed up a gradually narrowing valley, and over a brawling little river, until at Kralpura the Gilgit road begins the steep ascent to the Tragbal by a series of wide zigzags up the face of a mountain.  The pass which we should have had to tackle, had we carried out our original intention of going into Astor for markhor and ibex, is nearly 12,000 feet above sea level, and is still securely and implacably closed to all but the hardiest sportsmen.  A short cut, which we took up the hill face, led us through a rough scrub of berberis and wild daphne (the former just showing green and the latter in flower) until, somewhat scant of breath, we regained the road, and followed it to the left up a gorge.  As the mountains closed in on either side, we began to look out for the camp, which we knew was not far up the nullah.  Presently, turning off the Gilgit road, along a track to the left, we came upon Walter—­bearded like the pard—­a pard which had left off shaving for about a week.  He was pensively sitting on a big sun-warmed boulder, beguiling the time while awaiting us by contemplating the antics of a large family of monkeys, which he pointed out to Jane, to her great joy.

Tender inquiries as to camp and consequent lunch revealed the sad fact that some miles of exceedingly rough path yet lay betwixt us and the haven where we would be.

So we pricked forward, along a sort of cattle track, across dirty snow-filled little gullies, and over rock-strewn slopes, until the white gleam of Walter’s tent showed clear on its perch atop of a flat-roofed native hut.