Well, all things come to an end—­wind first, temper next, and finally the journey.

My shikari is a fiend in human shape.  He slinks along on the flat at what looks like a mild three-miles-an-hour constitutional, but unless you are a real four-mile man you will be left hopelessly astern; but when he gets upon his favourite “one in one” slope, then does he simply sail away, with the tiffin coolie carrying a fat basket and all your spare lumber in his wake, while you toil upward and ever upwards—­gasping—­until with your last available breath you murmur “Asti,” and sink upon the nearest stone a limp, perspiring worm!

5.30 P.M.—­That bear has taken a sleeping draught!

I am now perched on a lonely rock, my hard taskmaster having routed me out of a very comfortable place under a blue pine, whose discarded needles afforded me a really agreeable resting-place, and dragged me away down again through the pine forest and jungle; hurried me across a roaring torrent on a fallen tree trunk; personally conducted me hastily up a place like the roof of a house; and finally, explaining that the bear, when disturbed, must inevitably come close past me, has departed with his staff (the chota shikari, the tiffin coolie, and a baboon-faced native) to wake up the bear and send him along.

After the first flurry of feeling all alone in the world, with only a probable bear for society, and having loaded all my guns, clasped my visor on my head and my Bessemer hug-proof strait-waistcoat round my “tummy,” I felt calm enough to await events with equanimity.

6.15 P.M.—­A large and solemn monkey is sitting on the top of a thick and squat yew tree regarding me with unfeigned interest.  The torrent is roaring away in the cleft below.  Nothing else seems alive, and I am becoming bored——­What?  A bear?  No!  The shikari, thank goodness!

“Well, shikari—­Baloo dekho hai?” No, it is passing strange, but he has not seen a bear.  “All right!  Pick up the blunderbuss, and let us make tracks for the ship.”

Wednesday, May 10.—­Beguiled by legends of many bears, detailed to me with apparently heartfelt sincerity by Ahmed Bot, I have been pursuing these phantoms industriously.

On Monday we quitted our boat, and started upon a trip into the Lolab Valley.  The views, as the path wound up the green and flower-spangled slope, were very beautiful, and, when we had ascended about 1500 feet and were about opposite to the supposed haunt of Saturday’s bear, we determined to camp and enjoy the scenery, not omitting an evening expedition in search of our shy friend.

Jane joining me, we had a most charming ramble down a narrow track to the bed of the stream which rushes down from the snow-covered ridge guarding the Lolab.  Here we crossed into a splendid belt of gaunt silver firs, the first I have seen here; whitish yellow marsh-marigolds and a most vivid “smalt” blue forget-me-not with large flowers were abundant, also an oxalis very like our own wood-sorrel.