The men are all beginning to complain of fever, and have eaten up a great quantity of quinine.  Considering the dismal conditions under which they have been living for the last couple of days, this is not surprising; so, with the first promise of an improvement in the weather, we struck camp, determined to make for the forest bungalow at Doras and obtain the shelter of a solid roof.  Many showers, but no serious downpour, enlivened our march, and we arrived at the snug little wooden house just in time to escape a particularly fine specimen of a thunderstorm.  The Doras bungalow seemed a very palace of luxury, with its dry, airy rooms and wide verandah, all of sweet-smelling deodar wood.  The men, too, were thankful to have a good roof over their heads, and we heard no more of fever.

Wednesday, May 17.—­Yesterday it rained without ceasing, until the valley in front of us took the appearance of a lake—­A party of terns, white above and with black breasts, skirled and wrangled over the “casual” water.  It was still very wet this morning, but as it cleared somewhat after breakfast, we made up our minds to quit the Lolab and get back to our boat.

Doras has sad memories for Jane, for here died the “chota murghi,” a black chicken endowed with the most affectionate disposition.  It was permitted to sit on the lady’s knee, and scratch its yellow beak with its little yellow claw; but I never cared to let it remain long upon my shoulder—­a perch it ardently affected.  Well! it is dead, poor dear, and whether from shock (the pony which carried its basket having fallen down with it en route from “Walnut Camp"), or from a surfeit of caterpillars which were washed in myriads off the trees there, we cannot tell.  Sabz Ali brought the little corpse along, holding it by one pathetic leg to show the horrified Jane, before giving it to the kites and crows.  He has many “murghis” left; baskets full, as he says, for they are cheap in the Lolab, but we shall never love another so dearly.

We had a shocking time while climbing to the pass which leads over to Rampur, the road being deep in slimy mud, and so slippery that the unfortunate baggage ponies could hardly get along.  Jane, who is in splendid condition now, toiled nobly up a track which would have been delightful had the weather been a little less hideous.

Reaching the ridge which divides the Lolab from the Pohru Valley, we turned to the left, along the edge, instead of descending forthwith, as we had hoped and expected to do.  It was raw and cold, with flying wreaths of damp mist shutting out the view, and we were glad of a comforting tiffin, swallowed somewhat hurriedly, under a forlorn and stunted specimen of a blue pine.  Then on along a rough and slippery catwalk that made us wonder if the baggage ponies would achieve a safe arrival at Rampur.

Crossing a steep, rock-strewn ridge, covered with crown imperial in full flower, we began a sharp descent through a wood of deodars; and now the thunder, which had been grumbling and rumbling in the distance, came upon us, and a deafening peal sent us scurrying down the hill at our best pace; the lightning-blasted trunks stretching skywards their blackened and tempest-torn limbs in ghastly witness of what had been and what might be again.