Beyond the bridge we could see through the gathering dusk many house-boats of the sahibs clustering under a group of magnificent chenars, over whose dark masses the moon was just rising, full orbed.  The piers of the bridge seemed to be set in foliage, large willows having grown up from their bases, giving a most curious effect.  We marked with some apprehension the swiftness of the oily current which came swirling round the piers, and soon we found ourselves stuck fast about half-way under the bridge, apparently unable to force our boat another inch against the stream which boiled past.  An appalling uproar was caused by the coolies and the unemployed upon the bridge, who all, as usual, gave unlimited advice to every one else as to the proper management of affairs under the existing circumstances, but did nothing whatever in support of their theories.  The situation was becoming quite interesting, and the “mem-sahib” and I, sitting on the roof of our boat, were speculating as to what would happen next when the Gordian knot was cut by the unexpected energy and courage of the first-lieutenant, who boldly slapped an argumentative coolie in the face, while the admiral dashed promiscuously into the shikara, and—­yelling “Hard-a-starboard!—­Full speed ahead!—­Sit on the safety—­valve!”—­boldly shot into an overhanging mulberry tree, wherein our tow-rope was much entangled.  The rope was cleared, the crew poled like fury, the coolies hauled for all they were worth, every one yelled himself hoarse, and we forged ahead.  We crashed under the mulberry tree, which swept us from stem to stern, nearly carrying the hen-coop overboard; while Jane and I lay flat under a perfect hail of squashy black fruit which covered the upper deck.

We went on shore for a moonlight stroll after dinner.  The place was like a glorified English park; chenars of the first magnitude, taking the place of oaks, rose from the short crisp turf, while a band of stately poplars stood sentry on the river bank.  Through blackest shadow and over patches of moonlit sward we rambled till we came upon the ruins of a temple, of which little was left but a crumbled heap of masonry in the middle of a rectangular grassy hollow which had evidently been a tank, small detached mounds, showing where the piers of a little bridge had stood, giving access to the building from the bank.  An avenue of chenars led straight to the bridge, showing either the antiquity of the trees or the comparatively modern date of the temple.

June 19.—­Yesterday afternoon we left Bejbehara, and went on to Kanbal, the port of Islamabad.  A hot and sultry day, oppressive and enervating to all but the flies, which were remarkably energetic and lively.  The river below Islamabad is quite narrow, and hemmed in between high mudbanks.

Here we found the “Baltic Fleet,” but, knowing that our fugitive friends must have already reached Atchibal, we held to our intention of going up the Lidar.