Hidden in the dense jungle, some hundred yards below, sits Mrs. Locock on the matted top of a hazel, while Jane, chittering with suppressed excitement, crouches a few paces behind me.

The beaters approach, and pandemonium reigns.  A few scared birds dart past, but no bear comes; and when the first brown body shows among the brushwood we shout to stop the uproar, and all move on to another beat.

Four “honks” produced nothing, so far as I was concerned; but a bear—­according to her shikari—­passed close by Mrs. Locock, so thickly screened by jungle that she couldn’t see it.  This may be so, but Kashmir shikaris have remarkably vivid imaginations.

After a delightful morning to all parties concerned—­for we were much amused, the coolies were adequately paid, and the bear wasn’t worried—­we returned to breakfast, and then marched fifteen hot miles into Gunderbal, where we found the Smithsons, with whom we dined.  They have been in Gurais and the Tilail district ever since they left Srinagar on the 24th April, and have had an adventurous and difficult time, with plenty of snow and torrents and avalanches, but somewhat poor sport.

This is not according to one’s preconceived ideas of shikar in Kashmir, as they went into a nullah which no sahib had penetrated for five years; they had the best shikari in Kashmir (he said it, and he ought to know); they worked very hard, and their bag consisted of one or two moderate ibex and a red bear.

Tuesday, July 11.—­On Sunday morning the combined fleet sailed for Palhallan.  The Smithsons had a “matted dounga,” and she “walked away” from our heavier ark down the winding Sind at a great pace.  We reached Shadipur at 11 A.M., but the Smithsons had “gone before,” so, crossing the Jhelum, we made after them in hot pursuit, and reached them and Palhallan at sunset.

A narrow canal, bordered by low swampy marshland, allowed us to get within a mile of the village and tie up among the shallows, whereupon the mosquitoes gathered from far and near, and fell upon us.

The final packing, effected amid a hungry crowd of little piping fiends, was a veritable nightmare, and yesterday morning we rescued our mangled remains from the enemy, and, having paid off our boats, hurriedly clambered on to the ponies which had come—­late, as usual—­from Palhallan to convey what was left by the mosquitoes to Gulmarg.

The unfortunate Jane—­always a popular person—­is especially so with insects; and if there is a flea or a mosquito anywhere within range it immediately rushes to her.

She paid dearly for her fatal gift of attractiveness at Palhallan—­her eyes, usually so keen, being what is vulgarly termed “bunged up,” and every vulnerable spot in like piteous plight!

We quitted Palhallan as the Lot family quitted Sodom and Gomorrah, but with no lingering tendency to look backward; we cast our eyes unto the hills, and kicked the best pace we could out of our “tattoos,” halting for breakfast soon after crossing the hot, white road which runs from Baramula to Srinagar.