A MARTYR TO DUTY. 143 



night, as he is a "lone widower." I cannot quite follow 

 his reasoning, but take it for granted, and we are left 

 alone in the house. 



Next morning we are called at 4 a.m. and get off about 

 5 — still quite dark, save for a full moon. The road 

 descends to the river, and then climbs up the steep 

 mountain on the opposite side. At the top, we take a 

 last look at Chamba — the last time I shall probably ever see 

 this dear little happy valley. The day is just breaking, 

 but the bright moon still throws a pale light on the white 

 palace, and cuts with jet-black shadows the silent town 

 beneath. Above the hill, the sky glows a bright pink 

 behind the snow mountains. Then, as we cross the ridge, 

 a ray of sun breaks on the mountain top, and Chamba is 

 lost to view. 



Alan is riding, and has relays of the Eaja's horses every 

 ten or twelve miles. I am carried in a dandy, with changes 

 of bearers at shorter distances. It is bitterly cold, and my 

 poor cavalry orderly, who rides behind the dandy at a 

 foot's pace, must be frozen. I beg him to trot on, but he 

 evidently considers himself responsible to the Maharaja for 

 my safety, and persists in being a martyr to duty. 



About twelve miles further, we find the mules and 

 heavy baggage which were sent off yesterday ; and Rahman 

 busy transferring the packages to the riding mules the Eaja 

 has lent them. He explains in excited and broken English 



