legend runs, with an emerald, the glow of whose green
rays will give for ever relief from the most dangerous
snake bite. To the south Mahadeo, sacred mountain,
much revered by Hindus, and far away hemming in the
Happy Valley on the southern side the far-stretching
range of the Pir Panjál, truly mighty barricades, each
“ pir ” (peak) the centre of innumerable stories and
traditions, half-worshipped by the country folk for its
size and aloofness, consulted by them with anxious
prayer as the seat of an incorruptible oracle as the time
of harvest approaches and signs of the weather are
wanted. Baltal itself is a mere collection of huts, and
from them the real ascent of the pass, the scene in the
Middle Ages of a great fight, when the Drasmen fought
their best, but in vain, to prevent the Yarkandi invaders
entering and wintering in Kashmir.
My return to camp was a slow progress, so many tiny
flowers were springing up taking possession of the
earth on the retreat of the snows, armies of bright
primulas, spotted irises, small members of the lily clan,
whose examination would well repay the “ earnest
botanist.” My men I met on the road, being anxious
lest I should be overtaken by the storm that seemed
imminent, and my supper was again an affair of
“ holding hard and eating fast,” as the wind struggled
with the guy ropes and made incursion as the flap was
opened to allow ingress.
At midnight the wind sank and the moon
rose, casting an unearthly radiance over sloping
grassland and snowy heights. The small native
village was hidden from my sight by the sheltering
high ground behind it, and my men had wandered off
as the weather improved to have a “ crack ” with chums