his years. 'He was a pious, devout, faithful Muslim,' says Bábar, 'and carefully abstained from all questionable food. His judgement and talents were remarkably good. He was a humorous fellow, and though he could neither read nor write, he had an ingenious and elegant wit.'
Kásim and his master needed all their courage in the adventure that now lay before them. They marched by a route much further south than that they had traversed coming out. It snowed incessantly, and in places the snow rose above the stirrups. They lost their way, their guide became hopelessly puzzled, and never succeeded in finding the road again. They sent out exploring parties, in the hope of lighting upon some stray mountaineers who might be wintering near by, but the scouts came back after three or four days, and reported that no one could be found: the country was absolutely empty of human beings. During the next few days the little army suffered terrible hardships — 'such suffering and hardship, indeed,' says Bábar, 'as I have scarcely endured at any other time of my life'; and he forthwith sat down and wrote a poem about it, but it was like to be the last poem he should ever write.
'For about a week we went on trampling down the snow, yet only able to make two or three miles. I helped in trampling the snow; with ten or fifteen of my household, and with Kásim Beg and his sons and a few servants, we all dismounted and laboured at beating down the snow. Each step we sank to the waist or the breast, but still we went
