their burdens were clumsily fastened again. Kodak film was reeled away regardless of the distance from the cantonment photographer's dark-room, and still the caravans came on, bringing silk, carpets, wool, furs, fruits, and sweetmeats from Kabul; while up from Peshawar came blocks of rock-salt, chests of Indian tea, and all of Birmingham's wares, together with an unending movement of British piece-goods, into the heart of the great continent.
As we came out to wide reaches between the decreasing hills, the road was all our own again, save for the lounging sentries here and there among the rocks. Soon we emerged on the plain, the hills closed behind us, and there was spread the view that has gladdened the heart and thrilled the pulses of every marauding conqueror from the north; but for us the land of romance and mystery lay behind us, among, beyond the frontiers. The real spice, the greatest element of danger, was gone, too, when the sowar swung himself down from the tum-tum and strolled off to his barracks with a scornful smile of good-by—a smile that grimly seemed to promise a less conventional meeting.
Once beyond Jamrud walls, our Hindu bearer recovered heart and spirits, and chattered and gesticulated almost joyfully with the sais all the dusty ride back to Peshawar, as one who had faced certain death and escaped it.
There was the same scramble by the wild mob on the Khairabad platform when we again sighted the great Attock fort and bridge across the Indus. There was uproar among as many mad Pathans as
