times against the heavy dews of December by leafy canopies of trees, the projecting roots of which served as extemporised pillows; to speak of the novel or unique spectacle presented in joints of mutton spitted on sabres — with which the sheep had had their heads struck off — grilling over huge green-wood fires, and then, half raw and well smoked, devoured without salt or sauce with a relish, not to say gusto, that Soyer himself, or even genuine cannibals, might have envied; to note that roasted rice pounded into powder with the butt-end of our carbines proved an acceptable substitute for tea or coffee; and, finally, to remark that breakfasting on parched grain, and boiled milk, was certainly not very unusual with us during these fast and furious rides.
English readers may be slightly surprised at our finding time, while rushing headlong over the country, to indulge in the oceans of boiled milk to which we were treated at these hurried al fresco breakfasts. But the Hindus who supplied us never use milk — not even for making butter — unless it is thoroughly boiled, like water for making tea. In its raw state they consider it little better than the animal morbid matter, and often call it, by way of execration, “white blood,” and believe that if it is used without undergoing purification by fire, its virus is sure to inoculate the human body with some virulent disease, or develop some malady to which it may be predisposed. Apart, however, from the open confession that, in upholding the opinion of these Hindus, I would as soon eat raw
