ful station, until in weather that had set in wet we moved to Motehāre. It rained incessantly, and to journey in a saturated skin is at all times far from agreeable; indeed, few hardships to cavalry can be more intolerable than the discomfort attending long marches over flooded roads and through torrents of rain — no condition more dismal and annoying than that of campaigning life in such inclement weather. We toiled away on the surface of immense submerged plains, and in due course arrived at Motehāre, which small station we found deserted by the European community, though it appeared untouched by the remorseless hands of rebels.
While on the march, I pause again for a moment at another little station named Segowle, to note the story of a tragedy in which the actors were the demoniac troopers of a cavalry regiment. It was the only corps stationed at this insignificant cantonment, and so isolated was its position that it seemed beyond the reach of fanatical emissaries or seditions proclamations. Besides, we were told that the Commandant of the regiment never ceased to believe in the loyalty of his men, and over and over again declared them “staunch,” and proof against treachery swerving them from their allegiance to the Government. Sad, therefore, it is to relate that he was murdered in cold blood by these very men whom he had thus extolled. Morbid and infatuated confidence, however, led numerous officers of the Bengal Army to similarly trust
