, unperceived
by the drunkards, secreted a large bag of powder in the room, and
igniting it by a train with his slow match crawled out of the castle.

"The explosion was terrific; down toppled tower and bastion,
enveloping in their ruins the remainder of the garrison, and the
castle was in a few moments reduced to the shapeless mass which it now
presents.

"The wounded author of the catastrophe alone escaped; but the
knowledge of his crimes prevented him from returning to his country,
and he wandered for many years about the blackened walls, the terror
of the neighbourhood, who considered him an evil spirit. He subsisted
on herbs growing on the adjacent mountains, till at last he
disappeared no one knew where. Since that period, the fortress has
never been the resting place of the traveller or the haunt of the
freebooter."

Such was the terrible tale of blood and wounds which my informant
communicated to me, and certainly, if it rests its foundation on any
one of the horrors with which it is filled, the castle of Zohawk does
well deserve its bad repute.

On the 23rd we left Bamee[=a]n and proceeded over the Ir[=a]k pass to
Oorgundee, where we arrived on the 28th. No event occurred nor any
thing worth mentioning, unless it be the "naivete" of an old man, who,
observing me light my cigar with a lucifer-match, asked in a grave
and solemn tone, whether that was indeed fire. I took his finger, and
placed it in the flame, much to his astonishment, but convincing him
of its reality. He then enquired if it was the fire from heaven, which
he heard the Feringhis were possessed of. I endeavoured, but I fear
without success, to explain to the old gentleman the nature of
fulminating substances, and though he listened with patience, he was
evidently still in the dark, when I presented him with the contents
of my match-box and shewed him how to ignite them; his gratitude was
manifest, as he walked off highly pleased with his toy, which I hope
may not have burned his fingers.

Sturt left me on the 29th, being anxious to get back to Cabul; but
as I had three days to spare, and my taste for wandering was still
unabated, I joined Capt. Westmacott, of the 37th Native Infantry, in
a flying excursion into the valley of Charrik[=a]r, which the
Affgh[=a]ns consider as the garden of Cabul. The first day we rode
from Oorgundee to Shukkur Durra, or "the sugar valley," so called,
not from growing that useful article of grocery, but from its