et in this country without killing a black buck or
a native is a wonder. Coming near Agra, I passed a group of young
officers in khaki riding out; they and their mounts looked as hard as
nails; they were going pig-sticking, they were to be envied.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

9th March.--The choice lay between an early rise to see the Taj by
moonlight, and an early rise to drive fifteen miles to a place where
black buck do abound. My primeval instinct prevails against the perhaps
better suggestion of my better half. At 5 A.M. the carriage has not yet
come so I have twenty minutes to make a lamplit study and reflections
generally--Have rifle ready, some soda water, tobacco, and a new stock
of hope and faith in my aim.

... Here come my men at last, with stealthy steps so as not to disturb
the sleeping travellers in our caravansary. The shikari has covered his
everyday dress of old Harris tweeds with a white sheet, and might be
anyone, and my long Mohammedan guide and interpreter is also in white
this day. We get all on board very quietly, and rumble away along the
dark dusty road.

We go along at a good rate, with two good horses, and two further on
waiting to change; our landau runs smoothly, though it must date to
before the Mutiny. Its springs are good, and the road we follow, which
Akbar made, is smooth of surface. There is pale moonlight, and the air
is fragrant. The hours before dawn dreamily pass, and we nod, and look
up now and then to see clay walls and trees dusky against the night sky,
and our thoughts go back to the grand old buildings we leave behind us
to the north in Agra. The red stone Fort, and Palace, and Taj, and the
marble courts seem to become again alive, and full of people and colour
and movement, a gallant array, and the fountains bubble, and Akbar plays
living chess with his lovely wives, in colour and jewels, on his marble
courts.

... And we dream on; and we are on the dusty road in the moonlight,
riding along, dusky figures at our side, knee to knee; the dust hangs
on their mail, and dulls the moon's sparkle on the basinets. We are
jogging south on Akbar's road with Akbar's men on a foray, or is it a
great invasion? Then there comes a shout, from in front, and an order
and we awake--and it is only some bullock-carts in the way, all dusty:
and on we go again. And Akbar's soldiers go back to the pale land of
memory, and the light comes up, and I see