The clock at the little English station-church chimes the hour of six as I resume my journey next morning along a glorious avenue of overarching shade-trees to Bhogan, where my road, which from Delhi has been a branch road, again merges into the Grand Trunk.  Groves of tall toddy-palms are a distinguishing feature of Bhogan, and a very pretty little Hindoo temple marks the southern extremity of the town.  A striking red and gilt shrine in a secluded grove of peepuls arrests my attention a few miles out of town, and, repairing thither, my rude intrusion fills with silent surprise a company of gentle Brahman youths and maidens paying their matutinal respects to the representation of Kamadeva, the Hindoo cupid and god of love.  They seem overwhelmed with embarrassment at the appearance of a Sahib, but they say nothing.  I explain that my object is merely a “tomasha” of the exquisitely carved shrine, and a young Brahman, with his smooth, handsome face fantastically streaked with yellow, follows silently behind as I walk around the building.  His object is evidently to satisfy himself that nothing is touched by my unhallowed Christian hands.

Seven miles from Bhogan is the camping ground of Bheyo, where in December, 1869, an English soldier was assassinated in the night while standing sentry beneath a tree.  His grave, beneath the gnarled mango where he fell, is marked by two wooden crosses, and the tree-trunk is all covered with memorial plates nailed there, from time to time, by the various troops who have camped here on their winter marches.

Twenty-eight miles are duly reeled off when, just outside a village, I seek the shade of a magnificent banyan.  The kindly villagers, unaccustomed to seeing a Sahib without someone attending to his comfort, bring me a charpoy to recline on, and they inquire anxiously, “roti? pahni? doctor.” (am I hungry, thirsty, or ill?).  Nor are these people actuated by mercenary thoughts, for not a pice will they accept on my departure.  “Nay, Sahib, nay,” they reply, eagerly, smiling and shaking their heads, “pice, nay.”  The narrow-gauge Rohilcuud Railway now follows along the Grand Trunk road, being built on one edge of the broad road-bed.  Miran Serai, a station on this road, is my destination for the day; there, however, no friendly dak bungalow awaits my coming and no hostelry of any kind is to be found.

The native station-master advises me to go to the superintendent of police across the way; the police-officer, in turn, suggests applying to the station-master.  The police-thana here is a large establishment, and a number of petty prisoners are occupying railed-off enclosures beneath the arched entrance.  They accost me through the bars of their temporary, cage-like prison with smiles, and “Sahib” spoken in coaxing tones, as though moved by the childish hope that I might perchance take pity on them and order the police to set them at liberty.