There were several people, a great deal of luggage, and, though last
not least, Her Majesty's mails, all waiting, like us, for the coach.
About a quarter to seven a message arrived, to the effect that the
horses would _not_ come up the hill, they had been jibbing for more
than an hour, so would we kindly go down to the coach. A swarm of
coolies immediately appeared from some mysterious hiding-place, and
conveyed us all, bag and baggage, down the hill, and packed us into
the coach. Even this concession on our part did not induce the horses
to make up their minds to move for at least another quarter of an
hour. Then we had to stop at the hotel to pick up somebody else; but
at last we had fairly started, eleven people in all, some inside and
some perched on a box behind. The horses were worse than ever, tired
to death, poor things; and as one lady passenger was very nervous and
insisted on walking up all the acclivities, we were obliged to make up
our pace down the hills. The Pass looked lovely by daylight, and the
wild flowers were splendid, especially the white datura and scarlet
rhododendron trees, which were literally covered with bloom.
By daylight, the appearance of the horses was really pitiable in the
extreme--worn-out, half-starved wretches, covered with wounds and
sores from collars and harness, and with traces of injuries they
inflict on themselves in their struggles to get free.
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