into the beautiful and cherished home of the Guides.

The camp in due course shed its white wings and became a dust-hued fort.
As seen by an eagle soaring overhead, its shape is that of a
five-pointed star, and on four of the points stood the officers'
quarters, while on the fifth were the magazine and _place d'armes_. All
round the inside of the star, tucked away under the parapets, were the
rude shelters of the infantry, while a hornwork held the troops of
cavalry. For a few hundred yards round the jungle and scrub were cleared
away, a Union Jack run up to the modest mast-head on the keep, and
Hoti-Mardan Fort became not only the home of the Guides, but also the
symbol of British power on the wild borders of Yaghistan, the land of
everlasting conflict and of unending vendettas.

It was the pride of a far-distant generation to name the bastions of the
old fort after famous leaders who had gone before: Lumsden, the genial
dashing soldier, who stamped his type on the small beginnings; Hodson,
the far-famed leader of light horse; Daly, whose steadfast resolve
carried through the great march to Delhi; Sam Browne, the one-armed hero
of a hundred fights.

Soon after the Mutiny the fort began to overflow, for the country was
now getting more settled, and British officers could venture to build
houses outside the walls of fortified enclosures. Thus the
Assistant-Commissioner migrated eight hundred yards to the south-east,
while an officers' mess was built on the river bank two hundred yards to
the north-west. A quarter of a century passed before more houses were
added, and then at intervals of a few years came the church and more
houses, while extensions of the soldiers' lines took place to
accommodate the increasing numbers.

And thus it stands to-day, the little five-bastioned fort, round which
are loosely thrown half a dozen houses and a church. And yet there is a
difference, for the picture is now set, not in dull desert tints, but in
soft shades of green. Everywhere are avenues and clumps of great trees,
hedges of roses, of limes, and deronta encircle every garden, the green
of the polo grounds is as that of the Emerald Isle. Even the old fort
has lost its grimness, and the mud walls have given place to beautiful
terraces bright with every flower; while the once formidable moat is
spanned by peaceful rustic bridges, clustered thick with climbing roses,
and giving access to the gardens and orchards which spread along