We managed to get a mouthful of food at Menjil while the horses were being changed.

Colonel S——­ had especially warned us against sleeping here, the Chapar khaneh being infested with the Meana bug, a species of camel tick, which inflicts a poisonous and sometimes dangerous wound.  It is only found in certain districts, and rarely met with south of Teheran.  The virus has been known, in some cases, to bring on typhoid fever, and one European is said to have died from its effects.  For the truth of this I cannot vouch; but there is no doubt that the bite is always followed by three or four days’ more or less serious indisposition.

CHAPTER IV.

PATCHINAR—­TEHERAN.

Our troubles commenced in real earnest at Patchinar, a desolate-looking place and filthy post-house, which was reached at sunset.  The post from Teheran had just arrived, in charge of a tall strapping fellow armed to the teeth, in dark blue uniform and astrachan cap, bearing the Imperial badge, the lion and sun, in brass.  The mail was ten days late, and had met with terrible weather on the Kharzan.  They had passed, only that morning, two men lying by the roadway, frozen to death.  The poor fellows were on their way to Teheran from Menjil, and had lain where they fell for two or three days.  “You had far better have remained at Resht,” added our informant, unpleasantly recalling to my mind the colonel’s prophecy, “You will be sorry for this to-morrow!”

Notwithstanding hunger and vermin, we managed to enjoy a tolerable night’s rest.  The post-house was warm at any rate, being windowless.  Patchinar was evidently a favourite halting-place, for the dingy walls of the guest-room were covered with writing and pencil sketches, the work of travellers trying to kill time, from the Frenchman who warned one (in rhyme) to beware of the thieving propensities of the postmaster, to the more practical Englishman, who, in a bold hand, had scrawled across the wall, “Big bugs here!” I may add that my countryman was not exaggerating.

There was no difficulty in getting horses the next morning.  The post, which left for Resht before we were stirring, had left us seven sorry-looking steeds, worn out with their previous day’s journey through the deep snow-drifts of the Kharzan.  By nine o’clock we were ready to start, notwithstanding the entreaties of the postmaster, whose anxiety, however, was not on our account, but on that of the horses.

“I don’t believe I shall ever see them again!” he mumbled mournfully, as we rode out of the yard.  “And who is to repay me for their loss?  You will be dead, too, before sundown, if the snow catches you in the mountains!”