Leaving at 8 a.m., we managed to reach the summit of the Koudoum by two o’clock next day, when we halted to give the horses a rest, and get a mouthful of food.  Our Persian friend had returned to Koudoum after the first half-mile, during which he managed to get three falls, for the poor man had no notion of riding or keeping a horse on its legs.  He reminded one of the cockney who sat his horse with consummate ease, grace, and daring, until it moved, when he generally fell off.  I was sorry for him.  He was so meek and unresentful, even when mercilessly chaffed by Gerome.

Our greatest difficulty up till now had arisen from ice, which completely covered the steep narrow pathway up the side of the mountain, and made the ascent slippery and insecure.  The snow had as yet been a couple of feet deep at most, and we had come across no drifts of any consequence.  Arrived at the summit, however, we saw what we had to expect.  Below us lay a narrow valley or gorge, about a mile broad, separating us from the low range of hills on the far side of which lay Bideshk.  The depth of the snow we were about to make a way through was easily calculated by the telegraph-posts, which in places were covered to within two or three feet of the top.  “You see, sahib,” said the Shagird, pointing with his whip to a huge drift some distance to the left of the wires; “two men lying under that.”  The intelligence did not interest me in the least.  Could we or not get over this “Valley of Death”? was the only question my mind was at that moment capable of considering.

[Illustration:  A DAY IN THE SNOW]

In less than a quarter of an hour we were in the thick of it, up to our waists in the snow, and pulling, rather than leading, our horses after us.  It reminded me of a bad channel passage from Folkestone to Boulogne, and took about the same time—­two hours, although the actual distance was under a mile and a half.  Gerome led the way as long as he was able, but, about half-way across, repeated and violent falls had so exhausted his horse that we were obliged to halt while I took his place, by no means an easy one.  During this stage of the proceedings we could scarcely see one another for the steam and vapour arising from the poor brutes, whose neighs of terror, as they blundered into a deeper drift than usual, were pitiful to hear.  More than once Gerome’s pony fell utterly exhausted and helpless, and it took our united efforts to get him on his legs again; while the Shagird and I left our ponies prone on their sides, only too glad of a temporary respite from their labours.  If there is anything in the Mohammedan religion, the Shagird was undoubtedly useful.  He never ceased calling upon “Allah!” for help for more than ten consecutive seconds the whole way across.  At four o’clock we rode into the post-house at Bideshk, thoroughly done up, and wet through with snow and perspiration, but safe, and determined, if horses were procurable, to push on at once to Murchakhar, from whence two easy stages of six and three farsakhs would land us next day at Ispahan.