It will thus be seen that sensuality is the prevalent vice of the female sex in Persia.  An English-speaking Persian at Bushire told me that, with the exception of the women of the wandering Eeliaut tribes, there were few chaste wives in Persia.  Although the nominal punishment for adultery is death, the law, as it stands at present, is little else than a dead letter, and, as in some more civilized countries, husbands who are fond of intrigue, do not scruple to allow their wives a similar liberty.  Not half an hour’s walk from the Tomb of Hafiz, at the summit of the mountain, is a deep well, so deep that no one has ever yet succeeded in sounding it.  The origin of the chasm is unknown; some say it is an extinct volcano.  But the smallest child in Shiraz knows the use to which it has been put from time immemorial.  It is the grave of adulterous women—­the Well of Death.

An execution took place about fifteen years ago, but there have been none since.  Proved guilty of infidelity, the wretched woman, dressed in a long white gown, was placed on a donkey, her face to the tail, with shaven head and bared face.  In front of the cortege marched the executioner, musicians, dancers, and abandoned women of the town.  Arrived at the summit of the mountain, the victim, half dead with fright, was lifted off and carried to the edge of the yawning abyss which had entombed so many faithless wives before her.  “There is but one God, and Mohammed is His Prophet,” cried a moullah, while the red-robed executioner, with one spurn of his foot, sent the unconscious wretch toppling over the brink, the awe-stricken crowd peering over, watching the white wisp disappear into eternity.  Although the last execution is still fresh in the minds of many, the Well has no terrors for the gay, intrigue-loving ladies of Shiraz.  They make a jest of it, and their husbands jokingly threaten them with it.  Times are changed indeed in Persia!

I left Shiraz with sincere regret.  Apart from the interest attached to the place, I have never received a kinder or more hospitable welcome than from the little band of Englishmen who watch over the safety, and work the wires, of the Indo-European telegraph.  They are under a dozen in number.  With cheap horseflesh, capital shooting, the latest books and papers from India, a good billiard-room and lawn-tennis ground, time never hangs very heavily.  Living is absurdly cheap.  A bachelor can do well on L6 a month, including servants.  He has, of course, no house-rent to pay.

A number of square stone towers about thirty feet high, loopholed and crenelated, are visible from the caravan-track between Shiraz and Khaneh Zinian, where we rested the first night.  The towers are apparently of great antiquity, and must formerly have served for purposes of defence.  We lunched at the foot of one on a breezy upland, with pink and white heather growing freely around, and a brawling, tumbling mountain stream at our feet.  It was like a bit of Scotland