Prince Kumal Khan received me in his father’s durbar-chamber, a cheerless, whitewashed apartment, bare of furniture save for a somewhat rickety “throne” of painted wood, and a huge white linen punkah, overlooking a dreary landscape of barren desert and mud roofs.  The prince, a tall, slim young man, about twenty-five years of age, has weak but not unpleasing features.  He was dressed in a close-fitting tunic of dark-blue cloth, heavily trimmed with gold braid, baggy white linen trousers, and a pair of European side-spring boots, very dirty and down at heel.  A light-blue turban completed his attire.

The interview was not interesting.  Notwithstanding all my efforts and the services of the interpreter, Kumal was evidently shy and ill at ease, and resolutely refused to enter into conversation.  One thing, however, roused him.  Hearing that I was accompanied by a Russian, Kumal eagerly demanded that he should be sent for.  Gerome presently made his appearance, and was stared at, much to his discomfiture and annoyance, as if he had been a wild beast.  A pair of white-linen drawers, no socks, carpet slippers, and a thin jersey, were my faithful follower’s idea of a costume suitable to the Indian climate—­surmounted by the somewhat inappropriate head-dress of a huge astrakhan cap, which for no earthly consideration could he be persuaded to exchange for a turban.  “So that is a Russian!” said the prince, curiously surveying him from head to foot.  “I thought they were all big men!” But patience has limits, and, with a muttered “Dourak,” [E] poor Gerome turned and left the princely presence in anything but a respectful manner.

Coffee and nargileh discussed, my host moved an adjournment to the roof of the palace, where, he said, I should obtain a better view of his father’s city.  This ceremony concluded, the trumpets sounded, a gentle hint that the audience was at an end, and I took leave, and returned to camp outside the walls of the town.

The Wazir, or Prime Minister, of the Djam paid me a visit in the evening sans ceremonie—­a jolly-looking, fresh-complexioned old fellow, dressed in a suit of karki, cut European fashion, and with nothing Oriental about him save a huge white linen turban.  The Wazir spoke English fairly well, and, waxing confidential over a cigar and whisky-and-water (like my Sonmiani friend, the Wazir was no strict Mussulman), entertained me with an account of the doings of the Court in Beila and the aventures galantes of Kumal, who, from all accounts, was a veritable Don Juan.  “Will the Russians ever take India?” asked the old fellow of Gerome, as he left the tent.  “You can tell them they shall never get it so long as we can prevent them;” but the next moment the poor Wazir, to Gerome’s delight, had measured his length on the ground.  Either the night was very dark, or the whisky very strong; a tent-rope had avenged the taunt levelled at my companion’s countrymen.