With them are two or three Nogais going to Eastern Turkestan.  Of a higher race than the Kirghizes, being Tartars, it is from them that come the learned men and professors who have made illustrious the opulent cities of Bokhara and Samarkand.  But science and its teaching do not yield much of a livelihood, even when reduced to the mere necessaries of life, in these provinces of Central Asia.  And so these Nogais take employment as interpreters.  Unfortunately, since the diffusion of the Russian language, their trade is not very remunerative.

Now I know the places of my numbers, and I know where to find them when I want them.  As to those going through to Pekin, I have no doubt of Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett nor the German baron, nor the two Chinese, nor Major Noltitz, nor the Caternas, nor even for the haughty gentleman whose bony outline I perceive in the corner of the second car.

As to these travelers who are not going across the frontier, they are of most perfect insignificance in my eyes.  But among my companions I have not yet found the hero of my chronicle! let us hope he will declare himself as we proceed.

My intention is to take notes hour by hour—­what did I say?  To “minute” my journey.  Before the night closes in I go out on the platform of the car to have a last look at the surrounding country.  An hour with my cigar will take me to Kizil Arvat, where the train has to stop for some time.  In going from the second to the first car I meet Major Noltitz.  I step aside to let him pass.  He salutes me with that grace which distinguishes well-bred Russians.  I return his salute.  Our meeting is restricted to this exchange of politeness, but the first step is taken.

Popof is not just now in his seat.  The door of the luggage van being open, I conclude that the guard has gone to talk with the driver.  On the left of the van the mysterious box is in its place.  It is only half-past six as yet, and there is too much daylight for me to risk the gratification of my curiosity.

The train advances through the open desert.  This is the Kara Koum, the Black Desert.  It extends from Khiva over all Turkestan comprised between the Persian frontier and the course of the Amou Daria.  In reality the sands of the Kara Koum are no more black than the waters of the Black Sea or than those of the White Sea are white, those of the Red Sea red, or those of the Yellow River yellow.  But I like these colored distinctions, however erroneous they may be.  In landscapes the eye is caught by colors.  And is there not a good deal of landscape about geography?

It appears that this desert was formerly occupied by a huge central basin.  It has dried up, as the Caspian will dry up, and this evaporation is explained by the powerful concentration of the solar rays on the surface of the territories between the Sea of Aral and the Plateau of the Pamir.