The Khanates of Bokhara and Samarkand used to form Sogdiana, a Persian satrapy inhabited by the Tadjiks and afterwards by the Usbegs, who invaded the country at the close of the fifteenth century.  But another invasion, much more modern, is to be feared, that of the sands, now that the saksaouls intended to bring the sandhills to a standstill, have almost completely disappeared.

Bokhara, the capital of the Khanate, is the Rome of Islam, the Noble City, the City of Temples, the revered centre of the Mahometan religion.  It was the town with the seven gates, which an immense wall surrounded in the days of its splendor, and its trade with China has always been considerable.  Today it contains eighty thousand inhabitants.

I was told this by Major Noltitz, who advised me to visit the town in which he had lived several times.  He could not accompany me, having several visits to pay.  We were to start again at eleven o’clock in the morning.  Five hours only to wait and the town some distance from the railway station!  If the one were not connected with the other by a Decauville—­a French name that sounds well in Sogdiana—­time would fail for having even a slight glimpse of Bokhara.

It is agreed that the major will accompany me on the Decauville; and when we reach our destination he will leave me to attend to his private affairs.  I cannot reckon on him.  Is it possible that I shall have to do without the company of any of my numbers?

Let us recapitulate.  My Lord Faruskiar?  Surely he will not have to worry himself about the mandarin Yen Lou, shut up in this traveling catafalque!  Fulk Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett?  Useless to think of them when we are talking about palaces, minarets, mosques and other archaeological inutilities.  The actor and the actress?  Impossible, for Madame Caterna is tired, and Monsieur Caterna will consider it his duty to stay with her.  The two Celestials?  They have already left the railway station.  Ah!  Sir Francis Trevellyan.  Why not?  I am not a Russian, and it is the Russians he cannot stand.  I am not the man who conquered Central Asia.  I will try and open this closely shut gentleman.

I approach him; I bow; I am about to speak.  He gives me a slight inclination and turns on his heel and walks off!  The animal!

But the Decauville gives its last whistle.  The major and I occupy one of the open carriages.  Half an hour afterwards we are through the Dervaze gate, the major leaves me, and here am I, wandering through the streets of Bokhara.

If I told the readers of the Twentieth Century that I visited the hundred schools of the town, its three hundred mosques—­almost as many mosques as there are churches in Rome, they would not believe me, in spite of the confidence that reporters invariably receive.  And so I will confine myself to the strict truth.