The turban of Abdurraheim Khan is a marvellous evidence of skill in the arranging of that characteristic Eastern head-dress; the snowy whiteness of the material, the gracefulness of the folds, and the elegant crest-like termination are not to be described and done justice to by either word or pen.

In reply to my inquiries, I am glad to find that Abdurraheim Khan speaks less discouragingly of the Harood than did the Ameer at Ali-abad; he says it will be fordable for camels, and there will be no difficulty in finding nomads able to provide me an animal to cross over with.

Some cause of delay, incomprehensible to me, appears to interfere with the continuation of my journey in the morning, most of the forenoon being spent in a discussion of the subject between Abdurraheim Khan and the mirza.  About noon a messenger arrives from Ali-abad, bringing a letter from the Ameer, which seems to clear up the mystery at once.  The letter probably contains certain instructions about providing me an escort that were overlooked in the letter brought by the mirza.

When about starting, the khan presents me with a bowl of sweet stuff —­a heavy preparation of sugar, grease, and peppermint.  A very small portion of this lead-like concoction suffices to drive out all other considerations in favor of a determination never to touch it again.  An attempt to distribute it among the people about us is interpreted by the well-meaning khan as an impulse of pure generosity on my own part; the result being that he ties the stuff up nicely in a clean handkerchief that an unlucky bystander happens to display at that moment and bids me carry it with me.

An ancient retainer, without any teeth to speak of, and an annoying habit of shouting “h-o-i!” at a person, regardless of the fact that one is within hearing of the merest whisper, is detailed to guide me to a few hovels perched among the mountains, four farsakhs to the southeast, from which point the journey across the Dasht-i-na-oomid is to begin, with an escort of three sowars, who are to join us there later in the evening.

A couple of miles over fairly level ground, and then commences again the everlasting hills, up, up, down, up, down, clear to our destination for the day.  While trundling along over the rough foot-hills, I am approached by some nomads who are tending goats near by.  Seeing them gather about me, my aged but valiant protector comes galloping briskly up and imperatively waves them away.  A grandfatherly party, with a hacking cough, a rusty cimeter, and a flint-lock musket of “ye olden tyme,” I fancied “The Aged” merely a guide to show me the road.  As I worry along over the rough, unridable mountains, the irritation of being shouted “hoi!” at for no apparent reason, except for the luxury of hearing the music of his own voice, is so annoying that I have about resolved to abandon him to a well-deserved fate, in case of attack.

But now, instead of leaning on me for protection, he blossoms forth at once as not only the protector of his own person, but of mine as well!  As he comes galloping bravely up and dismisses the wild-looking children of the desert with a grandiloquent sweep of his hand, he is almost rewarded by an involuntary “bravo, old un!” from myself, so superior to the occasion does he seem to rise.