long enough and heavy enough for a six-foot dragoon, a green kammerbund, and top-boots of red leather.  This person stands by the side of Aminulah Khan, watches keenly everything that is being said and done, receives orders from his master, and transmits them to the various subordinates lounging about.  He looks the soul of honesty and watchfullness, his appearance and demeanor naturally conjuring up reflections of faithful servitors about the persons of knights and nobles of old; he is apparently the Khan of Ghalakua’s confidential retainer and general supervisor of affairs about his person and headquarters.

Our quarters are in the bala-khana of a small half-ruined konak outside the village, and shortly after retiring thither the khan’s sprightly little retainer brings in tea and fried eggs, besides pomegranates and roses for myself.  A new departure makes its appearance in the shape of sugar sprinkled over the eggs.  While we are discussing these refreshments our attendant stands in the doorway and addresses the sowars at some length in Persian.  He is apparently delivering instructions received from his master; whatever it is all about, he delivers it with the air of an orator addressing an audience, and he supplements his remarks with gestures that would do credit to a professional elocutionist.  He is as agreeable as he is picturesque; he and I seem to fall en rapport at once, as against the untrustworthiness of the remainder of our company.  As his keen, honest eyes scrutinize the countenances of the sowars, and then seek my own face, I feel instinctively that he has sized my escort up correctly, and that their innate rascality is as well revealed to him as if he had accompanied us across the desert.

Several visitors drop in to pay their respects; they salaam respectfully to me, and greet the sowars as “bur-raa-thers,” and kiss, their hands.  One simple, unsophisticated mortal, who in his isolated life has never had the opportunity of discriminating between a Mussulman and a Ferenghi, addresses me also as “bur-raa-ther,” and favors my palm with the regulation osculatory greeting.  The Afghans present view this extraordinary proceeding with dignified silence, and if moved in any manner by the spectacle, manage to conceal their emotions beneath a stolid exterior.  The risibilities of the sowars, however, are stirred to their deepest depths, and they nearly choke themselves in desperate efforts to keep from laughing outright.

Offerings of roses are brought into our quarters by the various visitors, and boys and men toss others in through door and windows, until our room is gratefully perfumed and roses are literally carpeting the floor.  One might well imagine the place to be Gulistan itself; every person is carrying bunches of roses in his hands, smelling of them, and wearing them in his turban and kammerbund.  The people seem to be fairly revelling in the delights of these choicest gems from Flora’s evidently overflowing storehouse.  The men average