Mahmoud Yusupli Khan himself is wearing one of these hats, and is attired in a tight-fitting suit of buckram, pipe-clayed from head to foot; in his hat glitters a handsome rosette of nine diamonds, which I have an opportunity of counting while seated beside him.  He is a stoutish person, full-faced, slightly above middle age, less striking in appearance than many of his subordinates.  When I have walked up between the two rows of seated chieftains and gained his side, he forthwith displays his knowledge of the English mode of greeting by shaking hands.  He orders an attendant to fetch a couple of camp chairs, and setting one for me, he rises from the carpet and occupies the other one himself.  Tea is brought in small cups instead of glasses, and is highly sweetened after the manner of the Persians; sweetmeats are handed round at the same time.  After ascertaining that I understand something of Persian, he expresses his astonishment at my appearance in Furrah.  At first it is painfully evident that he suspects me of being a Russian spy; but after several minutes of questions and answers, he is apparently satisfied that I am not a Muscovite, and he explains to his officers that I am an “Ingilis nockshi” (correspondent).  He is greatly astonished to hear of the route by which I entered the country, as no traveller ever entered Afghanistan across the Dasht-i-na-oomid before.  I tell him that I am going to Kandahar and Quetta, and suggest that he send a sowar with me to guide the way.  He smiles amusedly at this suggestion, and shaking his head vigorously, he says, “Kandahar neis; Afghanistan’s bad; khylie bad;” and he furthermore explains that I would be sure to get killed.  “Kliylie koob; I don’t want any sowar, I will go alone; if I get killed, then nobody will be blamable but myself.”  “Kandahar neis,” he replies, shaking his finger and head, and looking very serious; “Kandahar neis; beest (20) sowars couldn’t see you safely through to Kandahar; Afghanistan’s bad; a Ferenghi would be sure to get killed before reaching Kandahar.”  Pretending to be greatly amused at this, I reply, “koob; if I get killed, all right; I don’t want any sowars; I will go alone.”  At hearing this, he grows still more serious, and enters into quite an eloquent and lengthy explanation, to dissuade me from the idea of going.  He explains that the Ameer has little control over the fanatical tribes in Zemindavar, and that although the Boundary Commission had a whole regiment of sepoys, the Ameer couldn’t guarantee their safety if they came to Furrah.  He furthermore expresses his surprise that I wasn’t killed before getting this far.  The officer of the guard who brought me in, and who is standing against the porch close by, speaks up at this stage of the interview and tells with much animation of how I was riding down the street, and of the people all speechless with astonishment.