Outside the gate, at the suggestion of the young man in the bottle-green roundabout, I mount and ride, wheeling slowly along between the little files of soldiers.  The soldiers are delighted at the novelty of their duty, and they swing briskly along as I pedal a little faster.  They smile at the exertion necessary to keep up, and falling in with their spirit of amusement, I gradually increase my speed, and finally shoot ahead of them entirely.  Kiftan Sahib comes galloping after me on the gray, and with good-humored anxiety motions for me to stop and let the soldiers catch up.  He it is upon whom the commander-in-chief has saddled the responsibility for my safe-keeping, and this little display of levity and my ability to so easily out-distance the soldiers, awakens in him the spirit of apprehension at once.  One can see that he breathes easier as soon as we are safely inside the garden gate.

A couple of little whitewashed bungalows are the only buildings in the garden, and one of these is assigned to me for my quarters.  Kiftan Sahib and the young man in the bottle-green roundabout give orders about the preparation of refreshments, and then squat themselves down near me to gladden their eyes with a prolonged examination of my face.  The red-jackets separate into three reliefs of four each; one relief immediately commences pacing back and forth along the four sides of the bungalow, one soldier on each side, while the remainder seek the shade of a pomegranate grove that occupies one side of the garden.  By-and-by servitors appear bearing trays of sweetmeats and more substantial fare.  The variety and abundance of eatables comprising the meal, are such as to thoroughly delight the heart of a person who has grown thin and gaunt and wolfish from semi-starvation and prolonged physical exertion.  The two long skewers of smoking kabobs and the fried eggs are most excellent eating, the pillau is delicious, and among other luxuries is a sort of pomegranate jam, some very good butter (called muscal), a big bowl of sherbet, and dishes of nuts, sweetmeats, and salted melon seeds.  After dinner the young man in bottle-green, who seems anxious to cultivate my good opinion, smiles significantly at me and takes his departure; he turns up again in a few minutes bearing triumphantly an old Phillips’ Atlas, which he deferentially places at my feet.  Opening it, I find that the chief countries and cities of the world are indicated in written Hindostani characters.  In this manner some English officer has probably been the undesigning medium of giving these Afghans a peep into the configuration of the earth they live on, and their first lesson in geography.

I reward the young man by asking him whether he too is a “kiftan.”  He acknowledges the compliment by a broad grin and two salaams made in rapid succession.

After noon a messenger arrives from Mahmoud Yusuph Khan bringing salaams and a pair of stout English walking-boots to replace my old worn-out geivehs; and a cake of toilet soap, also of English make.  Both shoes and soap, as may be easily imagined, are highly acceptable articles.  The advent of the former likewise answers the purpose of enlightening me a trifle in regard to matters philological; the Afghans call their foot-gear “boots” (the Chinese call their foot-wear “shoes,” and their gloves “tung-shoes,” or hand-shoes).