The interview ends, however, without much additional light being shed on their intentions; but the advent of more sweetmeats shortly after the Governor’s departure, and the unexpected luxury of a bottle of Shiraz wine, heightens the conviction that my own wishes in the matter are to be politely ignored.  The red-jackets patrol my bungalow till dark, when they are relieved by soldiers in dark-blue kilts, loose Turkish pantalettes, and big turbans.  I sit on the threshold during the evening, watching their soldierly bearing with much interest; on their part they comport themselves as though proudly conscious of making a good impression.  I judge they have been especially ordered to acquit themselves well in my presence, and so impress me, whether I am English or Russian, with a sense of their military proficiency.  All about the garden red-coated guards are seen prostrating themselves toward Mecca in the prosecution of their evening devotions.  Full of reflections on the exciting events of the day and the strange turn affairs have taken, I stretch myself on a Turkoman rug and doze off to sleep.  The last sound heard ere reaching the realms of unconsciousness is the steady tramp of the sentinels pacing to and fro.  Scarcely have I fallen asleep—­so at least it seems to me —­when I am awakened by my four guards singing out, one after another, “Kujawpuk!  Ki-i-puk!!” This appears to be their answer to the challenge of the officer going his rounds, and they shout it out in tones clear and distinct, in succession.  This programme is repeated several times during the night, and, notwithstanding the sleep-inducing fatigues of the last few days, my slumbers are light enough to hear the reliefs of the guard and their strange cry of “Kujawpuk, ki-i-puk” every time it is repeated.

As the sun peeps over the wall of the garden my red-jackets reappear at their post; roses are stuck in their caps’ and their buttonholes, and fastened to their guns.  A big bouquet of the same fragrant “guls” is presented to me, and a dozen gholams are busy gathering all that are abloom in the garden.  These are probably gathered every morning in the rose season, and used for making rose-water by the officers’ wives.  During the forenoon the blue-gowned old khan and his major-domo, the mail-clad colonel, again present themselves at my bungalow.  They are gracious and friendly to a painful degree, and sugar would scarcely melt in the mouth of the paternal old khan as he delivers the “Wall’s salaams to the Sahib.”  Tea and sweetmeats are handed around, and Kiftan Sahib and Bottle Green join our company.

Nothing but the formal salaams has yet been said; but intuition is a faithful forerunner, and ere another word is spoken, I know well enough that the khan and the colonel have been sent to break the disagreeable news that I am to be taken to Herat, and that Kiftan Sahib and Bottle Green have dropped in out of curiosity to see how I take it.