The kindly old khan finds his task of awakening the spirit of disappointment anything but congenial, and he seems very loath to deliver the message.  When he finally unburdens himself, it is with averted eyes and roundabout language.  He commences by a rambling disquisition on the dangers of the road to Kandahar, apologizing profusely for the Ameer’s inability to guarantee the good behavior of the wandering tribes, and the consequent necessity of forbidding travellers to enter the country.

He dwells piously and at considerable length upon our obligations to submit to the will of Allah, not forgetting a liberal use of the Oriental fatalist’s favorite expression:  “kismet.”  For the sake of argument, rather than with any hope of influencing things in my favor, I reply:”  All right, I don’t ask the Ameer’s protection; I will go to Kandahar and Quetta alone, on my own responsibility; then if I get murdered by the Ghilzais, nobody but myself will be to blame.”  “The Wali has his orders from the Padishah, the Ameer Abdur Eahman Khan, that no Ferenghi is to come in the country.”  “Tell the Wali that Afghanistan is Allah’s country first and Abdur Eahman’s country second.  Inshallah, Allah gives everybody the road.”  The old khan is evidently at a loss how to meet so logical an argument, and the colonel, Kiftan Sahib, and Bottle Green are deeply impressed at what they consider my unanswerable wisdom.  They look at one another and shake their heads and smile.

The chief concern of the khan is apparently to convince me that it is only out of consideration for my own safety that I am forbidden to go through, and, after a brief consultation with the others, he again addresses his flowery eloquence to me.  He comes and squats beside me, and, with much soothing patting of my shoulder, he says:  “The Wali is only taking you to Herat to obtain Ridgeway Sahib’s and Faramorz Khan’s permission for you to go through.  Inshallah, after you have seen Herat, if it is the will of Allah, and your kismet to go to Kandahar, the Ameer will let you go.”  To this comforting assurance I deem it but justice to the well-meaning old chieftain to signify my submission to the inevitable.  Before departing, he requests the humble present of a pencil-sketch of the bicycle as a souvenir of my visit to Furrah.  During the day I get on quite intimate terms with my guard, and among other things compete with them in the feat of holding a musket out at arm’s length, gripping the extreme end of the barrel.  Tall, strapping fellows some of them are, but they are not muscular in comparison; out of a round dozen competitors I am the only one capable of fairly accomplishing this feat.

Many of the soldiers carry young pheasants about with them in cages, and seem to derive a good deal of pleasure in feeding them and attending to their wants.  The cages are merely pieces of white muslin, or mosquito-netting, about the size of a pocket-handkerchief, enclosing a four-inch disk of wood for the inmate to stand on.  The crape is gathered and loosely tied at the corners.  It is carried as one would carry anything suspended in a handkerchief, and is hung on the limb of a tree in the same manner.