Waking up during the night, I am somewhat taken by surprise at finding one of my escort standing guard over me with fixed bayonet.  This extraordinary precaution appears to me at the time as being altogether superfluous; while recognizing these nomads as lawless and fanatical, I should nevertheless have no hesitation in venturing alone among them.

The morning star is just soaring above the eastern horizon, and the feeble rays of Luna’s half-averted face are imparting a ghostly glimmer of light, when I am awakened from a sound sleep.  The horses have all been saddled and packed, and everybody is ready to start.  Daylight comes on apace and, finding the trail hard and reasonably smooth, I am happily able to “sowari,” and not only able to ride but to forge right ahead of the party.  The country is level and open, and uninhabited, so that Kiftan Sahib is far less apprehensive than he was yesterday.

I am perhaps a couple of miles ahead when I come to a splendid, large, irrigating canal, evidently conveying water from the Harood down across the desert to the low cultivable lands near the Furrah Rood.  The water is three feet deep, and I revel in the luxury of a cooling and refreshing bath until overtaken by the escort.

The plain, heretofore hard, now changes into loose sand and gravel, and the trail becomes quite obliterated.  In addition to these undesirable changes, the wind commences blowing furiously from the north, making it absolutely impossible to ride.  Rounding the base of an abutting mountain, we emerge upon the grassy lowlands of the Harood in the vicinity of Subzowar.  Subzowar is a sort of way-station between Furrah and Herat, the only inhabited place, except tents, on the whole journey.  It is on the west side of the Harood and the broad, swift stream is full to overflowing, a turgid torrent rushing along at a dangerous pace.

After much shouting and firing of guns, a score of villagers appear on the opposite bank, and several of them come wading and swimming across.  They seem veritable amphibians, capable of stemming the tide that well-nigh sweeps strong horses off their feet.  The river is fordable by following a zigzag course well known to the local watermen.  One of them carries the bicycle safely across on his head, and others lead the sowars’ horses by the bridle.

When all the Afghans but Kiftan Sahib have been assisted over, the strongest horse of the party is brought back for my own passage.  A dozen natives are made to form a close cordon about me to rescue me in case of misadventure, while one leads the horse by his bridle and another steadies him by holding on to his tail.  Kiftan Sahib himself brings up the rear, and, as the rushing waters deepen around us, he abjures me to keep a steady seat and, in a voice that almost degenerates into an apprehensive whine, he mutters:  “The receipt, Sahib, the receipt.”

A ripple of excitement occurs in the middle of the river by one the men being swept off his feet and carried down stream; and, although he swims like a duck, the treacherous undercurrent sucks him under several times.  It looks as though he would be drowned; a number of his comrades race down the bank and plunge in to swim to his rescue, but he finally secures footing on a submerged sand-bank, and after resting a few minutes swims ashore.