The transfer having been duly made, I am conducted, a mile or so, to the garden of a gentleman named Mohammed Ahziin Khan, my quarters there being an open bungalow just large enough to stretch out in.  Here is provided everything necessary for the rude personal comfort of the country, and such additional luxuries as raisins and pomegranates are at once brought.  Here, also, I very promptly make the acquaintance of Moore’s famous bul-buls, the “sweet nightingales” of Lalla Eookh.  The garden is full of fruit-trees and grape-vines, and here several pairs of bul-buls make their home.  They are great pets with the Afghans, and when Mohammed Ahzim Khan calls “bul-bul, bul-bul,” they come and alight on the bushes close by the bungalow and perk their heads knowingly, evidently expecting to be favored with tid-bits.  They are almost tame enough to take raisins out of the hand, and hesitate not to venture after them when placed close to our feet.  It is the first time I have had the opportunity of a close examination of the bul-bul.  They are almost the counterpart of the English starling as regards size and shape, but their bodies are of a mousey hue; the head and throat are black, with little white patches on either “cheek;” the tail feathers are black, tipped with white, and on the lower part of the body is a patch of yellow; the feathers of the head form a crest that almost rises to the dignity of a tassel.

While the bul-bul is a companionable little fellow and possessed of a cheery voice, his warble in no respects resembles the charming singing of the nightingale, and why he should be mentioned in connection with the sweet midnight songster of the English woodlands is something of a mystery.  His song is a mere “clickety click” repeated rapidly several times.  His popularity comes chiefly from his boldness and his companionable associations with mankind.  The bul-bul is as much of a favorite in the Herat Valley as is robin red-breast in rural England, or the bobolink in America.

The second day in the garden is remembered as the anniversary of my start from Liverpool, and I have plenty of time for retrospection.  It is unnecessary to say that the year has been crowded with strange experiences.  Not the least strange of all, perhaps, is my present predicament as a prisoner in the Herat Valley.

In the afternoon there arrives from Herat a Peshawari gentleman named Mirza Gholam Ahmed, who is stationed here in the capacity of native agent for the Indian government.  He is an individual possessed of considerable Asiatic astuteness, and his particular mission is very plainly to discover for the governor of Herat whether I am English or Russian.  He is a somewhat fleshy, well-favored person, and withal of prepossessing manners.  He introduces himself by shaking hands and telling me his name, and forthwith indulges in a pinch of snuff preparatory to his task of interrogation.  Accompanying him is the officer who received me from Kiftan Sahib in the apricot garden, and whose suspicions of my being a Russian spy are anything but allayed.