The village of Torbet-i-Sheikh Jahm is reached at noon, a pleasant town containing many shade-trees.  Here, I find, resides Ab-durrahzaak Khan, a sub-agent of Mirza Abbas Khan, and consequently a servant of the Indian Government.  He is one of the frontier agents, whose duty it is to keep track of events in a certain section of country and report periodically to headquarters.  He, of course, receives me hospitably, does the agreeable with tea and kalians, and provides substantial refreshments.  The soothing Shi-razi tobacco provided with his kalians, and the excellent quality of his tea, provoke me to make comparison between them and the wretched productions of Afghanistan.  Abdurrahzaak laughs good-humoredly at my remark, and replies, “Mashallah! there is nothing good in Afghanistan.”  He isn’t far from right; and the English officer who named the products of Afghanistan as “stones and fighting men” came equally near the truth.

Fair roads prevail for some distance after leaving Torbet-i-Sheikh Jahm; a halt is made at an Eliaute camp to refresh myself with a bowl of doke.  A picturesque dervish emerges from one of the tents and presents his alms-receiver, with “huk yah huk.”  Both man and voice seem familiar, and after a moment I recognize him as a familiar figure upon the streets of Teheran last winter.  He says he is going to Cabool and Kandahar.  A unique feature of his makeup is a staff with a bayonet fixed on the end, in place of the usual club or battle-axe.

The night is spent in an Eliaute camp; nummuds seem scarce articles with them, and I spend a cold and uncomfortable night, scarcely sleeping a wink.  The camp is not far from the village of Mahmoudabad, and a rowdy gang of ryots come over to camp in the middle of the night, having heard of my arrival.

From Mahmoudabad the road follows up a narrow valley with a range of hills running parallel on either hand.  The southern range are quite respectable mountains, with lingering patches of snow, and—­can it be possible!—­even a few scattering pines.  Pines, and, for that matter, trees of any kind, are so scarce in this country that one can hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes when he sees them.

On past the village of Karizeno my road leads, passing through a hard, gravelly country, the surface generally affording fair riding except for a narrow belt of sand-hills.  At Karizeno, a glimpse is obtained of our old acquaintances the Elburz Mountains, near Shah-riffabad.  They are observed to be somewhat snow-crowned still, though to a measurably less extent than they were when we last viewed them on the road to Torbeti.

The approach of evening brings my day’s ride to a close at Furriman, a village of considerable size, partially protected by a wall and moat, Stared at by the assembled population, and enduring their eager gabble all the evening, and then a nummud on the roof of a villager’s house till morning.  The night is cold, and sleeplessness, with shivering body, again rewards me for a long, hard day’s journey.  But now it is but about six farsakhs to Meshed, where, “Inshallah,” a good bed and all kindred comforts await me beneath Mr. Gray’s hospitable roof.  Ere the forenoon is passed the familiar gold dome once again appears as a glowing yellow beacon, beckoning me across the Meshed plain.