In the foothills I encounter, for the first time, one of those characteristics of Mohammedan countries, and more especially of Persia, a caravan of the dead.  Thousands of bodies are carried every year, on horseback or on camels, from various parts of Persia, to be buried in holy ground at Meshed, Kerbella, or Mecca.  The corpses are bound about with canvas, and slung, like bales of merchandise, one on either side of the horse.  The stench from one of these corpse-caravans is something fearful, nothing more nor less than the horrible stench of putrid human bodies.  And yet the drivers seem to mind it very little indeed.  One stout horse in the party I meet this morning carries two corpses; and in the saddle between them rides a woman.  “Mashallah.” perchance those very bodies, between which she sits perched so indifferently, are the remains of small-pox victims.  But, what cares the woman?—­is she not a Mohammedan, and a female one at that?—­and does she not believe in kismet.  What cares she for Ferenghi “sanitary fads?”—­if it is her kismet to take the small-pox, she will take it; if it is her kismet not to, she won’t.  One would think, however, that common sense and common prudence would instruct these people to imitate the excellent example of the Chinese, in taking measures to dispose of the flesh before transporting the bones to distant burial-places.  Many of the epidemics of disease that decimate the populations of Eastern countries, and sometimes travel into the West, originate from these abominable caravans of the dead and kindred irrationalities of the illogical and childlike Oriental.

As the golden dome of Imam Riza’s sanctuary glimmers upon my retreating figure yet a fourth time as I reach the summit of the hill whence we first beheld it, I breathe a silent hope that I may never set eyes on it again.  The fourgon is overtaken, as agreed upon, at Shahriffabad, and after an hour’s halt we conclude to continue on to the caravanserai, where, it will be remembered, my friend the hadji and Mazanderan dervish and myself found shelter from the blizzard.

B___’s Turkish servant, Abdul, a handy fellow, speaking three or four
languages, and numbering, among other accomplishments, the knack of
always having on hand plenty of cold chicken and mutton, is a vast
improvement upon obtaining food direct from the villagers.  Resting here
till 2 a.m., we make a moonlight march to Gadamgah, arriving there for
breakfast.  The trail is a revelation of smoothness, in comparison to my
expectations, based upon its condition a few weeks ago.  The moon is about
full, and gives a light as it only does in Persia, and one can see to
ride the parallel camel-paths very successfully.

Persians are very much given to night-travelling, and as I ride well ahead of the fourgon, the strange, weird object, gliding noiselessly along through the moonlight, fills many a superstitious pilgrim with misgivings that he has caught a glimpse of Sheitan.  I can hear them rapidly muttering “Allah.” as they edge off the road and hurry along on their way.