Mr. M------looks on and interprets between us, with a fixed and confident
didn’t-I-tell-you-so smile, that forms a side study of no mean quality. 
“There will be no trouble about getting permission to go through
Turkestan?” I feel constrained to inquire; for such excessive display of
affection and bonhommie on the Russian diplomat’s part could scarce fail
to arouse suspicions.  “Oh dear, no!” he replies.  “Oh dear, no!  I will
telegraph to General Komaroff, at Askabad, to remove all obstacles, so
that nothing shall interfere with your progress.”  Having received this
positive assurance, we take our leave, Mr. M-------reminding me gleefully
of what he had said about the Russians being the most agreeable people on
earth, and the few remaining clouds of doubt about getting the road
through Turkestan happily dissipated by the Russian Minister’s assurances
of assistance.

Searching through the bazaar, I succeed, after some little trouble, in finding and purchasing a belt-full of Russian gold, sufficient to carry me clear through to Japan; and on the morning of March 10th I bid farewell to the Persian capital, well satisfied at the outlook ahead.  While packing up my traps on the evening before starting, it begins raining for the first time in ten days; but it clears off again before midnight, and the morning opens bright and promising as ever.  Six members of the telegraph staff have determined to accompany me out to Katoum-abad, the first chapar-station on the Meshed pilgrim road, a distance of seven farsakhs.  “Hodge-podge,” the cook, and Meshedi Ali, the gholam, were sent ahead yesterday with plenty of substantial refreshments and sun-dry mysterious black bottles—­for it is the intention of the party to remain at Katoum-abad overnight, and give me a proper send-off from that point to-morrow morning.

Some little delay is occasioned by a difficulty in meeting the fastidious tastes of some of the party as regards saddle-horses; but there is no particular hurry, and ten o’clock finds me bowling briskly through the suburbs toward the Doshan Tepe gate, with four Englishmen, an Irishman, and a Welshman cantering merrily along on horseback behind.

“Khuda rail pak Kumad!” (May God sweep your road!), All Akbar had exclaimed as I mounted at the door, and as we pass through the city gate the old sentinel, when told that I am at last starting on the promised journey to Meshed on the asp-i-awhan, supplements this with “Padaram daromad!” (My father has come out!), a Persian metaphorical exclamation, signifying that such wonderful news has had the effect of calling his father from the grave.