An enterprising youth is on hand at daybreak making a fire; but it is eight o’clock before I am able to get away; they seem to be mildly scheming among themselves to keep me with them as long as possible.

The trail winds and twists about among the mountains, following in the train of a wayward little stream, then leads over a pass and emerges, in the company of another stream, upon a slanting plateau leading down to an extensive plain.  Rounding the last spur of the hills, I find myself approaching a crowd numbering at least a hundred people.  Hats are waved gleefully, voices are lifted up in joyous shouts of welcome, and the whole company give way to demonstrations of delight at my approach.  A minute later I find myself surrounded by the familiar faces of the population of Nukhab—­my road has followed a roundabout course of six or seven miles, and our enterprising friends have taken a short cut over the lulls to intercept me at this point, where they can watch my, progress across the open plain.  They have brought along the kind old Kahn’s kalian and tobacco-bag, and the wherewithal to make me a parting glass of tea.

Eight or ten miles of fair wheeling across the plain, through the isolated village of Mohammedabad, and the trail loses itself among the rank, dead stalks of the assafoetida plant that here characterizes the vegetation of the broad, level sweep of plain.  The day is cloudy, and with no trail visible, my compass has to be brought into requisition; though oft-times finding it useful, it is the first time I have found this article to be really indispensable so far on the tour.

The atmosphere of an assafoetida desert is among those things that can better be imagined than described; the aroma of the fetid gum is wafted to and fro, and assails the nostrils in a manner quite the reverse of “Araby the blest.”  The plant is a sturdy specimen among the annuals:  its straight, upright stem is but three or four feet high, but often measuring four inches in diameter, and it not infrequently defies the blasts of the Khorassan winter and the upheaving thaws of spring, and preserves its upright position for a year after its death.  The thick, dead stems and branching tops of last year’s plants are seen by the thousands, sturdily holding their ground among the rank young shoots of the new growth.

Mountainous territory is again entered during the afternoon, and shortly after sunset I arrive at a cluster of wretched mud hovels, numbering about two dozen.  Here my reception is preeminently commercial and business-like, the people requiring payment in advance for the bread and eggs and rogan provided.

A nonsensical custom among the people of Southern Khorassan is to offer one’s food in turn to everybody present and say, “Bis-millah,” before commencing to eat it yourself.  Although a ridiculous piece of humbug, it is generally my custom to fall in with the peculiar ways of the country, and for days past have invariably offered my food to scores of people whom I knew beforehand would not take it.  The lack of courtesy at this hamlet in exacting payment in advance would seem naturally to preclude the right to expect the following of courteous customs in return.  In this, however, I find myself mistaken; for my omission to say “Bis-millah” not only fills these people with astonishment, but excites unfavorable comment.