A Yezdi traveller, occupying one of the menzils—­all of which at Beeriand are provided with doors and locks—­now invites me to his quarters; locking the door and keeping me out of sight, he hopes by making me his guest to assist in getting rid of the crowd.  Whatever his object, its consummation is far from being realized; the unappeased curiosity of the crowds of newly arriving people finds expression in noisy shouts and violent hammering on the door, creating a din so infernal that the well-meaning traveller quickly tires of his bargain.  Following the instincts of the genuine Oriental, he conjures up the genius of diplomacy to rid himself of his guest and the annoyance occasioned by my presence.

“If you go outside and ride around the place once more,” he says, “Inshallah, the people will all go home.”

This is a very transparent proposition—­a broad hint, covered with the thin varnish of Persian politeness.  No sooner am I outside than the door is locked, and the wily Yezdi has accomplished his purpose of ousting me and thereby securing a little peace for himself.  No right-thinking person will blame him for turning me out; on the contrary, he deserves much praise for attempting to take me in.

I now endeavor to render my position bearable by locking up the bicycle and allowing the populace to concentrate their eager gaze on me, perching myself on the roof in position to grant them a fair view.  Swarms of people come flocking up after me, evidently no more able to control their impulse to follow than if they were so many bleating sheep following the tinkling leadership of a bellwether or a goat.  The caravanserai-jee begs me to come down again, fearing the weight will cause the roof to cave in. well-nigh at my wit’s end what to do, I next take up a squatting position in a corner and resign myself to the unhappy fate of being importuned to ride, shouted at in the guttural tones of desert tribesmen, questioned in unknown tongues, solicited for alms and schemed against and worried for this, that, and the other, by covetous and evil-minded ruffians.

“The Ingilis have khylie pool-k-h-y-lie pool!” (much money) says one ferocious-looking individual to his companion, and their black eyes glisten and their fingers rub together feverishly as they talk, as if the mere imagination of handling my money were a luxury in itself.

“He must have khylie pool if he is going all the way to Hindostan-k-h-y-lie pool!” suggests another; and the coveteousness of dozens of keenly interested listeners finds expression in “Pool, pool; the Ingilis have khylie pool.”

One eager ragamuffin brings me half-a-dozen sour and shrivelled oranges, utterly worthless, for which he asks the outrageous sum of three kerans; a second villainous-looking specimen worries me continuously to leave the caravanserai and go with him somewhere.  I never could make out where.

He looks the veriest cutthroat, and, curious to penetrate the secret of his intentions, and perchance secure something interesting for my note-book, I at length make pretence of acceding to his wishes.  Bystanders at once interfere to prevent him enticing me away, and when he angrily remonstrates he is hustled unceremoniously out into the street.