M. M.--he
asks if I am a Ferenghi and whither I am going; Kron would have asked me
for tabulated statistics of my tour through Persia.
A couple of hours' rest in the Eliaute camp, and we bid adieu to this
queer little oasis of human life within the barbarous boundary-line of
the Dasht-i-na-oomid, and proceed on our way. One of the Eliautes
accompanies us some little distance to guide us through a belt of badly
broken country immediately surrounding their camp. The country continues
to be a regular jumble of odds and ends of physical geography all the
afternoon, and several times the horses of the sowars, without
preliminary warning, break through the thin upper crust of some
treacherous boggy spot and sink suddenly to their bellies. During the
afternoon the mirza is pitched headlong over his horse's head once, and
the khan and the mudbake twice. In one tumble the khan's loosely sheathed
sword slips from its scabbard, and he well nigh falls a victim to the
accident a la King Saul. While traversing this treacherous belt of
territory I make the sowars lead the way and perform the office of
pathfinder for myself and wheel. Whenever one of them gets stuck in boggy
ground, and his horse flounders wildly about, to the imminent risk of
unseating its rider, his two hopeful comrades bubble over with merriment
at his expense; his own sincere exclamations of "Allah!" being answered
by unsympathetic jeers and sarcastic remarks.
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