ittle or no supremacy over them, nor indeed over any part of
Baluchistan, Kelat and its suburbs excepted.

Prince Kumal Khan received me in his father's durbar-chamber, a
cheerless, whitewashed apartment, bare of furniture save for a
somewhat rickety "throne" of painted wood, and a huge white linen
punkah, overlooking a dreary landscape of barren desert and mud roofs.
The prince, a tall, slim young man, about twenty-five years of
age, has weak but not unpleasing features. He was dressed in a
close-fitting tunic of dark-blue cloth, heavily trimmed with gold
braid, baggy white linen trousers, and a pair of European side-spring
boots, very dirty and down at heel. A light-blue turban completed his
attire.

The interview was not interesting. Notwithstanding all my efforts and
the services of the interpreter, Kumal was evidently shy and ill at
ease, and resolutely refused to enter into conversation. One thing,
however, roused him. Hearing that I was accompanied by a Russian,
Kumal eagerly demanded that he should be sent for. Gerome presently
made his appearance, and was stared at, much to his discomfiture and
annoyance, as if he had been a wild beast. A pair of white-linen
drawers, no socks, carpet slippers, and a thin jersey, were my
faithful follower's idea of a costume suitable to the Indian
climate--surmounted by the somewhat inappropriate head-dress of a
huge astrakhan cap, which for no earthly consideration could he be
persuaded to exchange for a turban. "So that is a Russian!" said the
prince, curiously surveying him from head to foot. "I thought they
were all big men!" But patience has limits, and, with a muttered
"Dourak," [E] poor Gerome turned and left the princely presence in
anything but a respectful manner.

Coffee and nargileh discussed, my host moved an adjournment to the
roof of the palace, where, he said, I should obtain a better view of
his father's city. This ceremony concluded, the trumpets sounded, a
gentle hint that the audience was at an end, and I took leave, and
returned to camp outside the walls of the town.

The Wazir, or Prime Minister, of the Djam paid me a visit in the
evening _sans ceremonie_--a jolly-looking, fresh-complexioned old
fellow, dressed in a suit of karki, cut European fashion, and with
nothing Oriental about him save a huge white linen turban. The Wazir
spoke English fairly well, and, waxing confidential over a cigar and
whisky-and-water (like my Sonmiani friend, the Wazir was