ne
could have been laid to that city in six weeks without difficulty. The
plant, rails, and sleepers were on the spot, having been carried over
the hill, and a railway-carriage could then run from Calcutta to the
eastern extremity of the tunnel without break of gauge. The tunnel,
when completed, will be thirty-four feet broad, and twenty-five feet
in height.

A curious incident happened at one of the railway-stations between
Quetta and Karachi. At the buffet of the one in question, I found
Gerome conversing volubly in Russian with a total stranger, a native.
On inquiry I found he was a very old friend, a Russian subject and
native of Samarcand. "He has just come through from Cabul," said my
companion. "He often does this journey"--ostensibly for purposes of
trade.

The 20th of April saw us in Bombay. An Italian steamer, the _Venezia_,
was leaving for the Black Sea direct, and in her I secured a passage
for Gerome, who was not impressed with our Eastern possessions. The
crowd of curious natives who persistently followed him everywhere
may have had something to do with it, for a fur-clad Esquimaux
in Piccadilly would not have created a greater sensation than my
companion in high boots, black velvet breeches, and red caftan in
the busy streets of the great Indian city. Only a Russian could have
existed in that blazing sun with no other protection to the head than
the astrachan bonnet, which he obstinately refused to discard. I saw
him safely on board, and something very like a tear came into my
trusty little friend's eyes, as we shook hands and parted, to meet,
perhaps, never again. For a better companion no man could wish.
Plucky, honest as the day, and tender-hearted as a woman was Gerome
Realini; and it was with a feeling of loneliness and sincere regret
that I watched the grey smoke of the _Venezia_ sink below the blue
waters, which were soon to bear me, also, back to England and European
civilization.

Has the journey been worth it? Has the result repaid one for the cold,
dirt, and privation of Persia, the torrid heat and long desert marches
through Baluchistan? Perhaps not. There are some pleasant hours,
however, to look back upon. Kashan, a vision of golden domes and dim,
picturesque caravanserais; Ispahan, with its stately Madrassa and blue
Zandarood, winding lazily through miles on miles of white and scarlet
poppyland; Shiraz, a dream of fair women, poetry, and roses, in its
setting of emerald plain, sweet-sc