th
him. The heat of the day being overpowering, I willingly accepted his
invitation. We settled ourselves on the borders of a rivulet, near a
cornfield, whilst the courier took off his horse's bridle, and permitted
it to feed on the new wheat. He then groped up, from the deep folds
of his riding trousers, a pocket handkerchief, in which were wrapped
several lumps of cold boiled rice, and three or four flaps of bread,
which he spread before us, and then added some sour curds, which he
poured from a small bag that hung at his saddle-bow. From the same
trousers, which contained his shoes, a provision of tobacco, a drinking
cup, and many other useful articles, he drew half a dozen raw onions,
which he added to the feast; and we ate with such appetite, that very
soon we were reduced to the melancholy dessert of sucking our fingers.
We washed the whole down with some water from the rivulet, and only
then (such had been our voracity) we thought of questioning each other
concerning the object of our respective journeys. From my dress,
he perceived me to be a dervish, and my story was soon told: as for
himself, he was a courier belonging to the Governor of Asterabad, and,
to my joy and surprise, was carrying the happy intelligence of the
release of my former companion, Asker Khan, the Shah's poet, from his
captivity among the Turcomans. I did not let the courier know how much
I was interested in his errand, for experience had taught me how wise it
was, in the affairs of life to keep one's own counsel; and, therefore, I
pretended ignorance of even the existence of such a person.

My companion informed me that the poet had managed to reach Asterabad in
safety, and that, being destitute of everything, he, in the meanwhile,
had been dispatched to give intelligence of his situation to his family.
He showed me the letters with which he was entrusted, which he drew
forth from his breast, wrapped up in a handkerchief; and being a very
inquisitive fellow, though unable to read, he was happy to find in me
one who might give him some account of their contents. The first which
I inspected[30] was a memorial from the poet to the king of kings, in
which he set forth, in language the most poetic, all the miseries and
tortures which he had endured since he had been thrown into the hands of
the Turcomans: that the hunger, the thirst, and the barbarous treatment
which he had experienced, were nothing, when compared with the privation
of the all-g