with a hood but no seat. The
bottom is filled with hay, on which are spread a mat, cushions and
pillows, furs and felt rugs, for the cold is intense. There are
ninety-nine stages and changes of horses between Orenburg and Tashkent,
the capital of Russian Turkestan. At the post-houses nothing can be got
but tea, so provisions for nineteen days had to be taken with us, as
well as sawn wood, rope and tools in case anything should break, and a
large pot of cart-grease to keep the wheels cool. My boxes and trunks
are wrapped in bast-matting and secured with strong ropes to the
driver's box and behind the _tarantass_. It takes time to get everything
ready, and it is late in the afternoon before the first team of three
post-horses is led out and harnessed to the vehicle. I take my largest
fur coat and pack myself in among the cushions and felt rugs. The
carriage is open in front and the whirling snow which sweeps round the
corners flies straight into my face. The driver takes his seat on the
box, shouts shrilly and cracks his whip, and we dash along the streets
of Orenburg in the snow and twilight to the lively jingle of the bells.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM ORENBURG TO THE PAMIR (pp. 55-71).]

The lights come to an end and the night is intensely dark when we come
out to the high-road leading into Asia. The bells worn by the middle
horse on a necklace round his neck ring in frequent beats. This horse
always goes at a trot, being harnessed between the shafts with a high
wooden arch above his neck, but the two outside horses go at a canter.
The horses are accustomed to this pace and action, and a rapidly moving
team is a fine sight. After three hours a yellow light is seen through
the swirling snow, and the team dashes into a yard and comes to a halt
at the steps of a house. As I have been already tossed about a good
deal, I am glad to jump out and get a glass of tea. The horses are
taken into the stable, and a fresh team is led out to take their place
in the still warm harness.

The _samovar_, or Russian tea-urn, is boiling in the great room. While I
am drinking my first glass of tea the stamping and rattle is heard of
two other teams which roll into the yard. It is the post; and the
courier enters covered with snow and with icicles on his beard. He is a
good fellow, and we become acquainted at once and travel together to
Orsk. He has travelled for twenty years with the mails between the two
towns and must have