a regular downpour, that speedily wets me through. A
small walled village is finally reached and shelter obtained beneath its
ample portals, a place that seems to likewise be the loafing-place of the
village. The entrance is a good-sized room, and here on wet days the men
can squat about and smoke, and at the same time see everything that
passes on the road. The village is defended by a strong mud wall some
thirty feet high, and strengthened with abutting towers at frequent
intervals; the only entrance is the one massive door, and inside there is
plenty of room for all the four-footed possessions of the people; the
houses are the usual little mud huts with thatched beehive roofs, built
against the wall. The flocks of goats and sheep are admitted inside every
evening, and taken out again to graze in the morning; the appearance of
the interior is that of a very filthy, undrained, and utterly neglected
farmyard, and as no breath of wind ever passes through it, or comes any
nearer the ground than the top of the thirty-foot wall, living in its
reeking, pent-up exhalations must be something abominable.

Such a place as this in Persia would be fairly swarming with noxious
insect life, of which fleas would be the most tolerable variety, and
two-thirds of the people would be suffering from chronic ophthalmia. This
little village, doubtless, had enough to do a few years ago to maintain
its existence, even with its remarkably strong walls; and on the highest
mountain peaks round about they point out to me their watch-towers, where
sentinels daily scanned the country round for the wild horsemen they so
much dreaded. Four men and three women among the little crowd gathered
about me here, are pointed out as having been released from slavery by
the Russians, when they captured Khiva and liberated the Persian slaves
and sent them home. Every village and hamlet along this part of the
country contains its quota of returned captives who, no doubt, entertain
lively recollections of being carried off and sold.

Soon after my arrival here, a little, weazen-faced, old seyud, in a
threadbare and badly-faded green gown, comes hobbling through the rain
and the mahogany-colored slush of the village yard to the gate. Everybody
rises respectfully as he comes in, and the old fellow, accustomed to
having this deference paid him by everybody about him, and wishing to
show courtesy to a Ferenghi, motions for me to keep seated. Seeing that I
had no inte