its source, climbing over the
crest of an intervening ridge and down the bed of another stream. It is
but an indistinct donkey trail at best, and the toilsome mountain
climbing reminds me vividly of the worst parts of Asia Minor. Toward
nightfall I wander into the village of Nukhab, a small place perched
among the hills, inhabited by kindly-disposed, hospitable folks.

Having seen the unhappy effect of the Governor-General's letter of
recommendation at Torbet-i-Haiderie, and desirous of seeing what effect
it might, perchance, have on the more simple-hearted people of Nukhab, I
present it to the little, old, blue-gowned Khan of the village. Like a
very large proportion of his people, the Khan is suffering from chronic
ophthalmia; but he peruses the letter by the glimmer of a blaze of
camel-thorn. The intentions of these people were plainly most hospitable
from the beginning, so that it is difficult to determine about the effect
of the letter.

Willing hands sweep out the quarters assigned for my accommodation, the
improvised besoms filling the place with a cloud of dust; the doorway is
ruthlessly mutilated to make it large enough to admit the bicycle;
nummuds are spread and a crackling fire soon fills the room with mingled
smoke and light. The people are allowed to circulate freely in and out to
see me, but only the Khan himself and a few of the leading lights of the
village are permitted to indulge in the coveted privilege of spending the
entire evening in my company. The village is ransacked for eatables to
honor their guest, resulting in a bountiful repast of eggs, pillau, mast,
and sheerah.

Away down here among the mountains and out of the world, these people see
nothing more curious than their next-door neighbors from year to year;
they take the most ridiculous interest in such small affairs as my
note-book and pencil, and everything about me seems to strike them as
peculiar.

The entire village, as usual, assembles to see me dispose of the eatables
so generously provided; and later in the evening there is another
highly-expectant assembly waiting around, out of curiosity, to see what
sort of a figure a Ferenghi cuts at his evening devotions. Poor benighted
followers of the False Prophet, how little they comprehend us Christians!
Suddenly it seems to dawn upon the mind of the simple old Khan that,
being a stranger in a strange land, I might, perchance, be a trifle mixed
about my bearings, and so he kindly indi