ment
at his expense; his own sincere exclamations of "Allah!" being answered
by unsympathetic jeers and sarcastic remarks. A few minutes later,
perchance one of the hilarious twain finds himself unexpectedly in the
same predicament; it then becomes his turn to look scared and importune
Allah for protection, and also his turn to be the target for the wild
hilarity of the others.

And so this lively and eventful afternoon passes away, and about five
o'clock we round the base of a conglomerate hill that has been shutting
out the prospect ahead, cross a small spring freshet, and emerge upon an
extensive gravelly plain stretching away eastward to the horizon. It is
the central plain of the Dasht-i-na-oomid, the heart of the desert, of
which the wild, heterogeneous territory traversed since morning forms the
setting. So far as the utility of the bicycle and the horses is
concerned, the change is decidedly for the better, even more so for the
former than for the latter. The gravelly plain presents very good
wheeling surface, and I forge ahead of my escort, following a trail so
faint that it is barely distinguishable from the general surface. Shortly
after leaving the mountainous country the three sowars hip their horses
into a smart canter to overtake the bicycle. As they come clattering up,
the khan shouts loudly for me to stop, and the mirza and mudbake
supplement his vocal exertions by gesticulating to the same purpose.
Dismounting, and allowing them to approach, in reply to my query of "Chi
mi khoi?" the khan's knavish countenance becomes overspread with a
ridiculously thin and transparent assumption of seriousness and
importance, and pointing to an imaginary boundary-line at his horse's
feet he says: "Bur-raa (brother), Afghanistan." "Khylie koob, Afghanistan
inja-koob, hoob, sowari." (Very good, I understand, we are entering
Afghanistan; all right, ride on.) "Sowari neis," replies the khan; and he
tries hard to impress upon me that our crossing the Afghan frontier is a
momentous occasion, and not to be lightly regarded. Several times during
the day has my delectable escort endeavored to fathom the extent of my
courage by impressing upon me the danger to be apprehended in Afghanistan
by a Ferenghi. Not less than half a dozen times have they indulged in the
grim pantomime of cutting their own throats, and telling me that this is
the tragic fate that would await me in Afghanistan without their valuable
protection. And now,