in the dim distance to the northeast can be seen a single
speck of light--the camp-fire of some wandering Afghan tribe.

"What is the fire yonder?" I ask of the khan. The khan looks at it, says
something to his comrades, and then looks at me and draws his finger yet
again across his throat; the mirza and the mudbake follow suit. The
ridiculous frequency of this tragic demonstration causes me to laugh
outright, in spite of an effort to control my risibilities. The khan
replies to this by explaining, "Afghani Noorzais-dasht-adam," and then
goes on to explain that the Noorzais are very bad Afghans, who would like
nothing better than to murder a Ferenghi. From the beginning of our
acquaintance I have allowed my escort to think my understanding of the
conversation going on among themselves is extremely limited. By this
means have they been thrown somewhat off their guard, and frequently
committed themselves within my hearing. It is their laudable purpose, I
have discovered, to steal money from me if an opportunity presents
without the chance of being detected. Besides being inquisitive about the
probable amount in my possession, there has evolved from their collective
brain during the day, a deep-laid scheme to find out something about the
amount of backsheesh they may expect me to bestow upon them at the end of
our journey. This deep-laid scheme is for the khan to pretend that he is
sending the mirza and the mudbake back to Beerjand from this point, and
for these two hopeful accomplices to present themselves before me as
about ready to depart, and so demand backsheesh. This little farce is
duly played shortly after our arrival; it is a genuine piece of light
comedy, acted on the strangely realistic stage of the lonely desert, to
which the full round moon just rising above the eastern horizon. These
advances are met on my part by broad intimations that if they continue to
act as ridiculously during the remainder of the journey as they have
to-day they will surely get well bastinadoed, instead of backsheeshed,
when we reach Ghalakua. The actors retire from the stage with visible
discomfiture and squat themselves around the fire. Long after I have
stretched my somewhat weary frame upon a narrow strip of saddle-blanket
for the night, my three "protectors" squat around the smouldering embers
of the camel-thorn fire, discussing the all-absorbing topic of my money.
Little do they suspect that concealed in a leathern money-belt bene