Our party camps near a village not far from the river, but it takes us
till after dark to reach the place, owing to ditches and overflow. A few
miles of winding trails and intricate paths through the reedy
river-bottom next morning, and we emerge upon a flinty upland plain. At
first a horseman is required to ride immediately ahead of the bicycle, my
untutored escort being evidently suspicious lest I might suddenly forge
ahead, and with the swiftness of a bird disappear from their midst.

As this leader, in his ignorance, occasionally stops right in the narrow
path, and considers himself in duty bound to limit my speed to that of
the walking horses, this arrangement quickly becomes very monotonous.
Appealing to Kiftan Sahib, I point out the annoyance of having a horse
just in front, and promise not to go too far ahead. He points appealingly
to a little leathern pouch attached to his belt. The pouch contains a
letter to the Governor of Herat, and he it is whom Mahmoud Yusuph Khan
expects to take back a receipt. The chief responsibility for my safe
delivery rests upon his shoulders, and he is disposed to be abnormally
apprehensive and suspicious.

Reassuring him of my sincerity, he permits the horseman to follow along
behind. When the condition of the road admits of my pushing ahead a
little, this sowar canters along immediately behind, while the remainder
of the party follow more leisurely.

One of the party carries a skin of water, and as the morning grows
fearfully hot, frequent halts are made to wait for him and get a drink,
otherwise we two are usually some distance ahead. These water-vessels are
merely goat-skins, taken off with as little mutilation of the hide as
possible; one of the legs serves as a faucet, and the tying or untying of
a piece of string opens or closes the "tap." It is the handiest
imaginable contrivance for carrying liquids on horseback, the tough,
pliant goat-skin resisting any amount of hard usage and accommodating
itself readily to the contour of the pack-saddle, or itself forming a
soft enough seat to the rider.

Near noon we reach the ruins of Suleimanabad, entirely deserted save by
hideous gray lizards a foot long, numbers of which scuttle off into their
hiding places at our approach. In the distance ahead are visible the
black tents of a nomad camp. The glowing, reflected heat of the stony
desert produces an unquenchable thirst, and the generous bowls of cool,
acidulous doke obtained in t