league upon league of wild steppe land. The _coup d'oeil_ from our
carriage-window is not inspiriting. It rests upon a bare, bleak
landscape, rolling away to the horizon, of waves of drab and
dirty-green land, unbroken save for here and there a pool of stagnant
water, rotting in a fringe of sedge and rush, or an occasional flock
of wild-fowl. At rare intervals we pass, close to the line, a Tartar
encampment. Half a dozen dirty brown tents surrounded by horses,
camels, and thin shivering cattle, the latter covered with coarse
sack-clothing tied round their bellies to protect them from the
cutting blast that sweeps from the coast across this land of
desolation. None of the human population are visible, and no wonder.
It must be cold enough outside. Even in this well-warmed compartment
one can barely keep feet and fingers from getting numbed.

It is almost dark when, towards six o'clock, there appears, far ahead,
a thin streak of silver, separating the dreary brown landscape from
the cold grey sky.

"We have nearly arrived, monsieur," says Gerôme. "There is the Caspian
Sea."


[Footnote A: The sacred image of the Saviour or Holy Virgin.]

[Footnote B: The name Tiflis is derived from _Tbilis Kalaki_, or "Hot
Town," so called from the hot mineral springs near which it stands.]

[Footnote C: _Bourka_, a long sleeveless coat made of goatskin.]

[Footnote D: _Bashlik_, the soft camel-hair hood and neckerchief in