thrown in, his task was no easy one, especially as every one spoke at
once and at the top of their voices. We discovered at last that but
few of the villagers owned a horse, and those who did were very
unwilling to let the animal for such an uncertain journey. "Who is
going to guarantee that the 'Farangis' will not steal it?" asked one
ragged, wild-looking fellow in sheepskins and a huge lamb's-wool cap.
"Or get it stolen from them?" added another, with a grin. "They can
have my old grey mare for two hundred keráns, but you won't catch me
letting her for hire," added a third.

With the aid of our friend, the Jew, however, we finally persuaded
the sheepskin gentleman (a native of Khiva) to change his mind. After
considerable haggling as to price, he disappeared, to return with two of
the sorriest steeds I ever set eyes on. "We ought to reach Enzelli in
about three days, if we do not get our throats cut," said the Khivan, who
was to accompany us, encouragingly.

Hassan had been busy in our absence; he had prepared an excellent
pilaff, and sent to Russian Astará for some kakèti wine, which was
brought over in a goatskin. This, with our own provisions bought in
the morning, furnished a substantial and much-needed meal. Persian
native bread is somewhat trying at first to a weak digestion. It is
unleavened, baked in long thin strips, and is of suet-like consistency.
The hut, like most native houses in Persia, had no chimney, the only
outlet for the smoke being through the narrow doorway. This necessitates
lying flat on one's back in the clear narrow space between smoke and
flooring, or being suffocated--a minor inconvenience as compared with
others in Persian travel.

The Khivan arrived with the horses at six next morning. By seven