shivering and shaking in the cutting wind and snow. The ponies, too,
looked tucked up and leg-weary, as if they had just come off a long
stage (which, indeed, they probably had) instead of going on one.

"Don't be alarmed; they are the proverbial rum 'uns to look at," said
our host, who would not hear of our setting out without saddle-bags
crammed with good things: cold meat, sardines, cigarettes, a couple of
bottles of brandy, and a flask of Russian vodka. But for these we must
literally have starved _en route_.

"Good-bye. Good luck to you!" from the colonel.

"En avant!" cries Gerôme, with a deafening crack of his heavy chapar
whip. We are both provided with this instrument of torture--a thick
plaited thong about five feet long, attached to a short thick wooden
handle, and terminating in a flat leathern cracker of eight or ten
inches. A cut from this would make an English horse jump out of his
skin, but had little or no effect on the tough hides of our "chapar"
ponies. The snow is almost up to the knees of the latter as we labour
through the gateway and into the narrow street. Where will it be on
the Kharzán Pass?

Résht is picturesquely situated. It must be a lovely place in
summer-time, when fertile plains of maize, barley, and tobacco stretch
away on every side, bounded by belts of dark green forest and chains
of low well-wooded hills, while the post-road leads for miles through
groves of mulberry trees, apple orchards, and garden-girt villas, half
hidden by roses and jasmine. But this was hardly a day for admiring
the beauties of nature. Once out of the suburbs and in the open
country, nothing met the eye but a dreary wilderness of white earth