"You will be sorry for this to-morrow!"

Notwithstanding hunger and vermin, we managed to enjoy a tolerable
night's rest. The post-house was warm at any rate, being windowless.
Patchinar was evidently a favourite halting-place, for the dingy walls
of the guest-room were covered with writing and pencil sketches, the
work of travellers trying to kill time, from the Frenchman who
warned one (in rhyme) to beware of the thieving propensities of the
postmaster, to the more practical Englishman, who, in a bold hand,
had scrawled across the wall, "_Big bugs here!_" I may add that my
countryman was not exaggerating.

There was no difficulty in getting horses the next morning. The post,
which left for Résht before we were stirring, had left us seven
sorry-looking steeds, worn out with their previous day's journey
through the deep snow-drifts of the Kharzán. By nine o'clock we were
ready to start, notwithstanding the entreaties of the postmaster,
whose anxiety, however, was not on our account, but on that of the
horses.

"I don't believe I shall ever see them again!" he mumbled mournfully,
as we rode out of the yard. "And who is to repay me for their loss?
You will be dead, too, before sundown, if the snow catches you in the
mountains!"

But there seemed no probability of such a contingency. The sky was
blue and cloudless, the sun so bright that the glare off the snow soon
became unbearable without smoked goggles. The promise of an extra
kerán or two if we reached the end of the stage by daylight had a
wonderful effect on the Shagird. Though it was terribly heavy going,