I cannot, writing straight away, give you an idea of this marvel. If I
were to thread the words, mosaics, pediments, spandrels, bas-reliefs,
niches, enamels, corbels, all on a string in a sentence, the picture
would still be incomplete. It is strokes of the brush that are wanted,
not strokes of the pen. Imagination remains abashed at the remains of
the most splendid architecture left us by Asiatic genius.

It is in the farthest depths of this mosque that the faithful go to
worship at the tomb of Kassimben-Abbas, a venerated Mussulman saint,
and we are told that if we open the tomb a living man will come forth
from it in all his glory. But the experiment has not been made as yet,
and we prefer to believe in the legend.

We had to make an effort to throw off our contemplative mood; and
fortunately the Caternas did not trouble our ecstasy by evoking any of
their recollections of the theater. Doubtless they had shared in our
impressions.

We resumed our seats in the arba, and the yemtchik took us at the
gallop of his doves along shady roads which the Russian administration
keeps up with care.

Along these roads we met and passed many figures worthy of notice.
Their costumes were varied enough, "Khalats," in startling colors, and
their heads enturbaned most coquettishly. In a population of forty
thousand there was, of course, a great mingling of races. Most of them
seemed to be Tadjiks of Iranian origin. They are fine strong fellows,
whose white skin has disappeared beneath the tan of the open air and
the unclouded sun. Here is what Madame de Ujfalvy-Bourdon says of them
in her interesting book: "Their hair is generally black, as is also