them, months later, from one of General Verevkin's officers the struggle through deep snow during its earlier stages the sudden breaking-up of the frost, turning the whole country into a sea of liquid mire— the dragging of the camels and horses by main force from the mud in which they were embedded-the wet bivouacs and chill raw nights, alternating with the terrific heat of the day-are an additional testimony, if any such were needed, to the splendid endurance of the Russian soldier, and his power (as the French wit cruelly said) of "doing his duty because he knows no better."

Before the middle of April, it is already sufficiently evident that my original programme is altogether impracticable. The columns once started, there is no hope of reaching Khiva either from Kinderli Bay or from Tchikishliar; while to remain here, completely out of the track of news (for the little intelligence hitherto received has uniformly arrived via Orenburg) is still less to be thought of. As for the only other direct route from the Caucasus-that by steamer to Astrabad, and thence north-eastward from the Attreck valley across the Turkoman steppes-all my informants, and most emphatically the Persian residents themselves, concur in pronouncing my chance of getting to Khiva by that route to be virtually nil-a verdict afterwards. borne out by the fate of the Tchikishliar column. There is nothing for it, then, but to try the Orenburg route the most strictly guarded of all, and likely to be doubly so in time of war. However, anything is better than wasting time in a place where I can be of no

possible use, and where even the apparently straightforward import of my telegrams cannot wholly clear them from suspicion of their hidden meaning.* It remains for me to make the acquaintance of the resident authorities, and to hasten my preparations for the journey.

"You'll have enough to do to carry that safe across Central Asia," says my host with a grin, as we stuff into the one unfilled pocket of my secret belt the last rouleau of the £500 worth of Russian gold which we have just purchased (not without hot bargaining) from a money-changer in the "Persian town." "The only thing to do now is to load your revolver as carefully as your belt, and empty the first yourself before you let any one else empty the second."

"Well, I suppose it would be enough to set up an ordinary Kirghiz for life; or at least, to set him up as a postmaster or a tradesman, and enable him to rob henceforth in a decent and legitimate way."

"I can tell you, though, that if you do much riding out there, you'll be glad enough to be robbed, if only to get rid of the weight. I once rode across the mountains from Petigorsk with a belt of money—nothing like so heavy as yours, it's true, but still bad enough; and before I got half way, I was mightily inclined to throw it away altogether. It was just like some one hitting you hard in the wind every moment."

The telegram which (erroneously) announced the fall of Khiva, ran thus: "Barometer lost and compass damaged; forward others at once."

A pleasant prospect, certainly, for a journey of several thousand miles! but happily, the reality is less formidable than it has been painted. My first essay of the new belt, indeed, vividly recalls Mr Ainsworth's graphic description of the "Skevington's Irons" as applied to Guy Fawkes; but, although I afterwards wore it on the road for days together, I suffered little inconvenience after the first week.

I shall not burden my readers with the details of my final preparation, which was fatiguing enough at the time to need no rehearsal. It appears to be an immutable law of nature, that every man who equips himself with particular care for a long journey, should omit fully half-a-dozen things which he particularly wants, and take with him at least as many which he does not. Suffice it to say, that after several days of perpetual disquiet, I find myself well enough provided to get as far as Orenburg with perfect comfort. The only remaining essentials are a complete military map of Central Asia, and letters of recommendation to the Commander-in-Chief from the resident authorities; and a week suffices to obtain both.

Two days later, my real journey commences.

CHAPTER III.

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.

"YOUR honour, the horses are ready!"

At my elbow, as I sit over my omelette and café au lait in the coffee-room of the Hotel de l'Europe, stands a tall, gaunt, hard-featured man in uniform (with a trumpet as long and narrow as himself), uttering the cabalistic words which are to ring in my ears at every turn for many a day to come. I glance through the open window, and espy, amid an admiring crowd of every type, from the aquiline Georgian to the bun-faced Tartar, three rough-looking post-horses, and a nondescript conveyance like the top of a bathing-machine knocked into the bottom of a butcher's cart-the idea of any one sitting in it having evidently never occurred to the constructor. Often and often, during the enforced inaction of the last six weeks, have I longed for such a sight; and yet, now that it is actually here, the contrast is so glaring between the cool, shady room within, and the bare, scorching, dusty square without, that, for one moment, I almost repent.

"You're going to travel en grand seigneur this time, says Captain K—, biggest and jolliest of Tiflis officers, with a jovial grin on his broad florid face; "but you

mustn't expect this sort of thing all the way to Khiva. After you get fairly out on the steppes beyond the Ural, you'll have to carry all your own food and water along with you, and go forty versts or more from one well to another, and jolt along all day on the back of a camel, and sleep on the ground with a rug over you; and if you ever come back alive, it'll be something to talk about. Good-bye-pleasant journey!"

I inwardly wonder why on earth one's friends always comfort one, at the outset of a journey, with the rehearsal of all possible accidents which may occur en route. But there is no time to moralise; the driver shakes his reins, the conductor performs a solo on his horn that might arouse the seven sleepers of Ephesus

"The stones do rattle underneath,

As if Tiflis were mad"

and away we go.

Certainly Dr Johnson had some reason on his side when he placed the acmé of human enjoyment in being whirled along by a post-chaise. Flying at full speed over a splendid military road, with the fresh mountain breeze stirring my blood like the breath of life, the rich summer blue of the sky overhead, and the glorious panorama of the Central Caucasus outspread on every side as far as the eye can reach, I have nothing left to desire. And with every hour the surrounding scenery becomes more and more magnificent. Smooth sloping hillsides at first, crested with waving trees and dappled with flocks of goats; then bolder and bleaker ridges,