turned, the whole country behind us would be ablaze in a moment. The forces of Russia-let us speak plainly and boldly cannot, and shall not be withdrawn from Khiva, when once it is in their hands. Let the sneers of M. Vambéry and his English colleagues rain upon us if they will; what does it matter? Russia is neither Burmah nor Cashmere, that she should require to secure herself by duplicity. She is strong enough to lay down for herself a reasonable boundary, and to defend it, if need be, by the strong hand."

As time wears on, sinister rumours begin to creep about respecting the progress of the Orenburg column. It is whispered that there has been an unusual fall of snow on the steppes this year, that the march is retarded, that the beasts of burden are beginning to perish rapidly, that Khivan emissaries are stirring up the Kirghiz along the line of march-and finally, that it has been found necessary to make a forced requisition of native pioneers, at the rate of 6 per 1000 of the entire population. Such reports, attaching themselves to an expedition which is traversing the same region where Perovski and his devoted band re-acted on a smaller scale, thirty-three years ago, all the horrors of 1812, are sufficiently alarming; and the oracles of the coffee-room shake their heads solemnly, observing that they have expected as much from the very first.

Allowing for the customary exaggerations, it is probable that these on dits represent the actual case fairly enough; for, from first to last, the Orenburg column has a very hard time of it. The details of the march, as I heard

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 mirethe 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