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the abundant supply of water; and high over the dreaming streets rises the great wall of castellated rock, along which the ruins of the citadel loom gauntly against the sky.

For a wonder, the postmaster is up and busy; for a still greater wonder, he seems inclined to do his duty; and within an hour of our arrival, our wheels are greased, our horses changed, our posts paid in advance up to Tashkent, and away we go. Our departure, however, arouses the hostility of a swarm of prowling dogs, which break the dead stillness with a clamour surpassing that of either Damascus or Constantinople, and which would of itself suffice to remind me that I am in an Asiatic town. But this barbaric impression is suddenly counteracted by the appearance of an unmistakable engine of civilization. As we pass out of the gate, I look up, and see above me, clearly outlined against the moonlit sky, a high pole with lines of wire branching off from it to right and left. We are once more on the track of the telegraph, which here shoots itself down from Siberia into the heart of Turkestan-already completed as far as Tashkent, and designed to be extended to Samarcand as soon as there shall be time enough to see to it.

By sunrise next morning we are fairly among the hills, and the broad sunny slopes with their yellow grass, rising one beyond the other like the domes of a great mosque, are pleasant to look upon after the boundless monotony of the steppes. The second station from Tchemkent is a picture in itself. On the

brow of an overhanging cliff rise the low round tower and massive boundary-wall of a regular hill-fortress, in the shadow of whose pointed archway a dozen whitefrocked Cossacks lie sleeping side by side. From the surrounding hills the morning mists are rolling off like the smoke of a battle, ridge after ridge catching the light till all above and below is one blaze of glory. Far down the gorge, a waterfall plunges from rock to rock, with a muffled roar, which is the only sound that breaks the universal silence; and the whole place, with its old-world aspect, its sleeping guards, and its atmosphere of intense stillness, might pass for a spellbound castle awaiting its appointed deliverer.

But, despite this apparent loneliness, we are plainly entering upon an inhabited region. As we advance, our track is crossed by huge lumbering native carts, and laden asses or camels, and turbaned wayfarers trudging manfully on foot, with their little wallets slung over their shoulders; while in one place we actually come upon a Kirghiz Paul and Virginia breakfasting beside a stream-the gentleman, one of those bold, black-eyed, Calabrian figures whom I know so well, lying on the bank, and lazily dipping his bread in the water, while the lady (a little shrivelled creature, not unlike an over-roasted snipe) bends down again and again to drink, regardless of her over-heated condition. Before every post-station clusters a knot of "Central Asian politicians," exactly realising M. Vereshtchagin's admirable picture; and, altogether, it is evident enough that we are really nearing the great city at last.

R

So, indeed, we are. The morning is still young when we crown the highest ridge, and rattle down curve after curve of rough gravelly road into the great plain of Tashkent. The mass of dark glossy vegetation that fills it hides from us, as yet, all trace of the capital; but the increasing number of passers-by, the long files of loaded carts, the sunburned horsemen who come dashing past us, the houses that spring up thicker and thicker on either side of the road, tell how near it must be. And well for me that it is so; for, about half way through the last stage, two of our linchpins come out at once, as if by agreement; and thenceforth Mourad and my driver are kept in a state of constant activity, one running forward after the front wheel, and the other running backward after the hind one.

At length, through all the surroundings of the genuine East-massive walls standing up white and bare in the blistering sunshine, turbaned greybeards squatting in the shadow of low-browed archways, and tapering trees outlined against the blue summer sky-we reach a great rampart of baked earth, pass through the gate, and are in Tashkent. It is Friday, the 15th August, and I am four thousand miles east of England, having travelled, one way and another, seven thousand four hundred and forty miles since I left London on the 8th March.

We rattle up and down half-a-dozen hot, dusty streets, all exactly alike-scurry past the Governor-General's beautiful garden, with its dainty shrubberies and miniature water-falls, and its high central ridge, upon which the band plays on stated evenings every week-landing

at length in the courtyard of a dismal hotel, very much like a deserted stable. The "house of entertainment " proves to have no food, no drink, no furniture, and no means of washing; so that I am glad to fall back upon my own stores. Later on, having taken counsel with a big merchant who occupies the next stall to mine, and insists on treating me to about a bucketful of tea, seasoned with some very curious information upon the present condition of Central Asia, I decide upon migrating elsewhere; and do so forthwith.

The first thing to be done next morning is to rush off to the post in search of letters, of which (Tashkent having been my only postal address for months past) there ought to be a good many by this time. And there they are, sure enough-a round half dozen of them, with the old familiar English postmarks, which look strange enough in this remote corner of the earth, where the very presence of an Englishman is forbidden. For four months I have not had a word from home; and here at last is a whole budget at once. I snatch up the first letter, and tear it open. A couple of newspaper extracts fall out.

There are presentiments of evil as well as of good. Before I have had time to glance through the first paragraph, I already realise that my reward for six months of anxiety, illness, imprisonment, and subterfuge worse than all-is the credit, in my own country and among my own people, of being a liar and a villain.

CHAPTER XXV.

IN TASHKENT.

I HAVE no wish to dwell upon that moment, though I shall not easily forget it. My first impulse (any man's first impulse, I should think, in the same position) is to return home as fast as post and rail can carry me; but a moment's reflection shows me the unfairness of throwing away the chance of obtaining important information, and perhaps reaching Khiva even at the last, for the sake of redressing a purely personal wrong. I decide upon attempting to return by Samarcand and the line of the Oxus, and the same evening send off another despatch to the Daily Telegraph, containing, in addition to the latest news which I have been able to pick up, a short answer to the charges against me.*

Returning to my hotel from the posting of my letter I am accosted in the corridor by a tall, slim, blackhaired man in spectacles, who politely asks whether I speak English. I look closer, and recognise a familiar face-one which I had last seen in St Petersburg, on the morning of Christmas, 1872, turned eastward toward the

*The gist of this answer, and of the enlarged copy which I wrote for the Daily Telegraph on my return, will be found in the preface.

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