CHAPTER VIII.

THE OUTLAWED SEA.

A WIDE expanse of smooth blue water; a little plateau of level sand, upon which three bearded and sunburned men, in tattered white jackets, are grouped around a steaming tea-urn; a knot of wild-looking figures in the background, together with the huge ungainly forms of several camels, with their long necks couched upon the earth in lazy enjoyment; and beyond all, the grey unending level of the desert melting into the hot summer sky.

This is the famous "Aralskoé Moré "-outlawed among seas as the men whom it shelters are among nations. It does not, indeed, like the Dead Sea, lie in the depths of a tomb walled in by precipitous cliffs; but in other respects the two banished lakes are singularly alike. The same rich summer blue; the same utter absence of living creatures; the same intense desolation on every side; the same lifeless and sinister beauty; the same deadly silence brooding over all. The water of the Aral Sea, however, is but slightly brackish, and its bottom is thick and muddy; while the little vegetation which it does possess is of an ominous kind-a short, coarse grass of the deepest

crimson, as if all the blood shed there in old time had risen to the surface once more, refusing to be hid.*

But picturesque as it is, a more useless sheet of water, from any but a purely military point of view, does not exist. Shut in on the east by barren sands, on the west by unbroken rocks, on the south by pestilential morasses-without a single patch of wooding on its shores, or a harbour worth calling such throughout its whole length of two hundred and seventy miles-the Sea of Aral is indeed "given up to desolation." Even the practised sailors of the Russian flotilla bear an evil recollection of its sudden hurricanes and perilous shoals; and the very Kirghiz who straggle about its borders never remain there beyond a few weeks at a time. In fact the one redeeming point of this genuine "Dead Sea" is the supply of excellent limestone yielded by the Nikolai Ostroff (the largest of the islands, with an area of 130 square miles) an invaluable aid to the Russians in the construction of their forts.

Fresh from my bath in the lake, I am just ready for the plentiful breakfast which my two new comrades (Russian officers on their way to Orenburg from Fort No. 1) hasten to set before me. The frank kindly faces, and hearty words of outspoken welcome, with which these fine young fellows receive me—an utter stranger and a possible enemy-make me think remorsefully of all that I have said and written against the Russian army. In the heart of these dreary deserts, thousands

* I have remarked the same growth in the Inkermann Valley, appropriate there.

of miles from my own people, this little spot of kindly brotherhood is very pleasant to meet with; but it is only one sample of the uniform kindness and courtesy which I met with from every Russian officer throughout my whole route (even during my detention at Fort No. 1) and which I might possibly have looked for in vain in far more civilised countries.

The first piece of news that I get from them, however, comes upon me like an electric shock.

"What, isn't Khiva taken, then, after all? Why, we heard that not only was the town taken, but the Khan a prisoner as well; and that, too, with very slight loss to your people.”

Ah, they must have confounded Khiva with Kungrad.* It was taken on the 8th (20th) May; and we did lose only a few men over it. As for Khiva, it ought to be taken by this time; but there was no word of it when we left Fort No. 1."+

"Are the steppes all clear?"

"Clear enough when we passed; but I doubt if they'll let you go on without an escort. You see, there was an officer murdered on the other side of Syr-Daria about a month ago; and ever since that, they've been more careful."

"Have you got food enough?" strikes in the other, "We've got far more of this white bread of ours than we shall want; and it'll be better eating for you than that gritty biscuit."

* The key of the Delta, 197 miles below Khiva.

+ Khiva fell June 10; but the news only reached Fort No. 1, July 2.

And, in fact, the kind fellows actually force a small loaf upon me, to the huge delight of my Tartar, who has a full measure of that superstitious reverence for white bread which seems common to all his class. A few minutes later, the postmaster summons my hosts; and, with a hearty shake of the hand, we part—probably for ever.

Half an hour later, it is our turn. Fresh from our cool bath and hearty meal, we are just in the humour to appreciate the bright morning sun, and the fresh breeze which is just springing up from the lake, indescribably refreshing after the thick, torpid atmosphere of the desert. Even my Tartar henchman, who, ever since we left Uralsk, has looked as gloomy as Heraclitus, warms into momentary joviality, and strikes up a monotonous Tartar song, in which the swarthy little driver joins lustily.

Three months hence, if I but knew it, I shall be crossing these steppes once more, but in widely different guise-worn to a shadow by fever and starvation, bleeding from unhealed hurts, covered with sores and vermin, proscribed by all Russia on one side, and all England on the other, and, worse than all, with my work undone. But all this is yet in the unseen future; and for the present, with my strength still unimpaired, and Khiva still possible, I am as happy as man can be.

All that day, the refreshing breeze and clear sunny sky make us almost forget that we are in one of the sternest wastes of Central Asia; but the desert, like the sea, has its caprices, and can change its lighter mood to

F

grim earnest at the shortest notice. The sun is setting gloriously in a cloudless sky—the air is intensely still— all is perfect repose as far as the eye can reach—when suddenly a grey dimness rushes down over the whole sky, and in a moment there comes a rush and a roar, and we are blinded, deafened, and strangled all at once; and the whole air is one whirl of driving sand and charging storm. The camels fall flat on the ground, the driver leaps down, and lies beside them; my Tartar and I pull our shawls over our faces, and crouch into the smallest possible compass; and there we lie (for many hours, as it seems to us, though in reality it is less than one), listening to the " pirr-pirr" of the sand against our waggon, and the deep unslackening roar which seems as if it would go on for ever.

At last the uproar begins to die away, the trembling of the waggon is less and less violent, the rush of the sand fainter and fainter, till at last we venture to draw aside our mufflers, and peer cautiously forth. A pale gleam of moonlight is just shimmering through the hurrying clouds, and lights up a strange scene. All around, far as sight can reach, the smooth sand is billowed like the waves of an angry sea, the waggon looks as if steeped in lime, and our wheels are buried up to the very axle. Despite all my wrappings, my skin is literally gritty from head to foot; and Mourad's sallow visage looks like a half-washed potato. The warm, genial atmosphere has suddenly become chilly as a grave; for the Siberian hurricane has brought with it cold memories of unknown seas, and leagues of