whole all the jarring kingdoms of Asia, only that they might melt
into chaos again the moment that mighty grasp was relaxed by death.

* * * * *

"We must get out here, David Stepanovitch!"

The shrill call sweeps away my visions, and I look up to find myself in
front of a tiny hut--a mere speck in that wilderness of gravel--beside
which three or four wild-looking figures are grouped around a huge
_arba_ (native cart), conspicuous by its immense breadth of beam, and
its gigantic wheels, seven good feet in diameter.

Mourad hastily explains that to attempt fording the river in our little
post-cart will be certain destruction to our baggage, and that we must
shift to the arba, which, light, strong, and, thanks to its great
breadth, almost impossible to overturn, seems made for this roadless
region, as the camel is for the desert.

The transfer is soon effected, but it takes some time to secure our
packages against the tremendous shaking which awaits them, and our
careful henchman goes over his work three times before he can persuade
himself to let go. But the reckless Bokhariotes, who care little if we
and all our belongings go to the bottom, provided they get their money,
cut him short by leaping onto the front of the huge tray, and heading
right down upon the river.

We make five or six lesser crossings before coming to the real one, the
Zer-Affshan, like Central Asian rivers generally, being given to wasting
its strength in minor channels; but even these run with a force and
swiftness that show us what we have to expect. At length, after a
comparatively long interval of bare gravel, the two Bokhariotes suddenly
plant themselves back to back, with their feet against the sides of the
cart. The huge vehicle halts for a moment, as if to gather strength for
its final leap, and then rushes into the stream.

And now comes the tug of war. The wheels have barely made three turns in
the water when the great mass trembles under a shock like the collision
of a train, and to our bewildered eyes the river appears to be standing
perfectly still, and we ourselves to be flying backward at full speed.

Deeper and deeper grows the water, stronger and stronger presses the
current. Already the little post-cart following in our wake is almost
submerged, and the water is battering against the bottom of the arba,
and splashing over our feet as we sit. More than once the horses stop
short, and plant thei