last long, but gives place in a few months to a taste unpleasantly
like sweet spirits of nitre, which renders the wine undrinkable.
With proper appliances the country would no doubt produce excellent
vintages, but at present the production of wine in Persia is a
distinct failure.

Leaving at 8 a.m., we managed to reach the summit of the Koudoum by
two o'clock next day, when we halted to give the horses a rest, and
get a mouthful of food. Our Persian friend had returned to Koudoum
after the first half-mile, during which he managed to get three falls,
for the poor man had no notion of riding or keeping a horse on its
legs. He reminded one of the cockney who sat his horse with consummate
ease, grace, and daring, until it moved, when he generally fell off.
I was sorry for him. He was so meek and unresentful, even when
mercilessly chaffed by Gerome.

Our greatest difficulty up till now had arisen from ice, which
completely covered the steep narrow pathway up the side of the
mountain, and made the ascent slippery and insecure. The snow had as
yet been a couple of feet deep at most, and we had come across no
drifts of any consequence. Arrived at the summit, however, we saw what
we had to expect. Below us lay a narrow valley or gorge, about a mile
broad, separating us from the low range of hills on the far side of
which lay Bideshk. The depth of the snow we were about to make a way
through was easily calculated by the telegraph-posts, which in places
were covered to within two or three feet of the top. "You see, sahib,"
said the Shagird, pointing with his whip to a huge drift some distance
to the left of the wires; "two men lying under that." The intelligence
did not interest me in the least. Could we or not get over this "Valley
of Death"? was the only question my mind was at that moment
capable of considering.

[Illustration: A DAY IN THE SNOW]

In less than a quarter of an hour we were in the thick of it, up to
our waists in the snow, and pulling, rather than leading, our horses
after us. It reminded me of a bad channel passage from Folkestone to
Boulogne, and took about the same time--two hours, although the actual
distance was under a mile and a half. Gerome led the way as long as he
was able, but, about half-way across, repeated and violent falls had
so exhausted his horse that we were obliged to halt while I took his
place, by no means an easy one. During this stage of the proceedings
we could scarcely see one anot