the smallest child in Shiraz
knows the use to which it has been put from time immemorial. It is the
grave of adulterous women--the Well of Death.

An execution took place about fifteen years ago, but there have been
none since. Proved guilty of infidelity, the wretched woman, dressed
in a long white gown, was placed on a donkey, her face to the tail,
with shaven head and bared face. In front of the _cortege_ marched
the executioner, musicians, dancers, and abandoned women of the town.
Arrived at the summit of the mountain, the victim, half dead with
fright, was lifted off and carried to the edge of the yawning abyss
which had entombed so many faithless wives before her. "There is but
one God, and Mohammed is His Prophet," cried a moullah, while
the red-robed executioner, with one spurn of his foot, sent the
unconscious wretch toppling over the brink, the awe-stricken crowd
peering over, watching the white wisp disappear into eternity.
Although the last execution is still fresh in the minds of many, the
Well has no terrors for the gay, intrigue-loving ladies of Shiraz.
They make a jest of it, and their husbands jokingly threaten them with
it. Times are changed indeed in Persia!

I left Shiraz with sincere regret. Apart from the interest attached to
the place, I have never received a kinder or more hospitable welcome
than from the little band of Englishmen who watch over the safety, and
work the wires, of the Indo-European telegraph. They are under a dozen
in number. With cheap horseflesh, capital shooting, the latest books
and papers from India, a good billiard-room and lawn-tennis ground,
time never hangs very heavily. Living is absurdly cheap. A bachelor
can do well on L6 a month, including servants. He has, of course, no
house-rent to pay.

A number of square stone towers about thirty feet high, loopholed and
crenelated, are visible from the caravan-track between Shiraz and
Khaneh Zinian, where we rested the first night. The towers are
apparently of great antiquity, and must formerly have served for
purposes of defence. We lunched at the foot of one on a breezy upland,
with pink and white heather growing freely around, and a brawling,
tumbling mountain stream at our feet. It was like a bit of Scotland
or North Wales. The tower was in a state of decay and roofless, but a
wandering tribe of ragged Eeliauts had taken up their quarters
inside, and watched us suspiciously through the grey smoke of a damp,
spluttering