d so no faith should
be accorded to the story of a captain in the Mediterranean who wished to
sail to the Red Sea but went to the Black Sea--because he was
colour-blind!

But now we can continue our heaving course, still accompanied by
dolphins and porpoises. We look in at the harbour of Sebastopol, we
anchor in open roadsteads off Caucasian towns, we moor our cables to the
rings on the quay of Batum, and finally drop our anchor for the last
time at a short distance from the coast of Asia Minor.

Proud and bright, with forest-clad heights in the background, Trebizond
bathes in the rays of the midday sun. Small rowing-boats come out from
the land to take passengers and goods to the quay. The Turkish boatmen
scream all together, but no one listens to them. Every one is glad to be
landed safe and sound with his baggage.

TREBIZOND TO TEHERAN

Trebizond was a Greek colony seven hundred years before the birth of
Christ, and from time immemorial Persian trade has made its way to the
Black Sea by the road which still runs through Tabriz to Teheran, a
distance of 800 miles. This traffic is now on the decline, for modern
means of communication have taken the place of the old caravans, and
most of their trade has been diverted to the Suez Canal and the
Caucasian railways. Many large caravans, however, still journey to and
fro along this road, which is so well made that one can drive not only
to Tabriz, but still further to Teheran. It may, indeed, be softened by
autumn rains or frozen hard on the high plateaus of Turkish Armenia, and
the speed is not great when the same horses have to be used for
distances of 160 miles.

It was a lively cavalcade that pounded and rattled over the Turkish and
Persian roads in November, 1905. I was by no means alone. The Governors
of Trebizond and Erzerum were so good as to provide me with an escort of
six armed troopers on sturdy horses. In front rides a Turkish soldier on
a piebald horse, carrying his carbine in a sling over his back, his
sabre and dagger hanging at his side, and wearing a red fez with a white
_pagri_[5] wound round it as a protection from sun and wind. Then I come
in my carriage, drawn by three horses. Old Shakir, the coachman, is
already my friend; it is he who prepares my meals and looks after me
generally. I am well wrapped up in a Caucasian cloak, with a
_bashlik_[6] over my cap, and lean back comfortably and look at the
country as we drive along. Behind the carriage