re with your progress." Having received this
positive assurance, we take our leave, Mr. M-------reminding me gleefully
of what he had said about the Russians being the most agreeable people on
earth, and the few remaining clouds of doubt about getting the road
through Turkestan happily dissipated by the Russian Minister's assurances
of assistance.

Searching through the bazaar, I succeed, after some little trouble, in
finding and purchasing a belt-full of Russian gold, sufficient to carry
me clear through to Japan; and on the morning of March 10th I bid
farewell to the Persian capital, well satisfied at the outlook ahead.
While packing up my traps on the evening before starting, it begins
raining for the first time in ten days; but it clears off again before
midnight, and the morning opens bright and promising as ever. Six members
of the telegraph staff have determined to accompany me out to
Katoum-abad, the first chapar-station on the Meshed pilgrim road, a
distance of seven farsakhs. "Hodge-podge," the cook, and Meshedi Ali, the
gholam, were sent ahead yesterday with plenty of substantial refreshments
and sun-dry mysterious black bottles--for it is the intention of the
party to remain at Katoum-abad overnight, and give me a proper send-off
from that point to-morrow morning.

Some little delay is occasioned by a difficulty in meeting the fastidious
tastes of some of the party as regards saddle-horses; but there is no
particular hurry, and ten o'clock finds me bowling briskly through the
suburbs toward the Doshan Tepe gate, with four Englishmen, an Irishman,
and a Welshman cantering merrily along on horseback behind.

"Khuda rail pak Kumad!" (May God sweep your road!), All Akbar had
exclaimed as I mounted at the door, and as we pass through the city gate
the old sentinel, when told that I am at last starting on the promised
journey to Meshed on the asp-i-awhan, supplements this with "Padaram
daromad!" (My father has come out!), a Persian metaphorical exclamation,
signifying that such wonderful news has had the effect of calling his
father from the grave.

The weather has changed again since early morning; it is evidently in a
very fitful and unsettled mood; the gray clouds are swirling in confusion
about the white summit of Demavend as we emerge on the level plain
outside the ramparts, and fleecy fugitives are scudding southward in wild
haste. Imperfect but ridable donkey-trails follow the dry moat around to
the Mes