ence is acceptable or the
reverse, I take a seat beside their fire and forthwith proceed to shed my
saturated foot-gear. Under ordinary conditions this proceeding would be
nothing less than a piece of sublime assurance; but necessity knows no
law, and my case is really very urgent. When I explain to the occupants
of the menzil that this nolens volens invasion of their premises is but a
temporary arrangement, in the flowery language of polite Persian they
tell me that the menzil, the fire, and everything they have is mine.

After the inevitable examination of my map, compass, and sundry effects,
I begin to fancy my presence something of an embarrassment, and
consequently am not a little gratified at hearing the authoritative voice
of my friend the hadji shouting loudly at the charvadars, telling them
that he is a hadji and a Mazanderan dervish, for whom they cannot clear
the way too quickly. Looking round, I see him appear at the caravanserai
entrance with a party of pilgrims, in whose company he has journeyed from
Gadamgah. The combined excellences that enter into the composition of a
person who is both a dervish and an ex-Mecca pilgrim are of great benefit
in securing the respect and consideration of the common herd in Persia;
and as, in addition to this, our hadji commands attention by the peculiar
tone and volume of his voice when delivering his commands, his tall,
angular steed is quickly tied up in a snug and sheltered corner and his
saddle-bags deposited on the floor of a fellow-pilgrim's menzil.

Hearing of my arrival, he straightway seeks me out and invites me to
share the accommodation of his new-found quarters, not forgetting to
explain to the people he finds me with, however, that he is a hadji, a
dervish, and that he hails from Mazanderan. I shouldn't be much surprised
to see him back up the latter assertion by producing a dried fish from
the ample folds of his kammerbund; but these finny witnesses are reserved
to perform their role later in the evening.

As the gloom of night envelopes the interior of the caravanserai, and the
scores of little brushwood fires smoke and glimmer and twinkle fitfully,
the scene appeals to an observant Occidental as being decidedly unique,
and totally unlike anything to be seen outside of Persia. Around each
little fire, from four to a dozen figures are squatting, each group
forming a most social gathering; some are singing, some chatting
pleasantly, some quarrelling and argui