ant leads his gayly caparisoned
horse, and another brings up the rear with a richly mounted kalian.

Appearances count for something among the people of Northeastern Persia,
and Abbas Khan draws a sufficiently large salary to enable him to wear
gorgeous clothes, and thereby dim the lustre of his bitter rival, the
political agent of Russia.

Abbas Khan is perhaps the handsomest man in Meshed, is in the prime of
life, dyes his flowing beard an orthodox red, and possesses most charming
manners; in addition to his ample salary he owns the revenue of a village
near Meshed, and seems to be altogether the right man in the right place.

Abbas Khan and a friend of his from Herat both agree that the
difficulties and dangers of Afghanistan will be likely to prove
insurmountable; at the same time promising any assistance they can render
me in getting to India, consistent, of course, with Abbas Khan's duties
as British Agent. It seems to be a pretty general opinion that
Afghanistan will prove a stumbling-block in my path; friends at Teheran
telegraph again, advising me to go anywhere rather than risk the dangers
to be apprehended in that most lawless and fanatical territory. Nothing
can be decided on, however, until the arrival of an answer from the
Commission.

In the meantime, the days slowly pass away in Meshed; every day come
scores of visitors and invitations to go and ride for the delectation of
sundry high officials; ever-present are the crowds in the streets
shouting, "Tomasha! tomasha! Sowar shuk!" and the frequent squabbles at
the gate between the guard and the people wanting to come in.

Above the din and clamor of the crowd outside there sometimes arise the
chanting voices of a party of newly arrived pilgrims making their way
joyously through the thronged streets toward the gold-domed sanctuary of
Imam Riza, the tomb being situated a couple of hundred yards down the
street from our quarters. Sometimes we hear parties of men uttering
strange cries and sounding aloud the praises of Imam Riza, Houssein,
Hassan, and other worthies of the Mohammedan world, in response to which
are heard the swelling voices of a multitude of people shouting in
chorus, "Allah be praised! Allah be praised!!" These weird chanters are
dervishes, who, with tiger-skin mantles drawn carelessly about them,
clubs or battle-axes on shoulder, their long unkempt hair dangling down
their backs, look wildly grotesque as they parade the streets of the
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