Islam. Prominent among
the peculiarities observed are strips of chain mail attached to portions
of their clothing as guards against sword-cuts, noticeably on the
sleeves. Some are wearing steel helmets, some huge turbans, and others
the regular Afghan military hat, this latter a rakish-looking head-piece
something like the hat of a Chinese Tartar general.

Mahmoud Yusupli Khan himself is wearing one of these hats, and is attired
in a tight-fitting suit of buckram, pipe-clayed from head to foot; in his
hat glitters a handsome rosette of nine diamonds, which I have an
opportunity of counting while seated beside him. He is a stoutish person,
full-faced, slightly above middle age, less striking in appearance than
many of his subordinates. When I have walked up between the two rows of
seated chieftains and gained his side, he forthwith displays his
knowledge of the English mode of greeting by shaking hands. He orders an
attendant to fetch a couple of camp chairs, and setting one for me, he
rises from the carpet and occupies the other one himself. Tea is brought
in small cups instead of glasses, and is highly sweetened after the
manner of the Persians; sweetmeats are handed round at the same time.
After ascertaining that I understand something of Persian, he expresses
his astonishment at my appearance in Furrah. At first it is painfully
evident that he suspects me of being a Russian spy; but after several
minutes of questions and answers, he is apparently satisfied that I am
not a Muscovite, and he explains to his officers that I am an "Ingilis
nockshi" (correspondent). He is greatly astonished to hear of the route
by which I entered the country, as no traveller ever entered Afghanistan
across the Dasht-i-na-oomid before. I tell him that I am going to
Kandahar and Quetta, and suggest that he send a sowar with me to guide
the way. He smiles amusedly at this suggestion, and shaking his head
vigorously, he says, "Kandahar neis; Afghanistan's bad; khylie bad;" and
he furthermore explains that I would be sure to get killed. "Kliylie
koob; I don't want any sowar, I will go alone; if I get killed, then
nobody will be blamable but myself." "Kandahar neis," he replies, shaking
his finger and head, and looking very serious; "Kandahar neis; beest (20)
sowars couldn't see you safely through to Kandahar; Afghanistan's bad; a
Ferenghi would be sure to get killed before reaching Kandahar."
Pretending to be greatly amused at this, I reply, "k