the golden fringe of the snow. Down
below rolls the River Aragva, which, after bursting noisily forth from
the dark and misty depths of the gorge, with an unnamed stream clasped
in its embrace, stretches out like a thread of silver, its waters
glistening like a snake with flashing scales.

Arrived at the foot of Mount Koishaur, we stopped at a dukhan. [1] About
a score of Georgians and mountaineers were gathered there in a noisy
crowd, and, close by, a caravan of camels had halted for the night. I
was obliged to hire oxen to drag my cart up that accursed mountain, as
it was now autumn and the roads were slippery with ice. Besides, the
mountain is about two versts [2] in length.

There was no help for it, so I hired six oxen and a few Ossetes. One of
the latter shouldered my portmanteau, and the rest, shouting almost with
one voice, proceeded to help the oxen.

Following mine there came another cart, which I was surprised to see
four oxen pulling with the greatest ease, notwithstanding that it
was loaded to the top. Behind it walked the owner, smoking a little,
silver-mounted Kabardian pipe. He was wearing a shaggy Circassian cap
and an officer's overcoat without epaulettes, and he seemed to be about
fifty years of age. The swarthiness of his complexion showed that
his face had long been acquainted with Transcaucasian suns, and the
premature greyness of his moustache was out of keeping with his firm
gait and robust appearance. I went up to him and saluted. He silently
returned my greeting and emitted an immense cloud of smoke.

"We are fellow-travellers, it appears."

Again he bowed silently.

"I suppose you are going to Stavropol?"

"Yes, sir, exactly--with Government things."

"Can you tell me how it is that that heavily-laden cart of yours is
being drawn without any difficulty by four oxen, whilst six cattle
are scarcely able to move mine, empty though it is, and with all those
Ossetes helping?"

He smiled slyly and threw me a meaning glance.

"You have not been in the Caucasus long, I should say?"

"About a year," I answered.

He smiled a second time.

"Well?"

"Just so, sir," he answered. "They're terrible beasts, these Asiatics!
You think that all that shouting means that they are helping the oxen?
Why, the devil alone can make out what it is they do shout. The oxen
understand, though; and if you were to yoke as many as twenty they still
wouldn't budge so long as the Ossetes shouted in that way o