I wonder what on earth they can find to eat, until Gerome
points out a large hole in the centre of the apartment.
This affords
an excellent view of the stables, ten or twelve feet below, admitting,
at the same time, a pungent and overpowering odour of manure and
ammonia. A smaller room, a kind of ante-chamber, leads out of this. As
it is partly roofless, I seek, but in vain, for a door to shut out the
icy cold blast. Further search in the guest-room reveals six large
windows, or rather holes, for there are no shutters, much less
window-panes. It is colder here, if anything, than outside, for the
draughts are always at once; but we must in Persia be thankful
for small mercies. There is a chimney, in which a good log fire,
kindled by Gerome, is soon blazing.
Lunch and a nip of the colonel's vodka work wonders, and we are
beginning to think, over a "papirosh," that Persia is not such a bad
place after all, when the Shagird's head appears at the window. There
are only two horses available for the next stage, but a third has been
sent for from a neighbouring village, and will shortly arrive. As
night is falling fast, I set out with the Shagird for the next
station, Rustemabad, leaving Gerome, who has already travelled the
road and knows it well, to follow alone.
It is still snowing fast, but my mount is a great improvement on that
of the morning, luckily, for the stage is a long one, and we have a
stiff mountain to climb before reaching our destination for the night.
We ride for three hours, slowly and silently, over a plain knee-deep
in snow. About half-way across a tinkle of bells is heard, clear and
musical, in the distance. Presently a large caravan looms out of the
dusk - fifty or sixty camels and half a dozen men. The latter exchange
a cheery "Good night" with my guide. Slowly the ungainly, heavily
laden beasts file past us, gaunt and spectral in the twilight, the
bells die away on the still wintry air, and we are again alone on the
desolate plain - not a sign of life, not a sound to be heard, but
the crunching of snow under our horses' feet, and the occasional
pistol-like crack of my guide's heavy whip.
It is almost dark when we commence the ascent of the mountain on the
far side of which lies Rustemabad. The path is rough and narrow, and
in places hewn out of the solid rock. Towards the summit, where a
slip or false step would be fatal, a dark shapeless mass appears,
completely barring the pathway, on the white snow. Closer inspection
reveals a dead camel, abandoned, doubtless, by the caravan we
have just passed, for the carcase is yet warm. With considerable
difficulty, but aided by the hard slippery ground, we drag it to the
brink of the precipice, and send it crashing down through bush and
briar, to fall with a loud splash into a foaming torrent far below.
During this performance one of the ponies gets loose, and half an hour
is lost in catching him again.
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