The crowd of curious natives who persistently followed him everywhere may have had something to do with it, for a fur-clad Esquimaux in Piccadilly would not have created a greater sensation than my companion in high boots, black velvet breeches, and red caftan in the busy streets of the great Indian city.

Only a Russian could have existed in that blazing sun with no other protection to the head than the astrachan bonnet, which he obstinately refused to discard.

I saw him safely on board, and something very like a tear came into my trusty little friend's eyes, as we shook hands and parted, to meet, perhaps, never again.

For a better companion no man could wish.
Plucky, honest as the day, and tender-hearted as a woman was Gerome Realini; and it was with a feeling of loneliness and sincere regret that I watched the grey smoke of the _Venezia_ sink below the blue waters, which were soon to bear me, also, back to England and European civilization.
Has the journey been worth it?
Has the result repaid one for the cold, dirt, and privation of Persia, the torrid heat and long desert marches through Baluchistan?
Perhaps not.

There are some pleasant hours, however, to look back upon.