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.