It was still bitterly cold, with a strong north-easter blowing.

The thermometer marked (in the sun) only one degree above zero.
Rustemabad, a collection of straggling, tumble-down hovels, contains about four or five hundred inhabitants.

The post-house, perched on the summit of a steep hill, is situated some little distance from the village, which stands in the centre of a plateau, bounded on the south-west by a chain of precipitous mountains.

The country around is fertile and productive, being well watered by the Sefid Roud (White River).

Rice is largely grown, but to-day not a trace of vegetation is visible; nothing but the vast white plain, smooth and unbroken, save where, here and there, a brown village blurrs its smooth surface, an oasis of mud huts in this desert of dazzling snow.
An exclamation from Gerome suddenly drew my attention to the postmaster, who stood at the open doorway, my pelisse in hand.