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.