It was about two o'clock on the afternoon of the 6th of February that, breasting a chain of low sandy hills, the huge golden dome of the Tomb of Fatima became visible.

We were then still four miles off; but, even with our jaded steeds, the ride became what it had not yet been--a pleasure.
The green sunlit plains of wheat and barley, interspersed with bars of white and red poppies, the picturesque, happy-looking peasantry, the strings of mule and camel caravans, with their gaudy trappings and clashing bells,--all this life, colour, and movement helped to give one new hope and energy, and drown the dreary remembrance of past troubles, bodily and mental.

Even the caravans of corpses sent to Koom for interment, which we passed every now and again, failed to depress us, though at times the effluvia was somewhat overpowering, many of the bodies being brought to the sacred city from the most remote parts of Persia.

Each mule bore two dead bodies, slung on either side, like saddle-bags, and one could clearly trace the outline of the figure wrapped in blue or grey cloth.

A few of the friends and relatives of some of the deceased accompanied this weird procession, but the greater number of the dead had been consigned to the care of the muleteers.