The post-house was a blaze of light.

A couple of armed sentries stood in front of the doorway, and a motley crowd of soldiers, Shagird-chapars, and peasants outside.
"You cannot come in," said the postmaster, full of importance.

"The Zil-i-Sultan is here on a hunting expedition.

He will start away early in the morning, and then you can have the guest-room, but not before." Too tired to mind much--indeed, half asleep already--we groped our way to the stables, where, on the cleanest bundle of straw I have ever seen--or smelt, for it was pitch dark--in a Persian post-stable (probably the property of his Highness the Governor of Ispahan), we were soon in the land of dreams.

Had we known that we were calmly reposing within a couple of feet of the royal charger's heels, our slumbers might not have been so refreshing.