It was nearly nine o’clock when we reached Rustemabad, to find rather worse quarters than we had left at Koudoum.  To make matters worse, I had no change of clothes, and the black, ill-smelling mud had penetrated to the innermost recesses of my saddle-bags, which did not tend to improve the flavour of the biscuits and chocolate that constituted my evening meal.  No food of any kind was procurable at the post-house, and all our own provisions were behind with Gerome.  Luckily, I had stuck to the flask of vodka!

With the help of the postmaster, a decrepit, half-witted old man, and the sole inmate of the place, I managed to kindle a good fire, and set to work to dry my clothes, a somewhat uncomfortable process, as it entailed my remaining three-parts naked for half the night in an atmosphere very little above zero.  The sables were in a terrible state.  It was midnight before the mud on them was sufficiently dry to brush off, as I fondly hoped, in the morning.

Gerome did not turn up till one o’clock a.m., his horse not having arrived at Koudoum till past seven.  He had lost his way twice, and had almost given up all hopes of reaching Rustemabad till daylight, when my fire, the only light in the place, shone out of the darkness.  The poor fellow was so stiff and numbed with fatigue and cold that I had to lift him off his horse and carry him into the post-house.  He was a sorry object, but I could not refrain from smiling.  My companion’s usually comical, ruddy face wore a woebegone look, while long icicles hung from his hair, eyebrows, and moustaches, giving him the appearance of a very melancholy old Father Christmas.

Morning brought a cloudless blue sky and brilliant sunshine.  My first thought on awaking was for the pelisse.  Summoning the old postmaster, I confided the precious garment to him, with strict injunctions to take it outside, beat it well with a stick, and bring it back to me to brush.  In the mean time, we busied ourselves with breakfast and a cup of steaming cocoa, for a long ride was before us.  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.