Daybreak disclosed a weird, beautiful scene:  a sea of snow, over which the rising sun threw countless effects of light and colour, from the cold slate grey immediately around us, gradually lightening to the faintest tints of rose and gold on the eastern horizon, where stars were paling in a cloudless sky.  Portrayed on canvas, the picture would have looked unnatural, so brilliant were the hues thrown by the rising sun over the land-, or rather snow-scape.  The cold, though intense, was not unbearable, for there was fortunately no wind, and the spirits rose with the crisp, bracing air, brilliant sunshine, and jangle of caravan bells, as one realized that Teheran was now well within reach, and the dreaded Kharzan a thing of the past.  Gerome gave vent to his feelings with a succession of roulades and operatic airs; for my little friend had a very good opinion of his vocal powers, which I, unfortunately, did not share.  But he was a cheery, indefatigable creature, and of indomitable pluck, and one gladly forgave him this, his only failing.

It was terribly hard work all that morning, and Gerome had four, I three, falls, on one occasion wrenching my right ankle badly.  Some of the drifts through which we rode must have been at least ten or fifteen feet deep.  Some tough faggots thrown over these afforded a footing, or we should never have got over.  Towards midday Mazreh was sighted; and we pushed on ahead, leaving the caravan to its own devices.  The going was now better, and it was soon far behind us, the only object visible from the low hills which we now ascended, the camels and mules looking, from this distance, like flies crawling over a huge white sheet.

Lunch at Mazreh consisted of damp, mouldy bread, and some sweet, sickly liquid the postmaster called tea.  Procuring fresh horses without difficulty, we set out about 3 p.m. for Kazvin.  It was not till 10 p.m. that we were riding through the great gate of that city, which the soldier on guard consented, with some demur, to open.

Kazvin boasts a hotel and a boulevard!  The latter is lit by a dozen oil-lamps; the former, though a palatial building of brick, with verandahs and good rooms, is left to darkness and the rats in the absence of travellers.  Having groped our way for half an hour or so about a labyrinth of dark, narrow streets, we presently emerged on the dimly lit boulevard (three of the oil-lamps had gone out), and rode up to the melancholy looking hostelry at the end.  Failing to obtain admission, we burst open the door, and made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would allow.  Food was out of the question; drink, saving some villainous raki of Gerome’s, also; but there was plenty of firewood, and we soon had a good fire in the grate.  This hotel was originally built by the Shah for the convenience of himself and ministers when on his way to Europe.  It is only on these rare occasions that the barn-like building is put in order.  Visions of former luxury were still visible in our bedroom in the shape of a bedstead, toilet-table, and looking-glass.  “But we can’t eat them!” said Gerome, mournfully.