As we advance the level plain becomes covered with a growth of wild thyme and camel-thorn, the former permeating the desert air with its agreeable perfume.  The evening air is soft and balmy I as we halt in the dusk of the evening to camp alongside the trail; each sowar has a large leathern water-bottle swinging from his stirrup-strap filled at the little freshet above mentioned, and for food we have bread and the remains of the cold kid.  The horses are fastened to stout shrubs, and a fire is kindled with dried camel-thorn collected by the mudbake.  Not a sound breaks the stillness of the evening as we squat around the fire and eat our frugal supper—­all about us is the oppressive silence and solitude of the desert Away off in the dim distance to the northeast can be seen a single speck of light—­the camp-fire of some wandering Afghan tribe.

“What is the fire yonder?” I ask of the khan.  The khan looks at it, says something to his comrades, and then looks at me and draws his finger yet again across his throat; the mirza and the mudbake follow suit.  The ridiculous frequency of this tragic demonstration causes me to laugh outright, in spite of an effort to control my risibilities.  The khan replies to this by explaining, “Afghani Noorzais-dasht-adam,” and then goes on to explain that the Noorzais are very bad Afghans, who would like nothing better than to murder a Ferenghi.  From the beginning of our acquaintance I have allowed my escort to think my understanding of the conversation going on among themselves is extremely limited.  By this means have they been thrown somewhat off their guard, and frequently committed themselves within my hearing.  It is their laudable purpose, I have discovered, to steal money from me if an opportunity presents without the chance of being detected.  Besides being inquisitive about the probable amount in my possession, there has evolved from their collective brain during the day, a deep-laid scheme to find out something about the amount of backsheesh they may expect me to bestow upon them at the end of our journey.  This deep-laid scheme is for the khan to pretend that he is sending the mirza and the mudbake back to Beerjand from this point, and for these two hopeful accomplices to present themselves before me as about ready to depart, and so demand backsheesh.  This little farce is duly played shortly after our arrival; it is a genuine piece of light comedy, acted on the strangely realistic stage of the lonely desert, to which the full round moon just rising above the eastern horizon.  These advances are met on my part by broad intimations that if they continue to act as ridiculously during the remainder of the journey as they have to-day they will surely get well bastinadoed, instead of backsheeshed, when we reach Ghalakua.  The actors retire from the stage with visible discomfiture and squat themselves around the fire.  Long after I have stretched my somewhat weary frame upon a narrow strip of saddle-blanket