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of miles from my own people, this little spot of kindly brotherhood is very pleasant to meet with; but it is only one sample of the uniform kindness and courtesy which I met with from every Russian officer throughout my whole route (even during my detention at Fort No. 1) and which I might possibly have looked for in vain in far more civilised countries.

The first piece of news that I get from them, however, comes upon me like an electric shock.

"What, isn't Khiva taken, then, after all? Why, we heard that not only was the town taken, but the Khan a prisoner as well; and that, too, with very slight loss to your people."

"Ah, they must have confounded Khiva with Kungrad.* It was taken on the 8th (20th) May; and we did lose only a few men over it. As for Khiva, it ought to be taken by this time; but there was no word of it when we left Fort No. 1."+

"Are the steppes all clear?"

"Clear enough when we passed; but I doubt if they'll let you go on without an escort. You see, there was an officer murdered on the other side of Syr-Daria about a month ago; and ever since that, they've been more careful."

"Have you got food enough?" strikes in the other, "We've got far more of this white bread of ours than we shall want; and it'll be better eating for you than that gritty biscuit."

* The key of the Delta, 197 miles below Khiva.

Khiva fell June fo; but the news only reached Fort No. 1, July 2.

And, in fact, the kind fellows actually force a small loaf upon me, to the huge delight of my Tartar, who has a full measure of that superstitious reverence for white bread which seems common to all his class. A few minutes later, the postmaster summons my hosts; and, with a hearty shake of the hand, we part-probably for ever.

Half an hour later, it is our turn. Fresh from our cool bath and hearty meal, we are just in the humour to appreciate the bright morning sun, and the fresh breeze which is just springing up from the lake, indescribably refreshing after the thick, torpid atmosphere of the desert. Even my Tartar henchman, who, ever since we left Uralsk, has looked as gloomy as Heraclitus, warms into momentary joviality, and strikes up a monotonous Tartar song, in which the swarthy little driver joins lustily.

Three months hence, if I but knew it, I shall be crossing these steppes once more, but in widely different guise-worn to a shadow by fever and starvation, bleeding from unhealed hurts, covered with sores and vermin, proscribed by all Russia on one side, and all England on the other, and, worse than all, with my work undone. But all this is yet in the unseen future; and for the present, with my strength still unimpaired, and Khiva still possible, I am as happy as man can be.

All that day, the refreshing breeze and clear sunny sky make us almost forget that we are in one of the sternest wastes of Central Asia; but the desert, like the sea, has its caprices, and can change its lighter mood to

F

grim earnest at the shortest notice. The sun is setting gloriously in a cloudless sky-the air is intensely stillall is perfect repose as far as the eye can reach—when suddenly a grey dimness rushes down over the whole sky, and in a moment there comes a rush and a roar, and we are blinded, deafened, and strangled all at once; and the whole air is one whirl of driving sand and charging storm. The camels fall flat on the ground, the driver leaps down, and lies beside them; my Tartar and I pull our shawls over our faces, and crouch into the smallest possible compass; and there we lie (for many hours, as it seems to us, though in reality it is less than one), listening to the "pirr-pirr" of the sand against our waggon, and the deep unslackening roar which seems as if it would go on for ever.

At last the uproar begins to die away, the trembling of the waggon is less and less violent, the rush of the sand fainter and fainter, till at last we venture to draw aside our mufflers, and peer cautiously forth. A pale gleam of moonlight is just shimmering through the hurrying clouds, and lights up a strange scene. All around, far as sight can reach, the smooth sand is billowed like the waves of an angry sea, the waggon looks as if steeped in lime, and our wheels are buried up to the very axle. Despite all my wrappings, my skin is literally gritty from head to foot; and Mourad's sallow visage looks like a half-washed potato. The warm, genial atmosphere has suddenly become chilly as a grave; for the Siberian hurricane has brought with it cold memories of unknown seas, and leagues of

frozen moorland, and half-seen icebergs drifting wearily under the polar night; and this pale grey sand, unabsorbent of heat by its very nature, is one of the coldest surfaces in the world.

However, this is "all in the day's work," and to be made light of accordingly. My driver shakes himself, and mounts his beast, as if nothing had happened; the camels break into that long shambling trot which can tire out the staunchest horse; and I, wrapping myself once more in my trusty shawl, go quietly off to sleep. "Master, master! wake up!"

I start to my feet, and, rubbing my eyes confusedly, look about to see where I am. The waggon is drawn up in front of one of those long, low, pale-grey posthouses which have haunted me for days past; but this time there is a new feature in the landscape. A little behind, the sails of three windmills, dimly seen in the shadowy moonlight, stand out spectrally against the sky, forming a landmark which is destined to serve me for many a long week to come.

"Where are we?" "Fort No. 1."

CHAPTER IX.

TRAPPED.

"AND this is the Syr-Daria!" soliloquise I, at sunrise on the morning of my arrival. "I shall have to bathe in it before I can persuade myself that I really am here."

And, indeed, the whole thing may well appear like a dream. The spot which, for years past, has been vague and shadowy as Utopia or Atlantis, lies before me in bodily presence at last. To the right, the sentry's bayonet glitters in the morning sunshine above the low mud wall of a tiny fort-the famous Fort No. I; to my left, extends a wide sweep of green plain, melting at length into the dull grey of the desert. Just below me runs a thick turbid stream, bitterly contrasting with its name of Clean River (Syr-Daria), walled in by low banks of soft rich clay, like a river of cabbage-soup flowing between two interminable slices of brown bread. Beyond it, far as the eye can reach, stretches a dreary waste of sand-the far-famed KizilKoum itself on the other side of which, barely 380 miles away, lies the little oasis of primitive rascality whose name is shaking the whole earth.

But, near as I am to Khiva, there is still much to be

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