The sky was cloudless, the air pure, and fragrant with a thousand odors from the plain; the fields, so bare in autumn, when parched by heat and drought, had put on their bridal array of grass and flowers. The road ran beside a stream bordered with laurel, roses and eglantine. After a ride of three hours, the party came to the lower foothills of the mountain. The good beasts went on bravely, picking their way among the rough stones and fallen débris, never stumbling. The vegetation was marvelous; as far as eye could see, stretched fields of narcissus, hyacinths, tulips and gladiolas. Monsieur Bernier kept jumping off his horse every few moments to gather a fresh handful of flowers. The riders stopped near a well, to eat their luncheon; after tethering the donkeys and horses to some plane-trees, every one proceeded to unpack his food. "I say," said Aram, "just look at Soghomon!" The gluttony of the fat boy was notorious; he now had twelve eggs spread out on his knees, the sight of which sent his companions into fits of laughter. "Are you going to hatch them, or what?" asked the merciless Aram. "I speak for the chicks," said Dikran. Soghomon turned red to the tips of his ears. "Vai bana (worse luck), I'm hungry," he stammered at last, "and I always have a good appetite." "Right you are, old man," said Aram, "it seems to me you've been getting thin lately." "Bah!" said Nejib. "I bet he won't eat them." "Why not?" said Soghomon pettishly. "My father ate thirteen once." The shouts of laughter redoubled. "I bet he will eat them," cried Aram. "What will you bet?" asked Nejib. "My Iceland postage-stamps." "Pek-et (all right)! I'll bet my romance by Walter Scott." Soghomon was nettled by the jesting. He ate eight eggs easily, but the ninth had a queer taste. At the tenth his stomach seemed to close; he stuck to it however. Orientals adore betting, and his comrades put him on his mettle. He ate the eleventh, then the twelfth! Nejib had lost. "Aférim, Aférim (Bravo)!" cried Aram, delighted, and he dragged Soghomon into a wild dance. It was so hot that the company unanimously agreed to take a siesta, and not start on their way until four o'clock.... The muezzin was just telling the hour of sunset as our cavalcade drew up at the village of Ibrahamli, where they were to spend the night. Dr. Spencer had given Monsieur Bernier a letter of introduction to Mustapha Hara, the chief man of the village. The inhabitants of Ibrahamli were Kurds, and without the doctor's letter, our friends would have found every door closed to them.