Kindirantz must be five or six miles distant from the lake, and the plain may have a length from north to south of five miles, with an average breadth of about two miles. A nice stream descends from the hills in the neighbourhood of the little town. In connection with this plain I may mention a natural phenomenon which repeats itself every year. When the snows melt in spring and the torrents rush down from the mountains, the plain becomes completely submerged. The line of heights on the side of the lake prevent the egress of the waters, which attain in places a depth of about ten feet. The flood ultimately escapes through three principal subterraneous passages, besides several minor outlets. The water rushes through these natural tunnels in the dam formed by the cliffs, but it takes a considerable time for it all to disappear. When the land is again revealed, the peasants sow their crops, which, in some years, yield an excellent harvest. But it often happens that they are withered by the fierce sun of summer, which has already commenced by the time that the lake has run out. To this cause the Kaimakam attributed the poverty of the neighbouring villages. I have no doubt that the little stream, if properly utilised, would go far towards irrigating their lands; and if a proper tunnel were cut, and reservoirs constructed, the soil might be made as fertile as any in the world. We proceeded on our journey at four o'clock, accompanied by the Kaimakam, who rode a fiery grey horse. His saddle rested on a light blue cloth, bordered with a yellow fringe; the trappings and bridle were adorned with yellow tassels. He himself was attired in the civil dress of Europe, and wore the fez. He could not control his steed, although a good horseman; the youngster who carried our baggage became enlivened by the example, and set off at a canter with his load. The Kaimakam galloped after him; but our colt was in condition, and showed him his heels until he was arrested at an adjacent village. This escapade cost us time, and it was nearly half-past five before we had scaled the heights on the west of the plain. At our feet lay the lake, about two miles away. It is the peculiar favour of this fascinating seaboard that, often hidden, it is always new and always fair. Not a patch of ragged coast disturbs the impression of ideal beauty, resuming and blending the choicest features of other shores. Our landscape of this evening embraced the westerly extremities of the white, unruffled expanse (Fig. 144). The sun was declining beyond the colossal crater of Nimrud, a true caldron rising from the lake on the opposite margin. Deep shadows clothed the promontories between our standpoint and the mountain, among which a bold headland, seen on the left of my illustration, jutted out in the form of a peninsula. It was named to us after a neighbouring village, the cape of Vanik. During my second journey it was found to conceal a small crater. In the