The great plain of Alashkert was outspread before us, bounded on the further side by the snow-capped mountains of the Ala Dagh, which stretched across the horizon from the east. Just before us, this lofty range was seen to recede into the misty background, the outlines bending away towards south-west. But the barrier was resumed at no considerable interval by a chain of hills, less distant, although of humbler proportions, called Kilich Gedik, or the sharp sword. We could just descry the site of Karakilisa, backed by the recess of the Ala Dagh. We knew that the Murad must be flowing through that nebulous passage in the opposite bulwark of the plain. The surface of the ground below us was level as water; the expanse was greatest in the west. In that direction the spurs of the range upon which we stood plunged by a succession of promontories into the floor of the plain. We were reminded of the valley of the Araxes in the neighbourhood of Erivan. Both depressions have the appearance of inland seas at the foot of the mountains, the one on the northern, the other on the southern side. But that of Alashkert is much more elevated (5500 feet), and less sheltered; you miss the presence of those extensive stretches of orchard and verdure which soften the landscape through which the Araxes flows. The eye wanders out over dim, ochreous tracts, broken by patches of fallow, and seamed by white rivulets. Just below the Armenian settlement we reached the margin of the level ground, and cantered along, almost on a compass course. We saw several insignificant villages; but the district was wild, the soil for the most part unreclaimed. Flocks of duck and geese took wing at our approach; cranes, with their long necks, sailed across the sky. In the course of an hour and a half we reached the street of Karakilisa, a distance from Amat, measured direct, of 9 miles.