In one place the road dipped down between some low clay hills, the defile of Abadu. Until very recently this little grip had had the credit of being exceedingly dangerous; in fact, it is even yet called “the Valley of death:” this on account of the caravan thieves and robbers who infested the neighbourhood. It is less dangerous under the present Amîr, for I had occasion while in Turkestan to send for two additional dispensers from Kabul, and these two men rode the whole distance from Kabul to Mazar unattended. They had for safety’s sake a revolver. It was, however, unloaded, and they had no powder. The plains became gradually flatter and more dusty, till, finally, it was little more than a desert with the scantiest vegetation. The heat was intense, and the glare from the white dust most wearying. Away in the distance in front of us, I saw a lake with some trees round it, and I longed for the time when we should arrive and get cool again in the shade. “There is no lake there,” they said. Nonsense! I knew there was. This was no “mirage.” I mean, you could see the thing. There weren’t any towers or castles, or people walking upside down, simply one or two trees near some water. But, alas! we dragged on and on in the parching heat, and never got nearer the lake. We passed a camel, dead, by the roadside, loading the hot air with foulness. The gorged vultures only hopped lazily a little way off, and sat and stared at us. We halted at last, dismounted, and sat in the sun while the “chillim” bearer blew up his charcoal and passed round the pipe. I had a pull at it. He kept a little silver mouthpiece for my especial benefit, which he slipped on the end of the tube. I was glad of this, though I knew it was simply done lest I had eaten pork or anything unclean. After all had smoked, the pipe charcoal was used to light some sticks that the pipe-bearer had brought with him; the kettle was boiled, and we had hot tea--scalding hot: the hotter it was, the more it seemed to satisfy our thirst. [Sidenote: Arrival at Mazar.]