Then we mounted and rode on again. By-and-by, Jan Mahomed politely gave me a handful of English sweets, those round discs like pennies, with a fancy edge, and with words printed on, “For a good boy”: they tasted of peppermint. I wished they had been gelatine lozenges. Some hours afterwards we halted again. This time it was at a village on the plain. There were small mud-huts, and quaint-looking domes of wickerwork with bits of scrub tucked into the interstices. It was cool in the shade, and the villagers, Turkomans, gave us lettuces to eat. It was delicious to crunch up the cool crisp leaves. We drank more tea, then rode on again amid the salaams of the Turkomans. At last we came in sight of the trees, the cupola and minarets of the town of Mazár-i-Sherif. This was no phantom scene. A great crowd of people on foot and on horseback came to meet us. I noticed that many of them kissed the hand of Jan Mahomed, those on horseback dismounting to do so.[4] I also noticed that one man running by the side of Jan Mahomed had a rifle slung backwards under his arm, and that the barrel kept persistently in a line with my head. It annoyed me. I could not get out of the way of the brute. I need not have been disturbed, the gun was not in the least likely to have been loaded: powder was too expensive. [4] I was very sorry to hear recently, that Jan Mahomed Khan is no longer living: a machine gun exploded and he was killed. We reached the town at five in the afternoon, rode through the gate along the narrow bazaar to the Palace. We dismounted under some big plane-trees growing by a tank in the outer garden of the Palace, and the report of our arrival was taken to His Highness the Amîr. The pages and other officials crowded round, busily brushed the white dust off us, and brought us bowls of iced water. Thirst! I knew what it was now! Ride for ten hours over a dusty plain, with the thermometer over 100° in the shade, and anything you like in the sun, and see. Word was brought that His Highness would receive us the next day. Jan Mahomed then handed me over to the care of one of the court officials, the “Ferash-Bashi,” or “Keeper of the Carpets.” This was a short stout gentleman of few words, and with a sour expression.