The next morning, when I arrived at the Palace, I found His Highness was asleep, so I betook myself to Samander’s khirgar or wigwam. It was as well I went, for I found he had fever. I took the opportunity also of prescribing for the favourite Page, Malek. He was a nice lad, and I had a chat with him. He seemed to be quite proud that he was not a Mahomedan in religion, though he couldn’t quite tell me what he was. He remembered only a few words of his native language. Afterwards he became a very good friend to me. He had infinite tact, and if I wished to call the attention of His Highness to any matter without making a formal report, Malek was always ready to choose the fitting moment in which to speak to His Highness. I did not see the Amîr that day, for he was engaged, busily and alone, answering European correspondence. I heard, however, that he was much better. On the following day, Tuesday, His Highness held the usual military Durbar. He sat at the window of the Palace enveloped in furs. When I arrived, he desired me to examine the throat of a woman who was there, unveiled, among the petitioners, and diagnose the disease she was suffering from. When I had given my report, His Highness invited me into the Palace and I lunched with him as before. He asked me why I had ceased, since my recovery from fever, from sending to his kitchen for lunch and dinner. He desired me to continue sending, so long as I remained in the country. After that the Amîr’s cook waited upon me daily at my house to receive orders. A day or two after this, on Sunday, January 19th, I was called before daybreak to vaccinate the little Prince, Mahomed Omer. The very fat man, Hakim Abdur Rashid, came for me while I was dressing; the servants prepared tea and then we started. The Prince was not living in the harem with his mother, the Sultana: he had a house of his own not very far from mine. The Hakim waddled by my side, talking and talking, and panting, and still talking in his unctuous voice, and I stalked on in the darkness. Dawn was so near that we brought no lanterns, and before we reached the house the light of morning was gleaming on the snow. At the high gate, leading to the gardens, was a sentry with fixed bayonet. Just as we reached the gate an old “sakabi,” or water-carrier, was passed in by the sentry. Before he was allowed to cross the gardens with his leather water-bag to fill the house deghchis, or water-pots, the sentry made him unloose his turban and droop the end of it over his eyes so that he could see on the ground only. “Women about?” I said to the Armenian. “Yes, sir. Highness’ sister here and other lady.” “Shall we see them?” I asked. “Sir. Please you not talk. Perhaps this fat man understand. Highness make angry if he hear.” Our eyes were not bandaged, though the Armenian and I were a good deal younger than the “sakabi.” The fat Hakim did not count. We crossed the garden and went up some steps into a lobby and the Hakim called out:--