At the next sitting, His Highness asked if I were fond of shooting. The Armenian at once answered, that it was the one particular delight of my soul. His Highness said he would send a rifle to my house, so that I might ride out on the plains and have some antelope shooting. Accordingly, the next afternoon, when the rifle arrived, the Armenian and I, accompanied by a servant, started on our expedition. We rode through the city, my horse going beautifully, as quiet as a trotting camel, till we reached the plain. Then, suddenly, he gave a scream, sprang up in the air, flung out his heels, and----but he did not have me off. No! I was not just convalescent from fever then, and he went quietly again. But I was on the watch, for I knew his ways. Four times he tried that buck. I am not a bold rider, I much prefer a quiet horse: but, it was the best I had. I thought I would try the rifle, and I dismounted and put in a cartridge. The gun was a Martini-Henry pattern, made in Mazar, and I felt myself rather a dare-devil sort of fellow in venturing to fire it off. I aimed at a crow and pulled the trigger: there was a violent explosion. I did not hit the crow, but the gun kicked very much and cut my lip and made my eyes water. I determined that this should not occur again, so, therefore, I held the rifle very tight, shut my eyes, drew my head away, and fired. But I did not hit the mark. I asked the Armenian if he were sure that the gun was sighted right. He said he did not know. I said, “You had better try it.” He said he had a pain in his arm: so we rode on a little further. By-and-bye, the Syce (the Burma policeman) summoned up courage and said he thought he could shoot. I said, “Very good. There’s a crow over there: you may shoot it.” He was a long time getting ready, for he felt it was a dangerous thing to do, and he turned very white. Then he fired, but he did not hit. Evidently, the gun was faulty. Then we thought we would come home. On the way back, we saw a man on a young horse. He kept jumping him about the road, first one side then the other. The Armenian turned on him in anger and told him he was a woman. The young man seemed indignantly surprised, and stoutly affirmed that he was _not_ a woman. The Armenian rode up to him, caught him by the coat and shouted, “You _are_ a woman.” He shouted back, “I am _not_ a woman.” They looked very fierce, and I thought they were coming to blows. But the young man snatched his coat away and went off at a gallop. The Armenian followed him a little way, then came back looking satisfied. My horse went back very quietly, but I felt sure his feelings were hurt at not being able to run away when he wanted to. He did not often want to run: he much preferred walking, as a rule.