His Highness’s horse was waiting outside, a steady strong-looking nag, with a padded saddle and a gold-bedecked bridle. Two other led horses were in readiness, each with cloth of gold thrown over the saddle. There was a small guard of foot-soldiers and several mounted men. One carried the Amîr’s rifle; another a lance and shield--why, I do not know; another, the chillim or hubble-bubble, the vase of which was in a leather case slung to the saddle. This was for the use of the suite, as the Amîr rarely, if ever, smokes the chillim, and only occasionally a cigarette. There were several Page boys mounted: they were good riders, keeping their seat chiefly by balance. Like most boys, they were rather reckless, and were ready enough to exhibit their skill for the benefit of onlookers. His Highness came from the Palace. The guard saluted, a stool was placed, and His Highness mounted; the bystanders murmuring “Kaìri Allah!” just as he reached the saddle. It was a pretty sight seeing them all start, for the day was bright and sunny: it had been pouring with rain all the day before. The Armenian and I went for a ride also, but we did not see His Highness. The mud! In some of the narrow lanes, where the sun shone for only a few minutes in the day, it was like floundering through a bog, and you came every now and again to a seemingly bottomless hole--you did not know there was one till you were in it. Out on the plains it was all right; the sun had dried the surface hard. We took “the rifle” with us, but did not get a shot at anything. I proposed shooting at a horse that was grazing, just outside the city, on the scrubby grass that the rain had brought up, but the Armenian seemed to think there was just an off chance that I might hit it, and if so I should have to disemburse lucre for same. In the evening I was sitting comfortably on the ground in front of the fire, leaning against an inverted chair. I found I was safer so: my chairs were portable ones, and sometimes shut up when it was neither necessary nor desirable. The one reliable one had never recovered after Hakim Abdur Rashid sat on it. On a box at my elbow I had two nice tallow candles, one in a brass candlestick and one in a bottle, and I was peacefully smoking and trying to learn Persian. Quite suddenly the Armenian pounced on one of my candles, the one in the bottle, and hurried it out of sight. “Hullo!” I said, “what’s up?” “Sir, nothing up, but somebody coming.” “You need not take my light if they are.” “Oh, sir!” he said, reproachfully, “you King’s doctor, and people see you have candle in bottle! Shame come for you!” “Where does the shame come in?” I asked. “Sir, you not know: men of Afghanistan very fool men, a little they talk if they see.” [Sidenote: The Sample Case of Cigars.]