In the evening I played chess. I had been playing with different people, and had always been beaten. I determined, therefore, to play the Armenian. He knew the moves, and we sat down to a game. We played rapidly, and he grew very excited. He muttered in Pushtu, or shouted in a mixture of Hindustani, Persian, and English. He swooped with his Wazir or Queen, and cried “Kisht! check!” I took his Queen with a Pawn, at which he was indignant: he said it was not fair, and he wanted his Queen back. I began to doubt if he would ever make, so to speak, a good player; he was too impulsive: he swooped and slaughtered right and left. We had one game where in the end we had nothing left but a King and a Pawn each: then he took my Pawn. I told him the game was drawn, because I saw he would get across and have a Castle before I could stop him; but he said--No, he had won. I appealed to the onlookers, and they said politely, “Undoubtedly the game is drawn.” However, I consented to a compromise, and allowed it to be drawn in his favour. Chess as played in Afghanistan is slightly different from chess as played in England. In the first move, the Pawn goes only one square. The Queen is called the “Wazir,” or Prime Minister, and stands on the King’s _right_. The Bishop is called the “Fil,” or Elephant. The Knight is called “Asp,” or Horse, or sometimes the “Sowar,” that is “Rider,” or Knight. The Castle is called the “Rookh,” and is supposed to be a Redoubt or Fort. Sometimes it is called the “Tôp,” or Cannon. There is some slight difference in the castling, though I forget exactly what, otherwise, the pieces have the same moves as in England. My “fool-horse”--the fighter, with tooth and nail (that is to say, hoof)--developed “cracked heels.” This was unfortunate, for I knew nothing about horse doctoring, and he got into the habit of stumbling and coming down on his nose. Twice did I remain on under these circumstances, and proudly I said to the Armenian, “Behold, now! I am as a great rider among men.” “Yes, sir?” said the Armenian, “I think it you fall off.” But, alas! Pride cometh, then cometh the fall. Then next time he came down I went over his head. There was a sentence I had to learn in my Persian lesson that day that seemed appropriate, it was:--“Ba zamin ûftad, Ustoghonash rèz rèz shud,” which means, “He fell to the earth and his bones were broken to pieces.” Not that mine were, but they might have been. I seemed, as it were, to have lost confidence in my horse, and I said to the Armenian, “This must not occur again; see to it.” “Sir! what _I_ do?” he asked. “Sell him, or shoot him.” But he said No; he would report the matter to Amîr Sahib at the next Durbar. [Sidenote: The Amîr as a Pathologist.]