The first day’s journey was short, for we went only a few miles across the valley to a place called Chiltan, where on a hill Jan Mahomed has a “country residence.” The house was pretty, and well built, in the style of a bungalow with a verandah; around it were flower gardens with a small fountain. Down the hill and around the foot of it were vines and fruit trees, and the view from the house was over the cornfields and vineyards of the beautiful Charhardeh valley, circled with mountains. The Governor of Kabul did not accompany us to the house, but the rest of us sat down to dinner together, in the Mahomedan fashion, that is, on the ground. Pyne and I were accommodated with cushions. As we were not able to double our legs up in the Eastern fashion we “reclined.” It was my first “native” dinner, and I enjoyed it immensely, for the ride and excitement had made us hungry. With the fruit, champagne was brought, and afterwards sweets and tea. Then when we lit our cigars nautch girls and musicians were introduced. [Sidenote: The Nautch Dancer.] I can speak of the wild barbaric music from seithar, rubarb, and drum; of the passionate Oriental love song pealing forth in unison from strong male voices; of the unveiled girl dancers undulating to the music; of the glances cast by the dark eyes, the waving of arms, the clinking of bangles, and the tinkling of bells on their ankles, as the dancers stepped daintily on the carpet. I can also speak of the indescribable ear-splitting din, without either time or tune, which was torn from the tortured instruments and hurled at us as “music;” of the harsh voices roaring till they were hoarse something which we did not understand; of the attempts of the singers to produce a trill by shaking the head; of the utter absence of modulation or feeling in their singing; of the dancing women shuffling about, clapping their hands and throwing themselves into uncouth and to us unmeaning postures; and I thought, “Oh, for an hour of Augustus Druriolanus to open the eyes of these Easterns.” We turned in at midnight, Pyne and I sharing a room, and he broke my only egg cup with his heel. We started next morning at eight, said good-bye to Pyne, who returned to Kabul to superintend the workshops, and then rode on. On the way villagers came out and lined the road to salaam Jan Mahomed and offer him presents. As they stood in a row they held out their hands, palm upwards, muttered a prayer, and stroked their beards--that is, those who had beards: the young men and boys who had not, pretended to do so. At some places they slung a string across the road with a Koran fixed in the middle of it, and as we passed under it we held out our hands, palm upwards, muttered a prayer, and stroked our beards. At other places they killed a bullock or a calf by cutting its throat. I do not know the significance of the operation.