I must here digress a little to inform the reader of the circumstances of my former acquaintance with our pilgrim friend. Just two years ago, in the commencement of 1870, Saggid Mahmúd, bearing a recommendatory letter from the Amir of Kabul, came to me at Peshawar for professional advice regarding his son. I found the lad was afflicted with tubercular leprosy and a paralysed arm, and learned on inquiry that his sister and some cousins also were afflicted with leprosy. Like most natives of these parts my patients believed, or professed to believe, that I had only to feel the pulse, administer some physic, and prescribe a regimen, to ensure a speedy recovery. And great was their disappointment on my telling the old man that, as far as I was concerned, his son’s disease was incurable. They had travelled upwards of three hundred miles for a cure, and it was hard they should return without some sort of attempt towards the attainment of so desirable an issue. So I took the case in hand, and treated the lad for some months with little or no benefit. At length, the hot weather approaching, they returned to their home at Ghazni, with a large supply of medicine. In the following year Saggid Mahmúd wrote to me for a fresh supply of medicine and the galvanic battery I had employed on his son at Peshawar. The medicine I sent him by his messenger, and promised to get him a galvanic chain if he would send for it a month or so later. His messenger never came, and the chain remained with me. On my leaving Peshawar for the journey before us, I packed the galvanic chain (it was one of Pulvermacher’s) in one of my boxes, on the chance of an opportunity offering to forward it to Ghazni. I now informed our visitors of this, and opening the box, produced the case containing the chain, and handed it over to Saggid Mahmúd, congratulating him on the good fortune that had enabled me to present it personally. He was completely taken aback at finding I had really got the chain for his son, and taking it in both hands, exclaimed, “This is wonderful! Who would have believed it? You are all true and just people, and deserve to be great. It is for such sincerity that God prospers you.” With many expressions of gratitude and prayers for our safe progress, our visitors took their leave. Six months later we met this old man again at Shahrúd, as will be hereafter related. Barshori is an open village of about eighty houses on the edge of a dry water-course. Its inhabitants are Mánjhú Jats, and appear to be comfortably off. There is a good deal of corn cultivation around, judging from the wide extent of corn-stalks. Water, however, is limited in quantity, and very inferior in quality. It is derived from a number of small shafts, upwards of a hundred, sunk in the bed of the drainage channel above mentioned, and is very turbid and brackish. The road to the Bolán Pass _viâ_ Bágh and Dádar goes off northwards from this, and that to the Míloh Pass by Gandáva goes off to the west.