By this time I had begun to pique myself on the rate I could get over the ground “en chuppar;” and I had established a rule in my own mind that there were two ways of posting, and two only: going when there was light; and going as long as horses were to be had, day and night. Anything else was of little use, as one could not go faster than the latter mode, and if one wanted to go more slowly than the former, one might as well march. In the famine time nothing but water and firing was to be got, and so the journey was naturally a thing to be got over as soon as possible: also in this particular instance I was going to see a patient, and so was bound to be smart. Off I went about noon from Shiraz at a sharp canter, preceded by my servant and followed by the guide, for one has to separate them or they lose time in chattering. The servant yelled, whipped, jobbled his horse with his sharp native stirrups, and generally behaved as a lunatic. On emerging from the town he exhorted me frequently to come on, and took as much out of himself and his horse as possible. When we got to Zergūn, six farsakhs, we had done it, over the good road on the plain, under the two hours and a half. The next stage to Seidoon is over a sandy plain, which, in wet weather, is a very bad road indeed, and rough causeways have to be gone over to keep out of the morasses. But we had had _no rain for two years_, and all the way it was good going. We reached Seidoon half-an-hour after sunset, and here my man began to suggest that we should stop to sleep. I made him understand that as long as I could find horses _I_ was bound to go on; but he seemed to fail to see that that rule applied to _him_. On we went still, having kept to our two farsakhs (or eight miles) an hour, _including_ stoppages, and reached Kawamabad at nine at night; here the road was less level, and my man _would_ lag behind. The moon was high, and the scenery is very pretty—long stretches of what in other times is turf and plenty of big trees.