Several times have villagers been placed in the Aminabad caravanserai, that the place might not be without inhabitants; but it is always looted, the ryots beaten or murdered; even in peaceful times the muleteers hurry past the caravanserai, and make the best of their way to Yezdikhast. [Illustration: TENT LIFE.—WANDERING TRIBES.] The country here on the least pretext becomes disturbed, and robberies and murders in disturbed times are frequent. The last time I passed it, in 1878, I was riding on in front of the caravan, and looked into the huge courtyard out of curiosity; and though the country was very peaceful indeed, there lay the festering body of a murdered man. A few mud walls run along the road, making convenient ambush, and a ruined watch-tower marks the exact frontier line. My lighted lantern had doubtless put the robbers of the neighbourhood on the _qui vive_, but I could not have got out of the Yezdikhast valley without it, and I hoped by travelling at an unusual hour (midnight) in the pitchy darkness to slip by unperceived. I had reckoned without my host. As I passed at a slow amble, making as little noise as possible, and flattering myself that no one could see us, I was challenged. “Who are you?” I promptly replied: “Be off; I am a European.” “Stand!” said a voice; and I saw a black object in the shadow of the wall. I drew my revolver and placed it on full cock; I stuck my spurs into my wretched horse; but the presence of other beasts was enough for him; he merely swayed with weakness, but did not budge. The black object now rapidly approached, and resolved itself into five horsemen, who surrounded me, and, prodding me with the muzzles of their guns, ordered me to dismount in a series of hoarse whispers. My thieves were well mounted and well armed; the odds were too great for a fight. I couldn’t run away, and the guide had disappeared, having slipped off his horse and run. I used strong language and tried to brazen it out, but it was of no use.