We reach the summit of the highest hill. The scene changes. We look down upon a vast plain. It is surrounded on all sides by undulating heights. The white sandy soil of the valley throws still more into relief the many-coloured mountains. Patches of snow deck the more distant peaks. The sun is dispelling the flossy clouds which overhang the loftier crags. The filmy vapour floats away into space; caressing for a few moments the mountains' crests, it is wafted onward, and then disappears from our view. Now we crossed a rapid stream, about thirty yards wide, and known as the Alatai river. A fragile bridge spans the waters. Soon afterwards we put up for the night at a farm-house in the village of Tchairhana. The proprietor, a jolly-looking Turk, received us very hospitably. Later on in the evening he brought me a large _yorgan_, or Turkish counterpane, with the remark that possibly the Effendi might feel cold during the night. The Turkish beds are very primitive; no bedstead being used. One or two mattresses are laid on the floor, the _yorgan_ takes the place of sheets or blankets. It consists of a silk quilt, generally lined with linen, and stuffed with feathers. These quilts pass from father to son, and are greatly prized by the Turks. The farmer, to make me appreciate his attention the more highly, remarked that the _yorgan_ had been used by his grandfather, as well as by his father on their wedding-nights, and that he himself had employed it on a similar occasion only a few weeks previously. Osman, now interrupted the speaker with the remark that in his family there was also a wonderful _yorgan_—something quite out of the common, it was so beautiful that neither his wife nor himself liked to use it—and that this one was like a furze bush in comparison. "So you are married, Osman?" I remarked. "Yes; but I have not seen my wife for three years." "Do you love her very much?" "She is a good cook. She makes soup which is more filling than even my brother's here," pointing to Radford. "Is she pretty?" "Effendi, I could not afford to marry a good-looking girl. There was one in our village—such a pretty one, with eyes like a hare and plump as a turkey—but she could not cook, and her father wanted too much for her." "Well, what did you give for your present wife?" "Ten liras (Turkish pounds), but she did not weigh more than forty okas (about 100 lbs). She was very cheap. However, her eyes are not quite straight, they look in different directions. But that does not signify—she can cook." "Yes," said the farmer, "a good cook, Effendi, that is what I said to myself when I wanted a wife. Looks don't last, but cooking is an art which the Prophet himself did not despise." I had no reason to congratulate myself on being the occupant of the farmer's nuptial couch. It was very old and very beautiful, but it was full of fleas, and they gave me no rest.