I was rejoiced on this day's march to meet my old friend Mahomed Rizâ Khan Byat, who had come from Shiraz to compliment the Elchee. He galloped up to me like a boy, calling out "You are welcome." I could hardly believe my eyes on finding him look younger and brisker than he did when I left him ten years before, at the age of sixty-eight, eating, every day, a quantity of opium that was enough, according to the calculation of our doctor, to poison thirty persons unaccustomed to that drug. My regard for the old gentleman had led to my taking no small pains to break him of a habit that I was persuaded would destroy him; and the doctor, from the same impression, was my zealous auxiliary. For him my friend inquired the moment he had welcomed me; when told he was in India, he replied, laughing, "I am sorry he is not here; I would show him that Christian doctors, though they can, according to our belief, through the aid and influence of their Messiah, work miracles, as he did, by curing the blind and the lame, are not all true prophets. He told me I should die if I did not diminish my allowance of opium; I have increased it four-fold since he in his wisdom predicted my demise, and here I am, near fourscore, as young and as active as any of them:" so saying, he pushed his horse to speed, and turning his body quite round, according to the habit of the ancient Parthians with the bow, and the modern Persians with the matchlock, fired a ball at a mark in the opposite direction to that in which he was galloping. Riding up to me, he first stroked his beard, which was too well dyed to discover a single white hair, and then taking out a box I had given him ten years before, opened it, and literally cast down his throat a handful of opium pills, repeating, "I wish my friend the doctor had been here!"