The day was beautiful, and the scent of hawthorn, wild roses and thyme, yellow azalea and lime-trees filled the air, and the scenery became increasingly wild and beautiful. After three hours’ drive we halted for half-an-hour near a town on the outskirts of which musketry practice was going on, then we began the main ascent of the pass. The road became very steep, and the air cold and damp as we zig-zagged up the mountain. There were brilliant patches of kingcups, and amongst them beautiful tall snowdrops in great profusion. Instead of cultivated land there were pastures full of flocks of sheep and goats, shepherded by bright-looking boys. Of all the passes I have seen in Europe this is certainly the finest. One seems to be right amongst the snow fields, and the road sometimes passes between high walls of snow or through sheds built with great solidity. We stopped one hour for lunch at the village where we met the automobile going the reverse way, and again later at the foot of Mt. Kasbec for another half-hour. Kasbec is 16,546 feet in height, namely, 100 feet higher than Mont Blanc. On its slope there is a typical Caucasian village, as seen in the sketch. From the time when we started on the down-hill road, however, we lost all pleasure in the scenery. Our driver suddenly became utterly reckless under the influence (as we learnt later on) of pressure brought to bear on him by one of the passengers, who wanted to arrive early at Vladikavkaz. We simply dashed down the road and round corners, at the imminent peril of our necks, scattering horses and carts in wild confusion into the ditch or up banks to what seemed to be certain destruction. Only once did the chauffeur stop, on the demand of a man with a rifle; he admitted that he was frightened, for not long ago the auto had been held up by brigands. It was a momentary pause, however, and we dashed on as recklessly as before. Finally on entering the town a horse took fright and dragged its cart into the ditch, overturning it completely, but the chauffeur merely smiled and drove on. How thankful we were to draw up safely at last at the Grand Hotel at Vladikavkaz at 6 P.M. We had some hours to spare before our train started, so we made our way to the telegraph office in order to wire home. The polite clerk, in answer to our inquiry, said that it took much less time to telegraph to England than to any place in Russia, and that it would probably be delivered in London in an hour’s time; in point of fact, the telegram was never delivered at all. German we found the foreign language best understood in Russia, and for the benefit of inexperienced travellers I will conclude my volume with a brief account of our crossing the frontier. [Illustration: MOUNT KASBEC]