A few days after my return from Vladikavkaz, I made preparations for leaving Tiflis. It was near the end of June, and the unbearable heat had driven away nearly all those who were free to go; all the highways leading out of the city were crowded with carts and carriages of every description, carrying household goods and passengers. My friends had contracted with some Molokans (Russian heretics), belonging to the colony of Azamburi, for the removal of their furniture to Signakh; the carriers had promised to come to our house at four o'clock in the morning, but it was nine o'clock before they put in an appearance, and then their carts were half full of other people's goods, a direct violation of the agreement. If any man ever needed the patience which is proverbially ascribed to the patriarch Job, it is the man who has business dealings with the Muscovite muzhik. You may assail him with all the abuse which your knowledge of his language will permit, you may strike him, you may calmly endeavour to persuade him with the most lucid logic--it is all to no purpose; taking off his cap to scratch his head, he looks at you with an assumption of childlike simplicity, and replies with a proverb more remarkable for its laconism than for its applicability to the matter under discussion. In this case we wrangled for a long time, and then, being unwilling to risk a stroke of apoplexy by getting into a rage, appealed to the majesty of the law, represented by a stalwart policeman, at whose command the carts were emptied forthwith, the contents being deposited on the roadside, and our effects were soon put in their place, and the whole caravan rattled down the hillside about two hours before noon. An hour later a four-horse carriage with springs arrived, and the four of us, my Georgian host, a Russian lady and gentleman, and myself, set out for Kakheti. After descending through the narrow streets which lie between the Erivan square and the river, we crossed the busy bridge, and mounted the steep bank on the other side, passing through the liveliest part of the Persian quarter. By the time we had got clear of the suburb called the Dogs' Village, with its camels and caravanserais, we had overtaken the waggons; exchanging friendly salutations with our volunteer baggage-guard, we were soon rolling along the smooth, dusty road in the direction of Orkhevi. On our right, down by the side of the Kura, lay Naftluk, with its beautiful vineyards and orchards, and beyond it the road to Akstafa and Erivan; on the distant southern horizon were the blue mountains of Armenia. On our left hand rose a range of bare-looking hills of no great height.