Kutais lies to the west of Tiflis, about eight hours’ journey on the railroad. The train I planned to take left Tiflis a little before midnight. Ivan insisted that we leave the hotel more than an hour before train-time. I thought this an unreasonable margin of time, but before we reached the station I realized that it is always safe to allow ample time for the unexpected in Caucasia. We had crossed the bridge spanning the Kur and had turned into a dark unlighted street, running toward the station, when suddenly the cries of “_Stoi! Stoi!_” (Halt! Halt!) rang out in the darkness. Five soldiers sprang out of the shadow and stopped our carriage, while a sixth leveled a bayonet at my breast, so close that when I threw open my _bourka_ (a long hairy cape extending from the shoulders to the ground), and reached for my passport and credentials, it brushed against the steel point. My uniform was only distinguishable under the _bourka_. The officer in charge of the search-party spoke [Illustration: Caucasian types] French and, upon examining my credentials, promptly permitted us to continue on our way. We had not proceeded two blocks, however, when once more the imperative shout of “_Stoi! Stoi!_” stopped us. This time a larger party of soldiers surrounded us. Two infantrymen sprang to the heads of the horses, bringing them to an immediate standstill. The officer in command of the second party proved an ignorant fellow and we found it somewhat difficult to satisfy him as to our legality, for a man wearing the uniform of a Cossack officer provided with an American passport was an unusual phenomenon, even in Tiflis, the very center of strange and mysterious men and circumstances. At last, however, he appeared satisfied that we were known to the authorities and that our credentials were genuine, and once more we started for the still distant station. We were nicely settled and on our way when once again the cry of “_Stoi! Stoi!_” startled us. This time, however, it came from behind. Impatient at these repeated delays and fearful lest after all we miss the train, Ivan, giving one quick glance behind, foolishly thought to take a long chance at escape. The soldiers were twenty yards or more to the rear, so Ivan called to the driver to go on quickly. The driver cracked his whip and the horses strained forward to a gallop. A perfect volley of “_stois_” followed us. I looked back to see how the soldiers would take this,--just in time to see the men raising their guns to their shoulders to fire. Springing to my feet I shouted in Russian, “All right; all right!” my arms raised to signify that we were in their hands. The sound of my voice warned the driver to stop the horses. The soldiers rushed upon us and at first were inclined to be rough, for they naturally thought we had tried to elude them. The officer was exasperatingly deliberate in examining our papers and he was so persistent in his questions that had he delayed us two minutes longer