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Rh ting point, and imagine the Buddhist stupas and inscriptions we might not see—Samarkand four hundred and fifty miles away in air line, seven hundred and fifty by caravan road.

By noon, a far tinkling told that the camels were coming, and the caravans bound down from the fortified serai at Lundi Khana, where they had rested the night, reached Ali Masjid's gorge. The shaggy, swaying animals, with their shaggy keepers, made fitting pictures in that wild glen. Traces of vivid Bokhara waistcoats illuminated a few dingy figures, but for real, theatrical effect the troupe needed fresh costuming. Some of the caravan-men stood stock-still, rooted, transfixed, and stared at us; others feigned indifference; and others vented Pushtu curses.

Then tum-tums passed us, speeding on from Peshawar toward Kabul, and a two-horse trap, very nearly a buckboard, that was filled with prosperous Kabul merchants, ranks above common povindahs, all shapeless fur bundles topped with preposterous turbans. Gaily domed ekkas, like idols' cars, and filled with squatting figures, sped by; other ekkas, with curtains discreetly screening the traveling females, and drawn by ponies wearing blue bead necklaces, went on toward Kabul; and then came the tum-tum of a mission worker from Peshawar, who had essayed the task of reaching the Pathan heart, of subduing the wild Afridi villagers with Christian teaching. Some heroic-looking old men on spirited Kabul horses pranced by; a mounted Khyberi with pennoned lance made a picture as he cantered up;