2OO By Mountain, Lake, and Plain 



Along the hog's-back runs a bridle-track, made 

 by the patrols sent out from the Kurd outposts 

 to watch for Turkoman alamans, as their forays 

 are called. We espied one of these patrols one 

 morning as we were sitting having lunch, a black 

 speck in the distance. He came jauntily along, 

 his rifle balanced across his saddle-bow. Presently 

 we could hear snatches of the song with which he 

 beguiled his way. Then he disappeared in a hol- 

 low and we waited, expecting to see him emerge 

 close to us. Instead, however, a head surmounted 

 by a big black busby slowly raised itself with 

 levelled rifle from behind a rock, and a voice de- 

 manded our business. This was soon explained, 

 and after a few minutes' talk the moss-trooper 

 went gaily singing on his way. These people 

 seemed easily moved to song, and at night, before 

 we fell into the sleep of the weary, that was the 

 last thing we heard. Whether it was some wild 

 border ballad, such as one hears lilted by the 

 Pathans of the North -West, or merely a love 

 ditty, dealing with black eyes and tresses, good- 

 ness knows. Anyhow, its cadences, growing 

 fainter and louder as our sentry wandered amongst 

 the hills near our camp, has left a memory of 

 melody by no means unpleasing. 



Our luck as usual varied from day to day. 

 Game was most plentiful about midway between 



