OVER THE GREAT CHAIN 243 



fertile, yielding rich harvests. Here and there it is 

 frank, undisguised desert, where apologetic thorn 

 bushes struggle for life amid a sandy stone-strewn 

 surface. 



Steppe country is always treeless, and yet, for 

 all that, it may be very, very beautiful. H you 

 admire that wild waste of land lying near Penrith, 

 that low rolhng country, curving to the foot of the 

 Fells, green patched with brown, grass tufts and sandy 

 ways, the vast silent steppes would appeal to you. 



The jolting of our miserable vehicle bereft us of 

 powers of speech, and we could do nothing but cling 

 to the sides like shipwrecked mariners storm-tossed 

 in a coracle. A rain of dislodged hairpins rattled 

 about us. 



To the horizon line the burnt-up expanse was purpled 

 by a low-growing diminutive plant with feathery stems 

 covered with blooms, a statice of sorts. The lumpy 

 hillocks were no bar to us. Over them we sped, 

 crushing the blossoms ruthlessly in our headlong 

 flight. 



At intervals of a few miles we noticed the flat 

 roosting-places from which the Cossack sentries are 

 supposed to keep a look-out over the face of the country 

 for untoward happenings. These eyries, built to a height 

 of some twenty feet, are reached by ladders, but we 

 only saw one man at his post, or near it. He lay at the 

 foot of the ladder, fast asleep. 



Crossing the Kuma River — I do think it is such a 

 mistake to have so many similar names as they have 

 in the Caucasus, and betrays, too, such a lack of 



