THE STEPPE IN SPRING. 171 



the Russian slain. All is now perfect peace. The 

 Turkoman of to - day examines the mouldering mud 

 walls curiously, and saunters through the museum, a 

 small building of white stone containing Turkoman 

 arms, pictures of the onslaught, and portraits of the 

 leading men concerned, erected between the ramparts 

 and the station. The train is an odd accessory and 

 seems out of place, but it is an unmistakable sign of 

 the times. 



Close upon Geok Teppe comes Ashkabad, the capital 

 of Transcaspia. From here there is a highroad to 

 Meshed. I have seen it somewhere described as 

 good, — in a Foreign Office report I think, — and so it 

 is as far as the frontier. Let the man who would 

 eulogise the Persian section travel over it. I have, 

 and the memory lives ! There is another fallacy about 

 Ashkabad and the Persian frontier, that they are con- 

 nected by rail. ■ I was myself under this delusion not 

 so very long ago, having been informed of the fact by 

 an eyewitness ! There is no branch line from Ashkabad 

 or any other point on the railway until the famous 

 Murofab is reached. 



After Ashkabad, quiet for a space ; one requires it 

 after the sensation of Geok Teppe. Looking out of the 

 window the mountains still run parallel on the south, 

 the lower slopes covered with grass, the higher peaks 

 patched with snow. Everywhere else a vast sea of 

 waving grass, scarlet poppies, and other flowers. This 

 is the steppe in spring, and is but a transient phase of 

 the wild limitless plain. A little later the riotous 

 verdure will be gone and the land will revert to its 

 usual state, a parched white wilderness. That is in- 

 evitable in a land where the sun beats for six months 

 from an unflecked sky. 



As you steam steadily on, your mind ponders on 



