EN ROUTE FOR DAGHESTAN. 247 



of trees, and here and there a brook. The sun 

 was bright in the heavens, the hoar frost sparkled 

 on the ground, while every breath of the keen 

 morning breeze brought high spirits and a hunter's 

 appetite along with it. The country now became 

 hilly, even close by the post-road, and every now 

 and then we saw a covey of red-legged partridges 

 scudding up the bare hillsides at a terrible pace. 

 These birds seemed to have taken the place of the 

 sand-grouse now. A drive of twenty versts from 

 Adji Kabool brought us to Goktchai, and here my 

 post-cart was destined to stay its joltings and bid 

 its jangling bells be still for some little time. 



Goktchai is a large village, with one broad 

 main street, beginning at the Tiflis end in a bazaar, 

 passing halfway some barracks, where a few soldiers 

 are quartered, and ending in the ordinary Cauca- 

 sian village. On the way through the village 

 bazaar my eyes rested on a freshly slain tur, or 

 mountain sheep, as well as other game ; and the 

 sight of the noble head with its grand horns, com- 

 bined with a distant view of those peaks whence 

 it had so lately come, was too much for my powers 

 of resistance, and I determined then and there that 

 I too would at least try to kill a tur in the wild 

 mountains of Daghestan. 



At the post-station I heard the most glowing 

 accounts of the quantities of game to be met with 

 within two days' ride of the village ; but coupled 



