CHAPTER XLVI. 
THE CRISIS COMES 
[' seven o’clock that evening the death-bells rang 
for the last time. In order to husband my strength, 
I rode the white camel, it being' the freshest. Islam Bai, 
who had squandered his strength over the abominable 
draught he had swallowed, led the caravan at a miserably 
slow pace. Kasim followed in the rear, and kept urging 
the camels on. Thus we crawled away from the Camp 
of Death, steering east, ever east to where the Khotan- 
daria rolled on through its fresh green woods. 
As we left the unhallowed spot, Yollchi crept inside 
the tent, and took possession of my bed, still gnawing 
away at the sheep’s lungs, greedily — voraciously draining 
them of every drop of moisture. Old Mohammed Shah 
still lay in the same place where he fell. Before we left, 
I went to him, called him by his name, and placed my 
hand on his forehead. He glared at me, his eyes a.shy- 
grey and wide open, and with a confused look in them ; 
but an expression of unshaken calmness, of quiet rapture 
spread over his face, as though he expected the next 
moment to enter the pleasure-gardens of Paradise, and 
partake of its innumerable joys. Possibly for several 
days past he had seen floating before his da^ed vision 
glimpses of Bihesht, about whose voluptuous delights he 
had read so many times in the Koran ; and no doubt 
the thought of the joys to come comforted his spirit in 
the bitter agonies of shaking itself free from his body. 
No doubt he imagined his heavy life’s work was done, 
and he had lain down to rest, and would never more 
toil and drudge in attending upon camels, never more 
wear out his old age in tramping with caravans from 
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