slow and weary way towards the summit of the pass, Imam Zadeh Hashim, but we had not marched for more than half an hour when, to our horror and disgust, we met our chavadar, who, having started in front of us, had turned back, declaring the route in the teeth of such a storm, to be quite impracticable. After some wrangling with this individual, who appeared to be even more obstinate than the ordinary run of Persian mule-owners, we left him to his own devices, warning him that if he did not turn up that night at our proposed halting-place — the village of Ar — he might apply in vain for his money. We then pushed on through the snowy mist, our gholam remarking that the chavadar's love of money would compel him to follow us, once he saw that we were fairly determined to continue our route. We passed several caravans of laden mules and donkeys, struggling in the deep snow, and every now and then came across a wretched beast which, having broken down in its struggles, had been left by its owner to perish in the snow, where, before long, it would become food for jackals and vultures. The descent from the
