Onward we march. Our horses struggle through the drifts. Every minute we have to stop to let them take breath. At last the road begins to descend; now abruptly for a few hundred yards, we slide down some glaciers; then it dips over a succession of crests, each one lower than its predecessor. We reach the regions of vegetation, and, continuing for some time our descent, find that winter has been left behind us.
There were many villages in this district, fruit-trees abounded throughout the neighbourhood. No more snow could be seen. The weather was oppressively warm. The Tschoroch river dashed along at our feet on its way to Batoum. Mohammed, pointing at the rapid stream, said something to my English servant.
"What is he saying?" I inquired.
"He don't like the idea of going in a boat, sir," replied Radford. "He is afraid that he will be drowned."
"Do you know how to swim, Mohammed?" I inquired.
"No, Effendi. Cannot we continue our journey by road to Batoum?" he added. "The road is safe, but the water is dangerous."
"Mohammed, it may be written in your kismet that you are to be drowned."
"Perhaps, Effendi. But—"
"But what?"