One of the Kurds possessed a mule. This animal, besides his master's personal effects, carried the post-bag from Khoi to Van. The Kurd led his mule for some time, but at length, tiring of this, he turned the animal loose, and drove him before our party, in company with the oxen and calves belonging to the other traders. We had nearly reached Moullah Hassan; the mule had outstripped the rest of the caravan, I was riding behind him. The road suddenly dipped. There was a declivity in front of us. I lost sight of the animal. He had disappeared.
It was becoming dark. I pulled up my horse for a moment—it was lucky that I did so, for in another moment we should have been in a river—the dip being neither more nor less than the bed of the stream, which was covered over with a thin film of ice and two or three feet of snow. In another second the mule's head appeared above the surface. His frantic struggles showed that he was endeavouring to gain a foothold.
The proprietor of the animal came up.
"My new yellow trousers!" was his first remark. A fearful oath then resounded from his lips.
He had bought some clothes at Khoi. They were in his saddle-bags and on the mule—the letter-bag being evidently considered by the muleteer as something quite secondary to his personal attire. He tried to reach the animal, but the ice, breaking, let him into the water. In the meantime the exertions of the mule had loosened his surcingle, presently it gave way; saddle, and letters, in addition to the wardrobe of the Kurd, slipped off the animal's back. They sank to the bottom of the river.
Our guide, turning to the right, proposed that we should ride up the stream, and try and find a place where the ice would bear. This was done. About half an hour afterwards we found ourselves beneath the roof of a Kurdish farmer—the chief proprietor in the village of Moullah Hassan.
There were several Nestorian villages in the neighbourhood; however, the inhabitants of these hamlets possess the reputation of being dirtier than the Kurds, so the traveller who is wise will invariably elect to pass the night with the mountaineers.
The Kurd whose mule had fallen into the water entered the room. In one hand he bore something which was dripping wet. He salaamed, and then began to wring out the article he was carrying; the trousers were exposed to view. Once of a yellow colour, they were now a dull brown. The Kurd, stretching them out on the floor, gazed in a melancholy manner upon the soiled vestments.
"A horse and two sheep," he remarked with a sob; "Effendi, have pity upon me!"
"What does he want?" I inquired of Mohammed.