"You Have Some Beila Men With You, I See,"
Said The Khan's Adviser, Who Spoke English Perfectly.
"Don't let
his Highness see them." I could not, after such a speech, allow my
faithful escort to enter the city without warning.
But it had little
effect. "Let the dogs do what they like," was the reply. "We shall not
let the sahib go alone."
Tea and cigarettes discussed, a start was made for the palace. The
Wazir, on a wiry, good looking bay horse, and attended by half a dozen
mounted Afghans, led the way, and I followed on a pony borrowed of
the telegraph clerk. My costume was, if not becoming, at any rate
original: high boots, flannel trousers, and shirt, an evening
dress-coat, and astrakhan cap. Gerome's wardrobe being even less
presentable, I deemed it prudent to leave him behind. The Beila men
brought up the rear of the procession some distance from the Afghans,
who, to my anxiety, never ceased scoffing and jeering at them the
whole way. Every moment I expected to hear the crack of a pistol-shot,
followed by a general _melee_. Arrived at the Mastung Gate, we
dismounted, and, leaving our horses in charge of the guard, slowly
proceeded up the steep narrow streets to the citadel.
The entrance to Kelat is not imposing. There had been a good deal
of rain, and the streets of the lower part of the town were perfect
quagmires of mud nearly knee-deep. It was more like crawling into
a dark passage than entering a city.
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