But there is no bar here; only a shelving
sandy beach, on which, even in rough weather, there is little
danger. Some good-sized boats came out to the _Kaspia_ with fish and
vegetables, and we at once resolved to land. Anything sooner than
return to Baku!
"There is no road from Astara," said Z - - , "and deep rivers to cross.
You will be robbed and murdered like the Italian who travelled this
way three years ago! He was the last European to do so."
Gerome remembers the incident. In fact, he says, the murdered man was
a friend of his, travelling to Teheran with a large sum of money.
Unable to land at Resht, and impatient to reach his destination, he
took the unfrequented route, was waylaid, robbed, tied to a tree, and
left to starve. "He was alone and unarmed, though," says my companion;
adding with a wink, "Let them try it on with us!"
Seeing remonstrance is useless, Z - - wishes us God-speed. The
good-natured Swede presses a box of Russian cigarettes into my hand
as I descend the ladder - a gift he can ill afford - and twenty minutes
later our boat glides safely and smoothly on Persian soil.
It was a lovely day, and the blue sky and sunshine, singing of birds,
and green of plain and forest, a pleasant relief to the eye and senses
after the cold and misery of the past two days.
