Crossing A Ridge Of Rock, We Descend Upon A White Plain, Dim
And Indistinct In The Twilight.
The ground crackles under our horses'
feet.
It is frozen snow! A light shines out before us, however, and
by ten o'clock we are snug and safe for the night in the
telegraph-station of Deybid.
These sudden changes of temperature make the Persian climate very
trying. At this time of year, however balmy the air and bright the
sunshine at midday, one must always be prepared for a sudden and
extreme change after sunset. The Plain of Deybid was covered with snow
at least two feet deep, the temperature must have stood at very few
degrees above zero, and yet, not five hours before, we were perspiring
in our shirt-sleeves.
"Mashallah!" exclaims Gerome next morning, shading his eyes and
looking across the dazzling white expanse. "Are we, then, never to
finish with this accursed snow?" By midday, however, we are out of it,
and, as we subsequently discover, for the last time.
We had up till now been singularly fortunate as regards accidents, or
rather evil results from them. To-day, however, luck deserted us, for
a few miles out of Deybid my right leg became so swollen that I could
scarcely sit on my horse. The pain was acute, the sensation that of
having been bitten by some poisonous insect. Gerome, ever the Job's
comforter, suggested a centipede, adding, "If so, you will probably
have to lie up for four or five days." The look-out was not cheerful,
certainly, for at Mourghab, the first stage, I had to be lifted off my
horse and carried into the post-house.
With some difficulty my boot was cut off, and revealed the whole leg,
below the knee, discoloured and swollen to double its size, but no
sign of a wound or bite. "Blood-poisoning," says Gerome, decidedly. "I
have seen hundreds of cases in Central Asia. It generally proves fatal
there," he adds consolingly; "but the Russian soldier is so badly
fed." The little man seems rather disappointed at my diagnosis of my
case - the effect due to a new and tight boot which I had not been able
to change since leaving Ispahan. Notwithstanding, I cannot put foot to
ground without excruciating pain. Spreading the rugs out on the dirty
earthen floor, I make up my mind to twenty-four hours here at least.
It is, perhaps, the dirtiest post-house we have seen since leaving
Teheran; but moving under the present circumstances is out of the
question.
The long summer day wears slowly away. Gerome, like a true Russian,
hunts up a samovar in the village, and consoles himself with
innumerable glasses of tea and cigarettes, while the medicine-chest is
brought into requisition, and I bathe the swollen limb unceasingly for
three or four hours with Goulard's extract and water, surrounded by a
ring of admiring and very dirty natives. But my efforts are in vain,
for the following morning the pain is as severe, the leg as swollen as
ever.
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