The Manna-Seller Was Evidently Irritated, And Intimated, In Dumb Show,
That I Must Leave The Caravanserai At Once, As He Was Shutting Up For
The Night.
I bought a pound or so of the sweetmeat to pacify him,
and, if possible, glean some information about the fair one, but my
advances were of no avail.
The history of Kashan is closely allied to that of Ispahan. The
former city was founded by Sultana Zobeide, wife of the celebrated
Haroun-al-Raschid. Ransacked and destroyed by the Afghans in the
eighteenth century, it was again restored, or rather rebuilt, by Haji
Husein Khan. Perhaps the most interesting thing the city contains is
a leaning minaret which dates from the thirteenth century. It is
ascended by a rickety spiral staircase. From here, not so many years
ago, it was the custom to execute adulterous wives. The husband,
accompanied by his relations, forced his unfaithful spouse to the top
of the tower and pushed her over the side (there is no balustrade),
to be dashed to pieces on stone flags about a hundred and thirty feet
below.
"Pas de chance, monsieur," was Gerome's greeting as I entered the
caravanserai. "The Koudoum Pass is blocked with snow, and almost
impassable. What is to be done?" Mature deliberation brought but one
solution to the question: Start in the morning, and risk it. "It
cannot be worse than the Kharzan, anyhow," said Gerome, cheerfully, as
we rode out of Kashan next day, past the moated mud walls, forty feet
high, that at one time made this city almost impregnable.
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