The Hidden Treasure
Kuh came to an end: beyond it were isolated, less tidy hills,
spaced irregularly at varying distances: a little puddingy
range called Sardab Kuh ran alongside on our right, hiding
the long cliffs of Saiwan and Barazard behind them. It was
sunset. The lieutenant cantered on ahead and dismounted
to prostrate himself for the fourth prayer by the side of the
path, while the policeman held his horse. He then rejoined
me widi a certain swagger, an air of virtue devoid of humility.
" Prayer is good," he remarked. " We Moslems are bound
to pray."
" All people of the Book are taught to pray," I observed.
The lieutenant agreed as if he were making a concession.
Would I mind, he asked, travelling all night so as to reach
Husainabad next morning before it got hot? He felt so ill
that he could not face another day.
We had been riding eight hours already, and the horses
had only had a feed of chopped straw. I offered, however,
to set out at 2 a.m. or so, if a proper feed of oats could be
procured. Meanwhile, we were still far from any sign of
human habitation.
We turned northward across the Baliaqin towards the little
hills, and in the last glimmer of daylight passed a very sweet
spring of water called Chashmeh Qal'a Malik, the Spring of
die King's Casde, which ran between banks of green turf,
where our horses drank. Husein remained behind to fill my
water-bottle. We thought he had followed, but when
darkness had fallen completely, and we were already involved
in the short slopes and sudden corners of the Sardab range,
Shah Riza from the rear suddenly asked where Husein might
be. He was not in the party.
We waited and called. No answer came. The night was
now like velvet round us, with only the Milky Way above and
a dim streak of limestone track below showing vaguely.