A Fortnight in N.W. Luristan
knew both Hajji and Keram well enough to realize that neither
of them was comfortable. Keram was smoking opium
again in a pensive way, but he leaped up very suddenly when
someone put a hand on his back; he sat down in a different
place and began to say something at great length in a quiet
voice like a speech in Parliament. The Ittivends listened
with their eyes on the ground: they looked peculiarly un-
attractive, I thought; the red-bearded uncle also sat with his
eyes on the ground, plucking at his henna'd hairs; he gave
Keram a bad, little, cunning glance now and then. An old
woman came to sit beside me: she looked out over the
valley with sad, tired eyes; she had a beautiful old profile:
her son was in prison in Khurramabad and she was waiting
to hear whether he was to be executed or no; continual
violence, continual bloodshed—no wonder the old look
tired and sad. Presently the man who had put his hand
on Keram's back got up and strode away. Keram returned
in a nonchalant manner to his opium. The Ittivends
continued to sit in their depressing silence. But the feeling
of tension was somehow removed. A remark was made
here and there. The red-bearded uncle came up to me
and began to cross-examine me on the interesting but in-
explicable problem of why I was not married: and by the time
supper was ready, we were far more friendly than we had been
through the course of the day.
I heard next morning what the trouble had been. The man
sitting next to Keram had once had a brother who had tried to
shoot Keram on a mountain pass, and killed his horse: Keram,
however, had got a shot in in time and killed the Ittivend.
When he felt the brother's hand on his back, he thought he
was going to be knifed, and leaped up as fast as he could.
He then explained to his hosts that he did not like to dine
with a man by whom he expected to be murdered, and would
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