The Tbrone of Solomon
compass receives, whose round face, placid and reliable, is
that of a friend.
While I wrote in my notebook, 'Aziz and the Refuge of
Allah buried the aluminium water-bottle to the neck in lighted
tussocks of thorn and boiled tea. And then I took a last look
over the landscape: the Assassins' valley westward to its
vaporous defile where, only ten days ago, I toiled up doubtful
of living; Balarud on its ledge, like a toy far below; and,
hiding the Rock of Alamut, Haudegan with a clean edge
against the sky. I wondered if I should ever see them again,
and did not much care: for were they not mine for ever? And
then I ran down the northern slopes with 'Aziz behind me,
among little springs of, water^lavender-like Nepeta, campanu-
las, an aromatic sage-like plant they call generically Benj, and
flowerless plants of iris. I pulled one up for its roots.
" Why do you want that?" said 'Aziz, who was a snob in
flowers. " It is not a narcissus."
And I discovered the name of the iris, which they call Sirish.
Still three hours down our old route to Maran, along a
narrow valley walled by the Salambar, green on its northern
side. Steep fields appeared with cocks of hay made black by
constant mists. The river rolled below us in a bed made by
its own millenniums of effort; it dug itself a canyon, and wound
like a worm in its earth hole. As we crossed high over this
abyss by a tributary waterfall, I found Grass of Parnassus,
another Alpine friend. The flowers here were different from
those of the southern slope, and less Alpine; scabious white and
blue, wormwood, vetches, and white and yellow marguerites.
At Maran the pastoral upper valleys end, and thickets with
hawthorn and roses begin die Caspian jungle. The Seh Hizar
flows down between wooded mountains where I had followed
to the sea the year before. With the afternoon sun against us,
the flat roofs and poplar trees round the village were lit by a
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