AMANULLAH

guarding the road that was said to be, for the first time
in history, safe for every traveller. The soldiers could be
seen on the verandah, dead in sleep.

We stopped again in a big serai, redolent of camel
dung, where the driver bought melons and advised me to
try one. It was tasteless but cooling, and a vast im-
provement on the hot water now running short. It was
only afterwards that I heard that fruit in Afghanistan is
very liable to be infected with cholera. Other reports,
however, deny this, averring that there is less likelihood
of the disease than in the fruit of India. Then, in
the late afternoon, we climbed higher on the road to
Jallalabad.

The passengers were now singing. The chant had
begun with a low crooning from the big bearded fellow.
Now his friend had taken it up, and later the small boy.
It developed in volume, until the same monotonous song,
low and toneless, seeming to have unexpected endings
and cadences, was being roared over the peaceful valley.
I did not understand the words, for this was Pushtu, but
I was assured later that there is hardly an Afghan song
that does not refer either to obstetrics, love, or war. A
fine choice there is, therefore, and certainly the trio
seemed to enjoy it.

We dropped again from the hills in the dusk* and the
road took us through cornfields. It seemed to be a
particularly self-willed road by now, for it did not run
straight for more than fifty yards at a time, and every
bend was concealed by the long stalks of the crops. We
were running through the fields, the road being diverted,
I suppose, for the convenience of the farmers. But soon
after dusk the driver announced that we were in the
outskirts of Jallalabad.

The bazaar was strangely crowded. There were flaring
lights and the stalls were glamorous in the glare of

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