Ephrinell seems to be asleep, and that stops my knowing what it is that
Strong, Bulbul & Co., of New York, manufacture by the million.

The train has started. We have left Elisabethpol behind. What have I
seen of this charming town of twenty thousand inhabitants, built on the
Gandja-tchaï, a tributary of the Koura, which I had specially worked up
before my arrival? Nothing of its brick houses hidden under verdure,
nothing of its curious ruins, nothing of its superb mosque built at the
beginning of the eighteenth century. Of its admirable plane trees, so
sought after by crows and blackbirds, and which maintain a supportable
temperature during the excessive heats of summer, I had scarcely seen
the higher branches with the moon shining on them. And on the banks of
the stream which bears its silvery murmuring waters along the principal
street, I had only seen a few houses in little gardens, like small
crenelated fortresses. All that remained in my memory would be an
indecisive outline, seized in flight from between the steam puffs of
our engine. And why are these houses always in a state of defence?
Because Elisabethpol is a fortified town exposed to the frequent
attacks of the Lesghians of Chirvan, and these mountaineers, according
to the best-informed historians, are directly descended from Attila's
hordes.

It was nearly midnight. Weariness invited me to sleep, and yet, like a
good reporter, I must sleep with one eye and one ear open.

I fall into that sort of slumber provoked by the regular trepidations
of a train on the road, mingled with ear-splitting whistles and the
grind of the brakes as the speed is slowed, and tumultuous roars as
passing trains are met with, besides the names of the stations shouted