my journey. Before the night closes in I go out on the platform of the
car to have a last look at the surrounding country. An hour with my
cigar will take me to Kizil Arvat, where the train has to stop for some
time. In going from the second to the first car I meet Major Noltitz. I
step aside to let him pass. He salutes me with that grace which
distinguishes well-bred Russians. I return his salute. Our meeting is
restricted to this exchange of politeness, but the first step is taken.

Popof is not just now in his seat. The door of the luggage van being
open, I conclude that the guard has gone to talk with the driver. On
the left of the van the mysterious box is in its place. It is only
half-past six as yet, and there is too much daylight for me to risk the
gratification of my curiosity.

The train advances through the open desert. This is the Kara Koum, the
Black Desert. It extends from Khiva over all Turkestan comprised
between the Persian frontier and the course of the Amou Daria. In
reality the sands of the Kara Koum are no more black than the waters of
the Black Sea or than those of the White Sea are white, those of the
Red Sea red, or those of the Yellow River yellow. But I like these
colored distinctions, however erroneous they may be. In landscapes the
eye is caught by colors. And is there not a good deal of landscape
about geography?

It appears that this desert was formerly occupied by a huge central
basin. It has dried up, as the Caspian will dry up, and this
evaporation is explained by the powerful concentration of the solar
rays on the surface of the territories between the Sea of Aral and the
Plateau of the Pamir.