been lost, fortunately for you; but the port-
manteau itself and the rest of its contents have
remained intact, fortunately for me.

As I entered the Koishaur Valley the sun was
disappearing behind the snow-clad ridge of the
mountains. In order to accomplish the ascent
of Mount Koishaur by nightfall, my driver, an
Ossete, urged on the horses indefatigably, singing
zealously the while at the top of his voice.

What a glorious place that valley is! On every
hand are inaccessible mountains, steep, yellow
slopes scored by water-channels, and reddish
rocks draped with green ivy and crowned with
clusters of plane-trees. Yonder, at an immense
height, is the golden fringe of the snow. Down
below rolls the River Aragva, which, after bursting
noisily forth from the dark and misty depths of
the gorge, with an unnamed stream clasped in its
embrace, stretches out like a thread of silver, its
waters glistening like a snake with flashing
scales.

Arrived at the foot of Mount Koishaur, we
stopped at a dukhan.[1] About a score of Georgians
and mountaineers were gathered there in a noisy
crowd, and, close by, a caravan of camels had
halted for the night. I was obliged to hire oxen
to drag my cart up that accursed mountain, as