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Bábar, I have said, tired of his wandering life, had resolved to march on Khorásán. He crossed the Oxus, therefore, and joined by Bákí, the son of Sultán Khusrou, ruler of the country, marched on Ajer, remained there a few days; then, hearing that the Mughals in Khusrou's service had revolted, he marched towards Talikán, so as to be able to take advantage of the situation.
The natives learned at daylight that we were to leave them in a few hours, so in order to make the most of their last opportunity of getting bisiker and choka, they hauled a large canoe across the dry sands after much trouble, and under the direction of Baki, who affected great grief at the prospect of parting with us, went off to the ship.
But it was rhythmic, and at intervals the edge of a tune could be discerned, cutting sharply through the dense cloud of vibrations, like the prow of a boat cleaving the fog. Baki, his face red and swollen by his exertions, moved to the spot where waited the girl. "Ai, Debora!" cried a boy, "here's the old man. Pass the plate, pass the plate!"
Baki regarded his wretched orchestra on the grass, then spoke to his daughter. "Debora," he said in English, and his listener wondered if it were Celtic or Scotch in its unusual intonations, "Debora, you must sing something for the gentleman. He loves our art," there was indescribable pathos in this phrase, "so sing something from Purcell, Brahms, or Richard Strauss."
Encouraged by the arrival in the morning of a reinforcement from Omdurman of 1,000 Black Jehadia and 500 spearmen under Abdel Baki, the Dervish gunners stood to their guns and the riflemen to their trenches, and, although suffering severely, maintained a formidable fire. The gunboats continued to advance, beating up slowly against the strong current.
"Baki, Baki, the human orchestra!" cried one gossip to another. And the reverberating music swelled, multifarious and amazing as if a military band from piccolo to drum were about to descend the highway. A clatter and bang, a sweet droning and shrill scraping, and then an old man proudly limped through the gateway of the Great Clock.
I had a travelling companion, a young Tatar, Baki Khanoff, about £30 in my pocket, two changes of clothes and underclothing, a warm coat, and a rug all, except what I wore, packed in a Tatar bag. In a small leather bag suspended by a strap from the shoulder I kept a revolver, a sketch-book, a note-book, and two maps of Persia. Baki Khanoff had a large cloak, a silver-mounted gun, and a dagger.
He pointed to the W.N.W. as the direction in which the settlement lay. We travelled about five miles over stony ironstone ridges, with extensive groves of Livistona palm covering their slopes. Here Baki Baki desired to dismount; and, telling us that it was a very good road to Balanda, took his leave and returned.
For twenty-four hours he had not ceased thinking of the girl with the tambourine, of her savage, sullen grace, her magnificent poise and strange glance. He had learned at his hotel that she was called "Debora la folle," and that she was the daughter of the still crazier Baki. Was she some sort of a gypsy, or a Continental version of Salvation Army lass? No one knew. Each year, at the beginning of autumn, the pair wandered into Rouen, remained a few weeks, and disappeared. Where? Paris, perhaps, or Italy or l
When I continued my journey southwards I had to travel alone, for Baki Khanoff had caught fever and had to turn back to Baku. Our journey to Teheran had been very expensive, but my good countryman replenished my purse, so that I had again about £30 sewed up in my waistbelt when I started off once more on April 27.
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