Even the better dressed were hung with garments in rags, tattered, and dirty as a Paisley ragpicker's.

The children were mostly stark-naked.

In the middle of the day we reached a Mohammedan village named Taouen, twenty miles from Chaotong, and my man prepared me an _al fresco_ lunch.

The entire village gathered into the square to see me eat; they struggled for the orange peel I threw under the table.
From here the road rises quickly to the village of Tashuitsing (7380 feet above sea level), where my men wished to remain, and apparently came to an understanding with the innkeeper; but I would not understand and went on alone, and they perforce had to follow me.

There are only half-a-dozen rude inns in the village, all Mohammedan; but just outside the village the road passes under a magnificent triple archway in four tiers made of beautifully cut stone, embossed with flowers and images, and richly gilt--a striking monument in so forlorn a situation.