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Gardens, forts, towers, other temples and palaces dwindled in interest by comparison with the bazaars and street crowds of Amritsar, and hours went by rapidly as we followed the narrow streets of this truly Persian and Central Asian city. In the caravansary by the city walls we saw such delightfully tattered and patched and lusty beggars from Yarkand and Bokhara as no fancy could picture. They are last in the train of pilgrims that come down from the north each winter, taking train at Amritsar and excursion steamer at Bombay for the pilgrimage to Mecca. These plump, red-cheeked, Tatar-faced beggars beat time on a triangle and sang an appealing verse or two, accompanying it with dramatic and graceful gestures; and they wished us long life, health, and wealth in return for our infidel annas. Other Yarkand men came out from the arches of the quadrangle, some blue-eyed and with faces absurdly Teutonic, their originally white skins tinged with sunburn and dirt until, like the Sikhs, they were a dark leather or ginger color. Some were horse-dealers, others had brought wool, silk, jade, turquoises, and agate for sale. All wore long, fur-bordered, wool or wadded coats, with real sleeves and seams in them, instead of the loose ends of cotton and pashmina cloth of the people of the Indian plains. One man in an old Russian military coat and top-boots looked the veritable stage secret-service man, and then we remembered that in this caravansary Kim slept and listened. But how we reveled in the streets and bazaars beyond! The quarter of the shoemakers, where gaudy Mo-