saved. Fortunately, the Greek race is so sinewy
that the fever kills only little children; grown
people have fits of it in spring; they drive it
away with medicine, and then forget it until the
autumn.

When our travellers were about to move,
Antonio wished eagerly to accompany them, as
much, perhaps, for the pleasure of travelling, as
for the profit to be gained by it. The Greeks
are of a restless disposition; nothing they like
better than change of place. Antonio begged
one gentleman to take him to France. "You
need not pay me," he said. "I will be your
domestic; I will take care of your horse, and
every day I will cook your breakfast, beside
some fountain, under a tree." Under a tree, O
Nature! Try to explain to these people Paris
life, and the theory of the restaurant à la carte.

On the other hand, Antonio was thoroughly
acquainted with Greek society and the customs
of his own country. As a man should do,
whose destiny it is to travel, he made friends
everywhere. If he went through a village where
a child was just born, he offered his services as
godfather; the peasant was only too happy to
place his baby under the protection of a
personage covered with gold, who dwelt in the
capital, and travelled with foreign lords.
Antonio held the child at the baptismal font,
swore never to forget it, and kept his promise.
Every time he revisited that village, he lodged
at his gossip's house, and, had he ten foreign
lords in his company, he would have installed
them in his gossip's lodging, have burnt his
gossip's wood and oil, and done the honours of
the mansion as if at home, without paying a
farthing. Antonio had strewn so many
godchildren over the country, that he could
generally provide for his travellers gratis.

In Greece the traveller is better without arms
than with them. M. About's friends dissuaded
him from carrying even a gun, "What use
will it be to you?" they asked. "To go a
shooting? You won't have the time. After
you have been ten hours per day on horseback,
your thoughts will be directed to your supper
and your bed. If your intention is to arm
yourself against the brigands, you will commit a
double mistake. In the first place, you will not
meet with any. If an ill-looking fellow stops
you at the turn of a road, it will be a gendarme,
wanting to know what o'clock it is, and
requesting a handful of tobacco. But suppose
you happen to fall in with brigands, your gun
will only serve to make them put you to death.
The brigands of Greece are not theatrical heroes
who love danger, and stake their lives on a chance,
but highway speculators, who prudently set
themselves ten against one, and never undertake a job
unless they are certain of success. You will not
be aware of their approach until you see thirty
barrels taking aim at you. Under such
circumstances all you can do is to dismount, and
scrupulously deliver everything you have about you.
Don't run the risk of having to deliver your gun."

The reasoning was conclusive. The only
precaution taken was to request the minister of
war for an order placing at the disposal of the
party all the gendarmes of whom they might
stand in need.

At five in the morning of the first of May,
their horses and men were at Ihe door.
However unpretending a traveller you may be, you
must have, in Greece, whether you will or no,
your men and your horses, and you must travel
as ostentatiously as Messieurs de Lamartine and
de Chateaubriand. How are you to go on foot
with the thermometer at 90 degrees of Fahrenheit;
to traverse rivers and torrents; and carry
your bed and your kitchen utensils? The three
travellers had, besides their own steeds, a couple
of baggage-horses. The proprietors of the five
animals accompanied them, according to custom,
to feed and groom them, and attend to the
wants of themselves and their riders.

These poor agoyates, or guides, have a hard
life of it. They sometimes journey for fifty days
by the side of mounted travellers. They are the
first to rise, to look after their horses; they lie
down to rest after other people are fast asleep.
They often keep watch over their charge all
night long, when they are traversing a suspicious
neighbourhood. They live at their own expense,
themselves and their horses; they sleep in a
cloak in the open air; they are exposed to the
sun and the rain, to the cold of the mountains
and the heat of the plains; and after all this
fatigue, "their lords," as they call them, give
them just what they think proper; for they can
claim nothing beyond the hire of their horses.
The agoyate travels on foot without tiring; he
goes through the water without getting wet,
and frequently he takes his meals without
eating. He provides for everything; he carries
about him nails, thread, needles—in short, a
complete haberdasher's and druggist's shop.
He shoots game, when you have a gun to lend
him; as you jog along, he gathers by the
wayside wild plants wherewith to season his
bread. On approaching your resting-place, he
plucks a fowl, as he trots by your side, without
seeming to be aware of what he is doing.
The agoyate has friends in every village,
acquaintances on every road. He knows by
heart the fords of the streams, the distance of
the villages, the good paths and the bad ones.
He never loses his way, rarely hesitates, and, to
make assurance doubly sure, he shouts to the
peasants whom he passes, "Brother, we are
going to such a place; is this the way?" The
term brother is still in universal usage, as in
the good old times of Christian charity,  although
it has lost somewhat of its force; for it is not
uncommon to hear say, "Brother, you are a
scoundrel! Brother, I will give you what you
won't like!"

The agoyate's horses, which are let out for
three shillings and ninepence per day, and are
paid the half of that during a halt, are very
ugly animals, and more obstinate than all
the mules of Andalusia; but unwearied under
fatigue, patient, sober, intelligent, and capable
of walking on needles' points, or climbing up