Bijelastjena is hardly more than half a day's
ride from this place."

We dismounted, and introduced our horses
into Ahmed Beg's Konak, or house, where we
found half-a-dozen men and women servants
and others, walking and sitting about. None
of them spoke to us. They neither welcomed
us, nor did they condescend to ask where we
came from, and on what business? At length
the urchin to whom we had spoken before
made his appearance, and told us to tie
the horses to a post, and take a seat in
Ahmed Beg's parlour. He led the way into
a dark apartment, lighted the fire on the
hearthstone, and a torch of firwood in the
centre of the room; and having performed
these domestic functions, he retired, silent as
a dumb-waiter."

We were now at leisure to examine the
place. The room was clean and airy. It
had an old discoloured piece of carpet by
way of hearth-rug, and a heap of clean straw
and blankets in a corner. A small cask of
exquisite tobacco, and a choice collection of
chibuks, or pipes, completed the list of the
rest of the furniture.

"This air of Bosnia," said I, "has Turkified
us. Here we sit staring and moping, and
why? We are not prisoners, surely, and if it
so pleases us, we can go back."

"I say, Swaba," said Staniza, "methinks
thou art afraid."

"Afraid!" cried Richard, to whom this
soft impeachment was applied, "what is there
to be afraid of?"

"Never mind, dragi (my dear), I know you.
You are bold-spoken, but—"

"The Swabçad is not a nation of cowards,"
said I to Staniza, "and my friend is less afraid
than disgusted. The Swabe travel with great
comfort, and—"

"I know all about it, Doctor. They have
coaches and plenty of money."

"Just so. Now we have no coaches and
no money." Staniza nodded. In another
moment Ahmed Beg entered with a hearty
Selamun aleikümün. His presence changed
the aspect of the place. Coffee was brought
in. We sat and smoked the most precious
tobacco, and drank solid hot mokka from the
smallest cups imaginable. While we smoked
and drank, we were grave, thoughtful, and
silent, in the true Oriental fashion.

At length I spoke. I informed Ahmed
Beg of our intentions, and asked him for
funds. He said neither yes nor no; but
told us of his journey to Bijelastjena, where
he had transacted some business with the
Kadija.

Early in the morning Ahmed Beg stepped
up to us, and, with a kind nod, he handed me
a large bag.

"Here," he said, "is your money. It's the
whole of a Kesa,* and here is a Teskera,† if
you should stand in need of it."
* Purse. † Passport.

I gave him my best thanks, and asked
when he would require me to return the
money.

"If it were mine own," replied Ahmed
Beg, "I would say, give it back when most
convenient. But I have just borrowed it
from my neighbour, Sefir-Aga, and he will
want it in autumn."

I held out my hand. He took it, and the
affair was concluded in the true Turkish
manner, without bond, or indeed a single
scratch of the pen.

We had breakfast, and a deal of information
and advice. Thus prepared for the journey,
we took leave of our host, and, with a large
crowd of little Turks yelling and shouting at
our heels, we proceeded in the direction of
Jasenica.

We passed over a forest-covered plain,
broken here and there by fine meadows and
fields of maize. Hares and rabbits crossed our
road; the bushes were alive. The air was so
pure, and the greenwood so fresh, melodious,
and merry, that, recollecting the nursery tales
of Turks and Pagans, and their doings, I could
not, for the life of me, believe that we were
really and truly on Turkish ground. Besides,
we saw no human biped who might have
recalled me to a sense of my situation. After
a hard ride of six hours, we crossed the
Irna, a small river, but full of falls and
rapids; on the opposite bank we dismounted,
and turned the horses away to graze in
the forest. A gigantic oak was selected as
the most convenient place for our bivouack,
and Staniza produced our provisions from
the gaudy-coloured Bisago. A capital caterer
he proved himself to be, this unchristened
Staniza. There was a ham, a lamb roasted
whole, a large cake, and a cutura filled
with black Dalmatian wine. A six hours'
ride over Turkish plains and through forests,
and the fresh, racy spring air, is the very
thing to prepare one for such a repast. We
enjoyed our pic-nic amazingly. We ate, and
joked, and drank, until, suddenly turning
round, I remarked a Turk squatted down at
my elbow. I stared at the new comer, who
scarcely returned the compliment. He smoked
his pipe with exemplary gravity; until,
noticing the remains of our dinner, he dropped
his chibuk, drew his knife, and coolly helped
himself to a slice of roast lamb.

"Do you like it, komiga?"— that is to say,
neighbour— said I.

"Your bread is good."

"Take another piece, then."

He took another piece, and another; and
having finished his repast, he said "Horala!"
— thanks!

There was a lengthened pause. Question
and answer is, indeed, essential in Turkish
conversational etiquette.

"Whither are you going?" said our new
friend, at length.

"To Jasenica."