t, I looked about me, and perceived that the cloister
was a gallery, with wooden beams supporting the roof, running round
three sides of the building, the basement being built in stone, at one
part of which a hollowed tree shoved in an aperture formed a spout for
a stream of clear cool water. The Igoumen, or superior, received us at
the foot of the wooden staircase which ascended to the gallery. He was
a sleek middle-aged man, with a new silk gown, and seemed out of his
wits with delight at my arrival in this secluded spot, and taking me
by the hand led me to a sort of seat of honour placed in a prominent
part of the gallery, which seemed to correspond with the _makaa_ of
Saracenic architecture.

No sooner had the Igoumen gone to superintend the arrangements of the
evening, than a shabbily dressed filthy priest, of such sinister
aspect, that, to use a common phrase, "his looks would have hanged
him," now came up, and in a fulsome eulogy welcomed me to the convent.
He related how he had been born in Syrmium, and had been thirteen
years in Bosnia; but I suspected that some screw was loose, and on
making inquiry found that he had been sent to this retired convent in
consequence of incorrigible drunkenness. The Igoumen now returned, and
gave the clerical Lumnacivagabundus such a look that he skulked off on
the instant.

After coffee, sweetmeats, &c., we passed through the yard, and
piercing the postern gate, unexpectedly came upon a most animated
scene. A green glade that ran up to the foot of the hill, was covered
with the preparations for the approaching festivities--wood was
splitting, fires lighting, fifty or sixty sheep were spitted, pyramids
of bread, dishes of all sorts and sizes, and jars of wine in wicker
baskets were mingled with throat-cut fowls, lying on the banks of the
stream aide by side with pigs at their last squeak.

Dinner was served in the refectory to about twenty individuals,
including the monks and our party. The Igoumen drank to the health of
the prince, and then of Wucics and Petronievitch, declaring that
thanks were due to God and those European powers who had brought about
their return. The shabby priest, with the gallows look, then sang a
song of his own composition, on their return. Not being able to
understand it, I asked my neighbour what he thought of the song.
"Why," said he, "the lay is worthy of the minstrel--doggrel and
dissonance." Some old national songs were sung, and I again asked