endi in the blue dress," said he, "is the Bey, is he
not?" "Yes," said F. "And the other, with the striped shirt and white
turban, is a writer?" [Here he was not far wrong.] "But how is it that the
effendis do not speak Turkish?" he persisted. "Because," said Francois,
"their fathers were exiled by Sultan Mahmoud when they were small
children. They have grown up in Aleppo like Arabs, and have not yet
learned Turkish; but God grant that the Sultan may not turn his face away
from them, and that they may regain the rank their fathers once had in
Stamboul." "God grant it!" replied the Khowagee, greatly interested in the
story. By this time we had eaten our full share of the kaimak, which was
finished by Francois and the katurgees. The old man now came up, mounted
on a dun mare, stating that he was bound for Kiutahya, and was delighted
with the prospect of travelling in such good company, I gave one of his
young children some money, as the kaimak was tendered out of pure
hospitality, and so we rode off.

Our new companion was armed to the teeth, having a long gun with a heavy
wooden stock and nondescript lock, and a sword of excellent metal. It was,
in fact, a weapon of the old Greek empire, and the cross was still
enamelled in gold at the root of the blade, in spite of all his efforts to
scratch it out. He was something of a _fakeer_, having made a pilgrimage
to Mecca and Jerusalem. He was very inquisitive, plying Francois with
questions about the government. The latter answered that we were not
connected with the government, but the old fellow shrewdly hinted that he
knew better--we were persons of rank, travelling incognito. He was very
attentive to us, offering us water at every fountain, although he believed
us to be good Mussulmans. We found him of some service as a guide,
shortening our road by taking by-paths through the woods.

For several hours we traversed a beautifully wooded region of hills.
Graceful clumps of pine shaded the grassy knolls, where the sheep and
silky-haired goats were basking at rest, and the air was filled with a
warm, summer smell, blown from the banks of golden broom. Now and then,
from the thickets of laurel and arbutus, a shrill shepherd's reed piped
some joyous woodland melody. Was it a Faun, astray among the hills? Green
dells, open to the sunshine, and beautiful as dreams of Arcady, divided
the groves of pine. The sky overhead was pure and cloudless, clasping the
landscape with its belt o