orced them into a trot and made them keep it. The road was well
travelled, and by asking everybody we met: "_Bou yol Moudania yedermi_?"
("Is this the way to Moudania?"), we had no difficulty in finding it. The
plain in many places is marshy, and traversed by several streams. A low
range of hills stretches across, and nearly closes it, the united waters
finding their outlet by a narrow valley to the north. From the top of the
hill we had a grand view, looking back over the plain, with the long line
of Brousa's minarets glittering through the interminable groves at the
foot of the mountain Olympus now showed a superb outline; the clouds hung
about his shoulders, but his snowy head was bare. Before us lay a broad,
rich valley, extending in front to the mountains of Moudania. The country
was well cultivated, with large farming establishments here and there.

The sun was setting as we reached the summit ridge, where stood a little
guard-house. As we rode over the crest, Olympus disappeared, and the Sea
of Marmora lay before us, spreading out from the Gulf of Moudania, which
was deep and blue among the hills, to an open line against the sunset.
Beyond that misty line lay Europe, which I had not seen for nearly nine
months, and the gulf below me was the bound of my tent and saddle life.
But one hour more, old horse! Have patience with my Ethiopian thong, and
the sharp corners of my Turkish stirrups: but one hour more, and I promise
never to molest you again! Our path was downward, and I marvel that the
poor brute did not sometimes tumble headlong with me. He had been too long
used to the pack, however, and his habits were as settled as a Turk's. We
passed a beautiful village in a valley on the right, and came into olive
groves and vineyards, as the dusk was creeping on. It was a lovely country
of orchards and gardens, with fountains spouting by the wayside, and
country houses perched on the steeps. In another hour, we reached the
sea-shore. It was now nearly dark, but we could see the tower of Moudania
some distance to the west.

Still in a continual trot, we rode on; and as we drew near, Mr. H. fired
his gun to announce our approach. At the entrance of the town, we found
the sourrudjee waiting to conduct us. We clattered through the rough
streets for what seemed an endless length of time. The Ramazan gun had
just fired, the minarets were illuminated, and the coffee-houses were
filled with people. Finally, Francois, who had be