hastily concealed their faces. Mr. H. rode up to a large new house, and peeped in between the logs. There were several women inside, who started up in great confusion and threw over their heads whatever article was most convenient. An old man, with a long white beard, neatly dressed in a green jacket and shawl turban, came out and welcomed us. I asked for kaïmak, which he promised, and immediately brought out a carpet and spread it on the ground. Then followed a large basin of kaïmak, with wooden spoons, three loaves of bread, and a plate of cheese. We seated ourselves on the carpet, and delved in with the spoons, while the old man retired lest his appetite should be provoked. 'The milk was excellent, nor were the bread and cheese to be despised.
While we were eating, the Khowagee, or schoolmaster of the community, a genteel little man in a round white turban, came up to inquire of François who we were. "That effendi 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 François, “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 kaïmak, which was finished by François and the katurgees. The old man now came up, mounted on a dun mare, stating that he was bound for Kiutahya, and was
