— here secret altars remain to them from the times that are departed!
Out of these woods, we passed into a lonely plain, inclosed by piny hills that brightened in the thin, pure ether. In the distance were some shepherds' tents, and musical goat-bells tinkled along the edges of the woods. From the crest of a lofty ridge beyond this plain, we looked back over the wild solitudes wherein we had been travelling for two days — long ranges of dark hills, fading away behind each other, with a perspective that hinted of the hidden gulfs between. From the western slope, a still more extensive prospect opened before us. Over ridges covered with forests of oak and pine, we saw the valley of the Pursek, the ancient Thymbrius, stretching far away to the misty line of Keshish Dagh. The mountains behind Kiutahya loomed up high and grand, making a fine feature in the middle distance. We caught but fleeting glimpses of the view through the trees; and then, plunging into the forest again, descended to a cultivated slope, whereon there was a little village, now deserted. The grave-yard beside it was shaded with large cedar-trees, and near it there was a fountain of excellent water. “Here,” said the old man, “you can wash and pray, and then rest awhile under the trees.” Francois excused us by saying that, while on a journey, we always bathed before praying; but, not to slight his faith entirely, I washed my bands and face before sitting down to our scanty breakfast of bread and water.
Our path now led down through long, winding glens, overgrown with oaks, from which the wild yellow honeysuckles fell in a shower of blossoms. As we drew near the valley, the old man began to hint that his presence had been of great service
