not content with sucking his blood, but settling on the small segment of my calf, exposed between the big Tartar boot and the flowing trowsers, bit through my stockings with fierce bills.  I killed hundreds of them, to no purpose, and at last, to relieve my horse, tied a bunch of hawthorn to a string, by which I swung it under his belly and against the inner side of his flanks.  In this way I gave him some relief—­a service which he acknowledged by a grateful motion of his head.

As we descended towards Ak-Sheher the country became exceedingly rich and luxuriant.  The range of Sultan Dagh (the Mountain of the Sultan) rose on our left, its sides covered with a thick screen of shrubbery, and its highest peak dotted with patches of snow; opposite, the lower range of Emir Dagh (the Mountain of the Prince) lay blue and bare in the sun shine.  The base of Sultan Dagh was girdled with groves of fruit-trees, stretching out in long lines on the plain, with fields of ripening wheat between.  In the distance the large lake of Ak-Sheher glittered in the sun.  Towards the north-west, the plain stretched away for fifty miles before reaching the hills.  It is evidently on a much lower level than the plain of Konia; the heat was not only greater, but the season was further advanced.  Wheat was nearly ready for cutting, and the poppy-fields where, the day previous, the men were making their first incisions for opium, here had yielded their harvest and were fast ripening their seed.  Ak-Sheher is beautifully situated at the entrance of a deep gorge in the mountains.  It is so buried in its embowered gardens that little, except the mosque, is seen as you approach it.  It is a large place, and boasts a fine mosque, but contains nothing worth seeing.  The bazaar, after that of Konia, was the largest we had seen since leaving Tarsus.  The greater part of the shopkeepers lay at full length, dozing, sleeping, or staying their appetites till the sunset gun.  We found some superb cherries, and plenty of snow, which is brought down from the mountain.  The natives were very friendly and good-humored, but seemed surprised at Mr. Harrison tasting the cherries, although I told them we were upon a journey.  Our tent was pitched under a splendid walnut tree, outside of the town.  The green mountain rose between us and the fading sunset, and the yellow moon was hanging in the east, as we took our dinner at the tent-door.  Turks were riding homewards on donkeys, with loads of grass which they had been cutting in the meadows.  The gun was fired, and the shouts of the children announced the close of the day’s fast, while the sweet, melancholy voice of a boy muezzin called us to sunset prayer, from the minaret.