“Lasar fell into a deep sleep, and at midnight he heard the stranger cry aloud, ’Arise, Lasar, for I am the Lord thy God; the hospitality of Bulgaria is untarnished.  Thy son Janko is restored to life, and thy stores are filled.’

“Long lived the rich Lasar, the fair Luibitza, and the curly-haired Janko.”

Milutinovich, in his address to the youthful surgeon, compares his transcendent generosity to the sacrifice made by Lasar in the wild and distasteful legend I have here given.

I introduced the poet and the traveller to each other, and explained their respective merits and peculiarities.  Poor old Milutinovich, who looked on his own journey to Montenegro as a memorable feat, was awe-struck when I mentioned the innumerable countries in the four quarters of the world which had been visited by the blind traveller.  He immediately recollected of having read an account of him in the Augsburg Gazette, and with a reverential simplicity begged me to convey to him his desire to kiss, his beard.  Holman consented with a smile, and Milutinovich, advancing as if he were about to worship a deity, lifted the peak of white hairs from the beard of the aged stranger, pressed them to his lips, and prayed aloud that he might return to his home in safety.

In old Europe, Milutinovich would have been called an actor; but his deportment, if it had the originality, had also the childish simplicity of nature.

When the hour of departure arrived, I descended to the court yard, which would have furnished good materials for a tableau de genre, a lofty, well built, German-looking house, rising on three sides, surrounded a most rudely paved court, which was inclosed on the fourth by a stable and hay-loft, not one-third the height of the rest.  Various mustachioed far niente looking figures, wrapped cap-a-pie in dressing gowns, lolled out of the first floor corridor, and smoked their chibouques with unusual activity, while the ground floor was occupied by German washer-women and their soap-suds; three of the arcades being festooned with shirts and drawers hung up to dry, and stockings, with apertures at the toes and heels for the free circulation of the air.  Loud exclamations, and the sound of the click of balls, proceeded from the large archway, on which a cafe opened.  In the midst of the yard stood our horses, which, with their heavily padded and high cantelled Turkish saddles, somewhat a la Wouvermans, were held by Fonblanque’s robust Pandour in his crimson jacket and white fustanella.  My man Paul gave a smack of the whip, and off we cantered for the highlands and woodlands of Servia.

CHAPTER IX.

Journey to Shabatz.—­Resemblance of Manners to those of the Middle Ages.—­Palesh.—­A Servian Bride.—­Blind Minstrel.—­Gypsies.—­Macadamized Road.