Mine host, taking a candle, then led me to my bedroom, a small carpeted apartment, with a German bed; the coverlet was of green satin, quilted, and the sheets were clean and fragrant; and I observed, that they were striped with an alternate fine and coarse woof.

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 2:  The capital of Bosnia, a large and beautiful city, which is often called the Damascus of the North.]

[Footnote 3:  In this part of Turkey in Europe robbers, as well as rebels, are called Haiducks:  like the caterans of the Highlands of Scotland, they were merely held to be persons at war with the authority:  and in the Servian revolution, patriots, rebels, and robbers, were confounded in the common term of Haiducks.]

CHAPTER XI.

Kaimak.—­History of a Renegade.—­A Bishop’s house.—­Progress of Education.—­Portrait of Milosh.—­Bosnia and the Bosniacs.—­Moslem Fanaticism.—­Death of the Collector.

The fatigues of travelling procured me a sound sleep.  I rose refreshed, and proceeded into the divan.  The hostess then came forward, and before I could perceive, or prevent her object, she kissed my hand.  “Kako se spavali; Dobro?”—­“How have you slept?  I hope you are refreshed,” and other kindly inquiries followed on, while she took from the hand of an attendant a silver salver, on which was a glass of slivovitsa, a plate of rose marmalade, and a large Bohemian cut crystal globular goblet of water, the contents of which, along with a chibouque, were the prelude to breakfast, which consisted of coffee and toast, and instead of milk we had rich boiled kaimak, as Turkish clotted cream is called.

I have always been surprised to find that this undoubted luxury, which is to be found in every town in Turkey, should be unknown throughout the greater part of Europe.  After comfortably smoking another chibouque, and chatting about Shabatz and the Shabatzians, the collector informed me that the time was come for returning the visit of the Natchalnik, and paying that of the Bishop.

The Natchalnik received us in the Konak of Gospody Iefrem, the brother of Milosh, and our interview was in no respect different from a usual Turkish visit.  We then descended to the street; the sun an hour before its meridian shone brightly, but the centre of the broad street was very muddy, from the late rain; so we picked our steps with some care, until we arrived in the vicinity of the bridge, when I perceived the eunuch-looking coffee-keeper navigating the slough, accompanied by a Mussulman in a red checked shawl turban.—­“Here is a man that wishes to make your acquaintance,” said Eunuch-face.—­“I heard you were paying visits yesterday in the Turkish quarter,” said the strange figure, saluting me.  I returned the salute, and addressed him in Arabic; he answered in a strong Egyptian accent.  However, as the depth of the surrounding mud, and the glare of the sun, rendered a further colloquy somewhat inconvenient, we postponed our meeting until the evening.  On our way to the Bishop, I asked the collector what that man was doing there.