Collector.  “His history is a singular one.  You yesterday saw a Turk, who was baptized, and then returned to Islamism.  This is a Servian, who turned Turk thirty years ago, and now wishes to be a Christian again.  He has passed most of that time in the distant parts of Turkey, and has children grown up and settled there.  He has come to me secretly, and declares his desire to be a Christian again; but he is afraid the Turks will kill him.”

Author.  “Has he been long here?”

Collector.  “Two months.  He went first into the Turkish town; and having incurred their suspicions, he left them, and has now taken up his quarters in the khan, with a couple of horses and a servant.”

Author.  “What does he do?”

Collector.  “He pretends to be a doctor, and cures the people; but he generally exacts a considerable sum before prescribing, and he has had disputes with people who say that they are not healed so quickly as they expect.”

Author.  “Do you think he is sincere in wishing to be a Christian again?”

Collector.  “God knows.  What can one think of a man who has changed his religion, but that no dependence can be placed on him?  The Turks are shy of him.”

We had now arrived at the house of the Bishop, and were shown into a well-carpeted room, in the old Turkish style, with the roof gilded and painted in dark colours, and an un-artistlike panorama of Constantinople running round the cornice.  I seated myself on an old-fashioned, wide, comfortable divan, with richly embroidered, but somewhat faded cushions, and, throwing off my shoes, tucked my legs comfortably under me.

“This house,” said the collector, “is a relic of old Shabatz; most of the other houses of this class were burnt down.  You see no German furniture here; tell me whether you prefer the Turkish style, or the European.”

Author.  “In warm weather give me a room of this kind, where the sun is excluded, and where one can loll at ease, and smoke a narghile; but in winter I like to see a blazing fire, and to hear the music of a tea-urn.”

The Bishop now entered, and we advanced to the door to meet him.  I bowed low, and the rest of the company kissed his hand; he was a middle sized man, of about sixty, but frail from long-continued ill health, dressed in a furred pelisse, a dark blue body robe, and Greek ecclesiastical cap of velvet, while from a chain hung round his neck was suspended the gold cross, distinctive of his rank.  The usual refreshments of coffee, sweetmeats, &c. were brought in, not by servants, but by ecclesiastical novices.

Bishop.  “I think I have seen you before?”

Author.  “Indeed, you have:  I met your reverence at the house of Gospody Ilia in Belgrade.”

Bishop.  “Ay, ay,” (trying to recollect;) “my memory sometimes fails me since my illness.  Did you stay long at Belgrade?”