Next day, the father of the captain made his appearance.  The same old man, whom I had met at Palesh, and who had asked me, “if the king of my country lived in a strong castle?” We dined at mid-day by fine weather, the windows of the principal apartments being thrown open, so as to have the view of the valley, which was here nearly as wide as at Liubovia, but with broken ground.  For the first time since leaving Belgrade we dined, not at an European table, but squatted round a sofra, a foot high, in the Eastern manner, although we ate with knives and forks.  The cookery was excellent; a dish of stewed lamb being worthy of any table in the world.

Our host, the captain, never having seen Ushitza, offered to accompany me thither; so we started early in the afternoon, having the Drina still on our right, and Bosniac villages, from time to time visible, and pretty to look at, but I should hope somewhat cleaner than Sokol.  On arrival at Bashevitza the elders of the village stood in a row to receive us close to the house of conciliation.  I perceived a mosque near this place, and asked if it was employed for any purpose.  “No,” said the captain, “it is empty.  The Turks prayed in it, after their own fashion, to that God who is theirs and ours; and the house of God should not be made a grain magazine, as in many other Turkish villages scattered throughout Servia.”  At this place a number of wild ducks were visible, perched on rocks in the Drina, but were very shy; only once did one of our men get within shot, which missed; his gun being an old Turkish one, like most of the arms in this country, which are sometimes as dangerous to the marksman as to the mark.

Towards evening we quitted the lovely Drina, which, a little higher up, is no longer the boundary between Servia and Bosnia, being entirely within the latter frontier, and entered the vale of Rogatschitza, watered by a river of that name, which was crossed by an ancient Servian bridge, with pointed arches of admirable proportions.  The village where we passed the night was newly settled, the main street being covered with turf, a sign that few houses or traffic exist here.  The khan was a hovel; but while it was swept out, and prepared for us, I sat down with the captain on a shopboard, in the little bazaar, where coffee was served.  A priest, with an emaciated visage, sore eyes, and a distracted look, came up, and wished me good evening, and began a lengthened tale of grievances.  I asked the khan-keeper who he was, and received for answer that he was a Greek priest from Bosnia, who had hoarded some money, and had been squeezed by the Moslem tyrant of his village, which drove him mad.  Confused ejaculations, mingled with sighs, fell from him, as if he supposed his story to be universally known.

“Sit down, good man,” said I, “and tell me your tale, for I am a stranger, and never heard it before.  Tell it me, beginning with the beginning, and ending with the end.”