“Bogami Gospody,” said the priest, wiping the copious tears, “I was once the happiest man in Bosnia; the sun never rose without my thanking God for having given me so much peace and happiness:  but Ali Kiahya, where I lived, received information that I had money hid.  One day his Momkes took me before him.  My appeals for mercy and justice were useless.  I was thrown down on my face, and received 617 strokes on my soles, praying for courage to hold out.  At the 618th stroke my strength of mind and body failed, and I yielded up all my money, seven hundred dollars, to preserve my life.  For a whole year I drank not a drop of wine, nothing but brandy, brandy, brandy.”

Here the priest sobbed aloud.  My heart was wrung, but I was in no condition to assist him; so I bade him be of good cheer, and look on his misfortune as a gloomy avenue to happier and brighter days.

We slept on hay, put under our carpets and pillows, this being the first time since leaving Belgrade that we did not sleep in sheets.  We next day ascended the Rogatschitza river to its source, and then, by a long ascent through pines and rocks, attained the parting of the waters.[8]

Leaving the basin of the Drina, we descended to that of the Morava by a steep road, until we came to beautifully rich meadows, which are called the Ushitkza Luka, or meadows, which are to this day a debatable ground for the Moslem inhabitants of Ushitza, and the Servian villages in the neighbourhood.  From here to Ushitza the road is paved, but by whom we could not learn.  The stones were not large enough to warrant the belief of its being a Roman causeway, and it is probably a relic of the Servian empire.

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 7:  On my return from Servia, I found that the author of Eothen had recorded a similar impression derived from the Tartar journey on the high road from Belgrade towards Constantinople:  but the remark is much more applicable to the sylvan beauty of the interior of Servia.]

[Footnote 8:  After seeing Ushitza, the captain, who accompanied me, returned to his family, at Derlatcha, and, I lament to say, that at this place he was attacked by the robbers, who, in summer, lurk in the thick woods on the two frontiers.  The captain galloped off, but his two servants were killed on the spot.]

CHAPTER XV.

Arrival at Ushitza.—­Wretched streets.—­Excellent Khan.—­Turkish Vayvode.—­A Persian Dervish.—­Relations of Moslems and Christians.—­Visit the Castle.—­Bird’s eye view.

Before entering Ushitza we had a fair prospect of it from a gentle eminence.  A castle, in the style of the middle ages, mosque minarets, and a church spire, rose above other objects; each memorializing the three distinct periods of Servian history:  the old feudal monarchy, the Turkish occupation, and the new principality.  We entered the bazaars, which were rotting and ruinous, the air infected with the loathsome vapours of dung-hills, and their putrescent carcases, tanpits with green hides, horns, and offal:  here and there a hideous old rat showed its head at some crevice in the boards, to complete the picture of impurity and desolation.