The collector now re-entered with the Natchalnik and his captains, and
the renegade took his leave, I regretting that I had not seen more of
him; for a true recital of his adventures must have made an amusing
chapter.

"Here is the captain, who is to escort you to Ushitza," said the
Natchalnik, pointing to a muscular man at his left. "He will take you
safe and sound."

_Author_. "I see he is a stout fellow. I would rather have him for a
friend than meet him as an enemy. He has the face of an honest man,
too."

_Natchalnik_. "I warrant you as safe in his custody, as if you were in
that of Gospody Wellington."

_Author_. "You may rest assured that if I were in the custody of the
Duke of Wellington, I should not reckon myself very safe. One of his
offices is to take care of a tower, in which the Queen locks up
traitorous subjects. Did you never hear of the Tower of London?"

_Natchalnik_. "No; all we know of London is the wonderful bridge that
goes under the water, where an army can pass from one side to the
other, while the fleet lies anchored over their heads."

The Natchalnik now bid me farewell, and I gave my rendezvous to the
captain for next morning. During the discussion of dinner, the
arch-priest gave us an illustration of Bosniac fanaticism: A few
months ago a church at Belina was about to be opened, which had been a
full year in course of building, by virtue of a Firman of the Sultan;
the Moslems murmuring, but doing nothing. When finished, the Bishop
went to consecrate it; but two hours after sunset, an immense mob of
Moslems, armed with pickaxes and shovels, rased it to the ground,
having first taken the Cross and Gospels and thrown them into a
latrina. The Bishop complained to the Mutsellim, who imprisoned one or
two of them, exacted a fine, which he put in his own pocket, and let
them out next day; the ruins of the Church remain _in statu quo_.

The collector now produced some famous wine, that had been eleven
years in bottle. We were unusually merry, and fell into toasts and
speeches. I felt as if I had been his intimate friend for years, for
he had not one atom of Levantine "humbug" in his composition. Poor
fellow, little did he think, that in a few short weeks from this
period his blood would flow as freely as the wine which he poured into
my cup.

Next morning, on awaking, all the house was in a bustle: the sun shone
brightly on the green satin coverlet of my bed, and a tap at the door
annou