a
Turk, about forty-five years of age, who looked cross, as most men are
when called from a sound sleep. His fez was round as a wool-bag, and
looked as if he had stuffed a shawl into it before putting it on, and
his face and eyes had something of the old Mongol or Tartar look. He
was accompanied by a Bosniac, who was very proud and insolent in his
demeanour. After the usual compliments, I said, "I have seen some
countries and cities, but no place so curious as Sokol. I left
Belgrade on a tour through the interior, not knowing of its existence.
Otherwise I would have asked letters of Hafiz Pasha to you: for,
intending to go to Nish, he gave me a letter to the Pasha there. But
the people of this country having advised me not to miss the wonder of
Servia, I have come, seduced by the account of its beauty, not
doubting of your good reception of strangers:" on which I took out the
letter of Hafiz Pasha, the direction of which he read, and then he
said, in a husky voice which became his cross look,--

"I do not understand your speech; if you have seen Belgrade, you must
find Sokol contemptible. As for your seeing the citadel, it is
impossible; for the key is with the Disdar Aga, and he is asleep, and
even if you were to get in, there is nothing to be seen."

After some further conversation, in the course of which I saw that it
would be better not to attempt "to catch the Tartar," I restricted
myself to taking a survey of the town. Continuing our walk in the same
direction as that by which we entered, we completed the threading of
the bazaar, which was truly abominable, and arrived at the gate of the
citadel, which was open; so that the story of the key and the
slumbers of the Disdar Aga was all fudge. I looked in, but did not
enter. There are no new works, and it is a castle such as those one
sees on the Rhine; but its extraordinary position renders it
impregnable in a country impracticable for artillery. Although
blockaded in the time of the Revolution, and the Moslem garrison
reduced to only seven men, it never was taken by the Servians;
although Belgrade, Ushitza, and all the other castles, had fallen into
their hands. Close to the castle is a mosque in wood, with a minaret
of wood, although the finest stone imaginable is in abundance all
around. The Mutsellim opened the door, and showed me the interior,
with blank walls and a faded carpet, opposite the Moharrem. He would
not allow me to go up the minaret, evidently afra