wn in the khan kitchen, which was a
parlour at the same time; an apartment, with a brick floor, one side
of which was fitted up with a broad wooden bench (the bare boards
being in every respect preferable in such cases to cushions, as one
has a better chance of cleanliness).

The other side of the apartment was like a hedge alehouse in England,
with a long table and moveable benches. Several Servians sat here
drinking coffee and smoking; others drinking wine. The Cahwagi was
standing with his apron on, at a little charcoal furnace, stirring his
small coffee-pot until the cream came. I ordered some wine for myself,
as well as the Suregee, but the latter said, "I do not drink wine." I
now looked him in the face, and saw that he was of a very dark
complexion; for I had made the last stage after sunset, and had not
remarked him.

_Author_. "Are you a Chingany (gipsy)?"

_Gipsy_. "Yes."

_Author_. "Now I recollect most of the gipsies here are Moslems; how
do you show your adherence to Islamism?"

_Gipsy_. "I go regularly to mosque, and say my prayers."

_Author_. "What language do you speak?"

_Gipsy_. "In business Turkish or Servian; but with my family
Chingany."

I now asked the Cahwagi the cause of the guards being posted in the
streets; and he told me of the attempt at Shabatz, by disguised
hussars, in which the worthy collector met his death. Paul not
returning, I felt impatient, and wondered what had become of him. At
length he returned, and told me that he had been taken in the streets
as a suspicious character, without a lantern, carried to the
guard-house, and then to the house of the Natchalnik, to whom he
presented the letter, and from whom he now returned, with a pandour,
and a message to come immediately.

The Natchalnik met us half-way with the lanterns, and reproached me
for not at once descending at his house. Being now fatigued, I soon
went to bed in an apartment hung round with all sorts of arms. There
were Albanian guns, Bosniac pistols, Vienna fowling-pieces, and all
manner of Damascus and Khorassan blades.

Next morning, on awaking, I looked out at my window, and found myself
in a species of kiosk, which hung over the Morava, now no longer a
mountain stream, but a broad and almost navigable river. The lands on
the opposite side were flat, but well cultivated, and two bridges, an
old and a new one, spanned the river. Hence the name Tiupria, from the
Turkish _keupri_ (bridge,) for here the hi