the site of a burned village
as a camping-place.

But the first night in camp shattered all my illusions. The Turk
unharnessed and lit the camp fire. I cooked my supper and gave him a
share. Then he squatted by the fire and resumed smoking. The horses over
which he had shed tears waited. After the Turk's third cigarette I
suggested that the horses should be watered and fed. The village well
was about 300 yards away, and the Turk evidently did not like the idea
of moving from the fire. He did not move, but argued in Turkish of which
I understood nothing. Finally I elicited the fact that the horses were
too tired to drink and too tired to eat the barley I had brought for
them. As a remedy for tiredness they were to be left without water and
food all night.

As plainly as was possible I insisted to the Turk that the horses must
be watered at once, and afterwards given a good ration of barley. I
dragged him from the fire to the horses and made my meaning clear
enough. The Turk was stubborn. Clearly either I was to water the horses
myself or they were to be left without water, and my old traditions of
horse-mastery would not allow me to have them fed without being watered.
So this was the extent of the Turk's devotion to his horses!

It was necessary to be firm, and I took up the cart whip to the Turk and
convinced him almost at once that the horses were not "too tired" to
drink.

Mr. Turk did not resent the blows in the least. He refrained from
cutting my throat as I slept that evening. Afterwards a mere wave of the
hand towards the whip made him move with alacrity. At the end of the
journey, when I gave him a good "tip," he knelt down gallantly in the
mud of Mustapha Pasha and kissed my hand and carried it to his forehead.

So faded away my last hope of meeting the Terrible Turk of tradition in
the Balkans. Perhaps he exists still in Asia Minor. As I saw the Turk in
Bulgaria and in European Turkey, he was a dull monogamic person with no
fiery pride, no picturesque devilry, but a great passion for
sweetmeats--not merely his own "Turkish Delight," but all kinds of
lollipops: his shops were full of Scotch and English confectionery.

But the Bulgarian, not the Turk, is our theme. This introduction,
however, will make it plain that, as the result of a direct knowledge of
the Balkans, during some months in which I had the opportunity of
sharing in Bulgarian peasant life, I came to the admiration I have now
for the Bulgar