Right in front, a dark brown fortress girdles
white mosques and minarets. Rich and green, our mountain capes
here join to form a setting for the town, in whose dark walls -
still darker - open a dozen high-arched caves in which the huge
Venetian galleys used to lie in wait. High above all, higher and
higher yet, up into the firmament, range after range of blue and
snow-capped mountains. I was bewildered and amazed, having heard
nothing of this great beauty. The town when entered is quite
eastern. The streets are formed of open stalls under the first
story, in which squat tailors, cooks, sherbet vendors and the like,
busy at their work or smoking narghilehs. Cloths stretched from
house to house keep out the sun. Mules rattle through the crowd;
curs yelp between your legs; negroes are as hideous and bright
clothed as usual; grave Turks with long chibouques continue to
march solemnly without breaking them; a little Arab in one dirty
rag pokes fun at two splendid little Turks with brilliant fezzes;
wiry mountaineers in dirty, full, white kilts, shouldering long
guns and one hand on their pistols, stalk untamed past a dozen
Turkish soldiers, who look sheepish and brutal in worn cloth jacket
and cotton trousers.
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