again?"

_Collector_. "God knows. What can one think of a man who has changed
his religion, but that no dependence can be placed on him? The Turks
are shy of him."

We had now arrived at the house of the Bishop, and were shown into a
well-carpeted room, in the old Turkish style, with the roof gilded and
painted in dark colours, and an un-artistlike panorama of
Constantinople running round the cornice. I seated myself on an
old-fashioned, wide, comfortable divan, with richly embroidered, but
somewhat faded cushions, and, throwing off my shoes, tucked my legs
comfortably under me.

"This house," said the collector, "is a relic of old Shabatz; most of
the other houses of this class were burnt down. You see no German
furniture here; tell me whether you prefer the Turkish style, or the
European."

_Author_. "In warm weather give me a room of this kind, where the sun
is excluded, and where one can loll at ease, and smoke a narghile; but
in winter I like to see a blazing fire, and to hear the music of a
tea-urn."

The Bishop now entered, and we advanced to the door to meet him. I
bowed low, and the rest of the company kissed his hand; he was a
middle sized man, of about sixty, but frail from long-continued ill
health, dressed in a furred pelisse, a dark blue body robe, and Greek
ecclesiastical cap of velvet, while from a chain hung round his neck
was suspended the gold cross, distinctive of his rank. The usual