"It is of life, and not of death
That ye shall hear the Cydnus sing!"


We awoke amid sounds unexplainable. Most of the Moslems had finished
their noisy ritual ablutions, and at dawn we had been dimly conscious
of the strings of camels, mules and donkeys jingling out under the
arch beneath us. Yet there was a great din from the courtyard of
wild hoofs thumping on the dung, and of scurrying feet as if a mile-long
caravan were practising formations.

So we went out to yawn, and remained, oblivious of everything but
the cause of all the noise, we leaning with elbows on the wooden
rail, and she laughing up at us at intervals.

The six Zingarri, or gipsies, had pitched their tent in the very
middle of the yard, ambitious above all other considerations to keep
away from walls. It was a big, low, black affair supported on short
poles, and subdivided by them into several compartments. One could
see unshapely bulges where women did the housekeeping within.

But the woman who held us spell-bound cared nothing for Turkish custom
--a girl not more than seventeen years old at the boldest guess.
She was breaking a gray stallion in the yard, sitting the frenzied
beast without a saddle and doing whatever she liked with him, except
that his heels made free of the air, and he went from point to point
whichever end up best pleased his fancy.

Travelers make an early start in Asia Minor, but the yard was by
no means empty yet; some folk were still waiting on the doubtful