A motley crowd collected round us as we enquired for the government quarters; a hundred curious faces were upturned towards us, and our ears were greeted with the cry of Ferengi! Ferengi! passed like a shuttlecock from mouth to mouth. The little town was full of stir; new shops and houses were in course of erection; it was evident that trade and traffic were on the increase. We had almost crossed it from end to end, when we were ushered into a modest building, of which the hall or outer chamber was thronged with people, for the most part peasants; while an old servitor or usher, with white beard and a flowing robe, was marshalling the rows of slippers by the threshold of an inner door. At our approach he drew aside the quilted curtain which screened this sanctuary, and turned the handle and bade us pass within. The low divan, which on three sides followed the walls of the apartment, was already occupied by a full complement of seated figures; they appeared to be engaged in deliberation when we broke in upon their séance. A little man with vivacious eyes was directing the conversation; he sat on the only chair behind a table covered with faded baize. Although we could scarcely doubt that our arrival had been announced beforehand, we seemed to take these notables by surprise. The little man rose from his chair; the assembly huddled together in order to give us place on the divan. Compliments were exchanged; coffee and cigarettes were provided; the discussion was adjourned by tacit consent. One by one, after satisfying without displaying their curiosity, the councillors stole from the room. Meanwhile the figure at the table--it was the Kaimakam, or district governor--had examined our numerous and weighty credentials, and had directed a billet to be provided and prepared. Our effects, which arrived later, were not subjected to examination; no excisemen or policemen dogged our steps. Such officials are almost unknown in this happy country! so we reflected with a sense of immense relief. The way they worry the people in the neighbouring empire passes the capacity of the uninitiated to realise. The Greek poet was certainly wrong when he gave expression to the sentiment that anarchy is the greatest of human ills. Here we were, enlightened observers, exchanging order for disorder with rapturous delight! We were free to wander as we willed, to enjoy a British liberty without so much as the restraint of roads and walls. Coming from Russia, the contrast was indeed startling; independence is far preferable to feeling reasonably certain that you will not be knocked on the head by a Kurd.