“The rider was even more singular in his appearance than the horse which he rode, though that was extremely unlike the horses of France. Although he managed his palfrey with great dexterity, he sat with his feet in broad stirrups, something resembling a shovel, so short, that his knees were well nigh as high as the pommel of his saddle. His dress was a red turban of small size, in which he wore a sullied plume, secured by a clasp of silver; his tunic, which was shaped like those of the Estradiots, a sort of troops whom the Venetians at that time levied in the provinces, on the eastern side of their gulf, was green in colour, and tawdrily laced with gold; he wore very wide drawers or trowsers of white, though none of the cleanest, which gathered beneath the knee, and his swarthy legs were quite bare, unless for the complicated laces which bound a pair of sandals on his feet; he had no spurs, the edge of his large stirrups being so sharp as to serve to goad the horse in a very severe manner. In a crimson sash this singular horseman wore a dagger on the right side, and on the left a short crooked Moorish sword, and by a tarnished baldrick over the shoulder hung the horn which announced his approach. He had a swarthy and sun-burnt visage, with a thin beard, and piercing dark eyes, a well-formed mouth and nose, and other features which might have been pronounced handsome, but for the black elf-locks which hung around his face, and the air of wildness and emaciation, which rather seemed to indicate a savage than a civilized man. “Quentin rode up to the Bohemian, and said to him, as he suddenly assumed his proper position on the horse, ‘Methinks, friend, you will prove but a blind guide, if you look at the tail of your horse rather than his ears.’ “‘And if I were actually blind,’ answered the Bohemian, ‘I could guide you through any county in this realm of France, or in those adjoining to it.’ “‘Yet you are no Frenchman born,’ said the Scot. “‘I am not,’ answered the guide. “‘What countryman, then, are you?’ demanded Quentin. “‘I am of no country,’ answered the guide. “‘How! of no country?’ repeated the Scot. “‘No!’ answered the Bohemian, ‘of none. I am a Zingaro, a Bohemian, an Egyptian, or whatever the Europeans, in their different languages, may chuse to call our people; but I have no country.’ “‘Are you a Christian?’ asked the Scotchman. “The Bohemian shook his head. “‘Dog,’ said Quentin, (for there was little toleration in the spirit of Catholicism in those days,) ‘dost thou worship Mahoun?’ “‘No,’ was the indifferent and concise answer of the guide, who neither seemed offended nor surprised at the young man’s violence of manner. “‘Are you a Pagan then, or what are you?’ “‘I have no religion,’ answered the Bohemian.