If they were going to any place, Baïla traveled on the back of a mule, in a dress of silk, whilst the rest of the family, clothed in coarse wool or serge, escorted her on foot, watching over her with constant solicitude. Truly, a stranger meeting them by the way, and witnessing all these cares and demonstrations, would have taken her for an idolized daughter, guarded against destiny by the most tender affections. If her father, however, approached her, it was to pinch her nose, the nostrils of which were a little too wide; and her mother, as an habitual caress, contented herself with pulling her eyebrows near the temples, so as to give the almond form to her eyes. Sometimes the husband, seized suddenly with enthusiasm on seeing Baïla exhibit her grace when dancing by starlight, would say in a low voice to his wife— “By Saint Demetrius, I believe the child will some day bring us enough to furnish a cellar with rack and tafita enough to last forever;” and a laugh of happiness would light up his dull face. “If we should be so unfortunate as to lose her before her time, it will be ten thousand good piastres of which the Good God will rob us,” replied his worthy companion; and she shed a tear of alarm. Baïla was thirteen years old, when a barque ascending the Incour, stopped at a short distance from the hut of the Mingrelian. A man wearing a turban descended from it. He was a purveyor for the harem, then on an expedition. “Do you sell honey?” he said to the master of the hut, whom he found at the door. “I gather white and red.” “Can I taste it?” The honest Mingrelian brought him a sample of both kinds. “I would see another kind,” said the man with a turban, with a significant glance. “Enter then,” replied the father of Baïla, and whilst the stranger was passing the threshold, hastening to the room occupied by his wife, he said to her— “Be quick; the nuptials of thy daughter are preparing; the merchant is here; he is below; arrange her and come down with her.” At the sight of Baïla, the merchant could not restrain an exclamation of admiration; then almost immediately, with a commercial manœuvre he threw up her head, preparing to examine her with more attention. During this inspection the young girl blushed deeply; the father and mother seeking to read the secret thoughts of the merchant in his eyes and face, kept a profound silence, beseeching lowly their patron saint for success in the matter. The man in the turban changing his course, and as if he had come merely to lay in a supply of honey, took up one of the two samples deposited on a table, and taking up some with his finger tasted it. “This honey is white and handsome enough, but it wants flavor. How much is the big measure?” “Twelve thousand,” the mother hastened to reply. “Twelve thousand paras?” “Twelve thousand piastres.” The merchant shrugged his shoulders—“You will keep it for your own use then, my good woman.” He then went toward the door.