"Well, whither shall we turn now?" asked Clement, hesitating. "I have never come so far as this before." "Let us follow the road," returned Zülfikar; "none but a fool would risk his neck up that steep cliff." Clement looked about him in great perplexity, and suddenly perceived a man sitting on the rock which so precipitately overhung the path. It was a young Wallach with a pale face and long, flowing curls; his sheep-skin jacket was open at the breast, his cap lay beside him on the ground. There he sat in a reverie, on the very edge of the lofty rock, with his feet dangling in empty space, his stony countenance resting on his hands, and his eyes staring glassily into the remote distance. "Hi! you up there! _ungye méra ista via?_"[31] cried Clement, in a jargon which was half Latin and half Wallachian. [Footnote 31: _Ungye méra ista via?_ "Whither goes this road?" The first two words are Roumanian.] The Wallach did not appear to hear the question; he remained in just the same position, blankly staring and immovable. "He is either deaf or dead," said Zülfikar, after they had both bawled themselves hoarse at him in vain. "The best thing we can do is to follow the beaten track," and off they set at a trot. The Wallach did not so much as look after them. Evening was drawing nigh, and the road to Marisel seemed absolutely endless. It went out of one valley into another, without passing a single human habitation, and the huge boulders and fierce mountain torrents, which they came upon at frequent intervals, made it almost impassable. At last they perceived, somewhere in the wood, a fire burning, and a monotonous chant struck upon their ears. On approaching nearer, they saw an immense pyre, made of the trunks of trees, burning in a forest glade, and shaded by oaks, the foliage of which was singed red by the long tongues of flame which flickered up to their very summits. Not far from the pyre, a band of Wallachs were dancing with savage gesticulations, striking the ground at the same time with their massive clubs. Their twirling feet seemed to be writing mystic characters in the soil, and all the while they brandished their arms and howled forth metrical curses as if they were exorcising some evil spirit. Around the men twined a wreath of young girls, holding one another by the hand, and twirling in a contrary direction. These young and charming forms, with their black, plaited tresses interwoven with pearls and ribbons; their flowered petticoats, cambric smocks, and broad, striped aprons; their tinkling gold spangles, or strings of silver coins about their round necks and their tiny, high-heeled shoes, formed a pleasant contrast to the wild, ferocious figures of the men, with their high sheepskin hats perched upon their shaggy, unkempt hair, their sunburnt, naked necks, greasy _köduröns_,[32] broad brass buckles, and large ox-hide sandals. [Footnote 32: _Ködurön._ A rough, fur jacket.]