Down fell the animal on his back, and all the remainder of my luggage was covered with the slimy clay. The horse was a little shaken by the fall and did not attempt to rise—he lay prostrate and helpless in the midst of the havoc which he had created. Meantime Obadiah, who had been frightened to death by the luggage which was hanging round his heels, had kicked away his trammels. Osman approached him from the bank, and tried to get to his head. It was in vain. The horse sprang back a yard or so, plunged and kicked, then slipping like his fellow steed, he rolled down the steep. He was none the worse for the fall, and bounding on his legs, dashed headlong along the road—his saddle and everything he had previously carried lying scattered in every direction. The sun by this time had long since set. It was nearly dark. Letting go Osman's horse, I galloped after the runaway, but it was useless; in a moment he disappeared from view. There was nothing to be done but to return to my party, and collect the luggage. "Our fate is a bad one," said Osman. "The horse—curse his mother—has gone, what shall be done? Praise be to Allah that the Effendi is not hurt." "I have worked very hard," he added. "It is all your fault," I remarked angrily. "It would serve you right if I were to break your head. You ought to have seen that the pack-saddle was properly put on the horse at Scutari." "Saddle, Effendi? It was all owing to the saddle. It did not fit the horse." "What does he say, sir?" inquired the English servant. "Say?—confound him! he says it is the fault of the saddle." "Saddle, sir! no, it ain't. It is all the fault of his confounded praying. Why, whenever there is any work to be done, he is always down on his knees and a-banging his head against the ground. Real hard work his praying is, sir, and no mistake. I catched him at it this morning in the hotel; then he had another turn on board the steamer—and, look, sir, there he is again. Drat him, he has taken my coat to kneel on!" And rushing up, my servant dragged his property from beneath the prostrate Mohammedan. We were some distance from Scutari, and about two hours from Moltape, a village in which I intended to pass the night. I determined to send Osman back to the town, and desired him to hire a Hammall, or man with a baggage-horse. In the meantime, Radford and myself could keep guard over our luggage. The night grew darker and darker. The white grave-stones could be barely discerned. Leaving my English servant to sit upon the luggage in the road, I waded through the mud to a cleaner spot in the cemetery. Sitting down on one of the broken monuments, I awaited Osman's arrival. Presently I heard the sound of steps close behind me. The locality does not bear a good reputation, so grasping my revolver, I prepared for an attack.