The soldiers started at four the following morning, singing in chorus as they marched through the streets. An hour later we continued our journey through a mountainous district strewed with blocks of granite, and soon afterwards crossed the little river Goonook, another tributary of the Sakaria.[6] Here the scenery is very wild; the hills are of all shapes and forms, as if cast down at haphazard by the Titans of old. Now we find a series of natural bastions and ramparts, looking as if they had been chiselled out of the hard white rocks, and then approach a slate mountain, large black stones lying about in endless profusion. Presently we ride along a path bounded on both sides by a precipice. Our track twines like a silver thread amidst the crags which hide the way before us. We round a corner. A small village is seen below, Torbali is reached, and a Bey, the great man of the place, invites us to share his dwelling. A little later, a black slave brought me as a present from his master, some small trout and fresh eggs. The slave could talk Arabic. He had been born near Gondokoro, and had been kidnapped from that part of the world by a party of Arabs under Sir Samuel Baker's _bête noir_, Abou Saood. I asked him if he would like to return to his own country. "Yes," he said, "if the Effendi is going there with Abou Saood. We could then catch plenty of slaves." "I know where to find them," he added, "we should soon become rich." There is an old proverb, "Set a thief to catch a thief," but here it seemed equally applicable to slaves. I was struck by the extreme eagerness to kidnap his countrymen which was evinced by this negro gentleman. "Well," I said, "how are you treated by your master?" "He is a good man," was the reply, "there is plenty to eat, and not much to do." "One thing is bad here," he added, "the master does not drink _sharab_ (wine). I like _sharab_—lots of _sharab_, it makes one gay. Will the Effendi give me a little _sharab_?" "I have not any. I do not drink myself." "And yet you are rich," said the slave. "You have money to buy it, happy man that you are. If I were like you I would drink, drink, drink, all day and all night!" "But Osman does not drink, he attends to the Prophet's laws." "Osman is a horse; he does not know what is good," was the reply. At this moment the voice of the Bey was heard. "_Gell!_" (come) resounded through the building; the negro, leaving me, hurried off to his master. It was a nine hours' march to Mudurlu, our next halting-place, the route leading through a very mountainous district. The village, or small town, of Mudurlu contains 800 mud houses, which, at the average rate of five people to a family, would give about 4000 inhabitants. The traveller, when journeying in this part of Anatolia, is much struck by the absence of shops. He may pass through village after village, small town after small town, and, unless it be market day, he will be unable to purchase anything.