Tiupria, being on the high road across Servia, has a large khan, at which I put up. I had observed armed guards at the entrance of the town, and felt at a loss to account for the cause. The rooms of the khan being uninhabitable, I sent Paul with my letter of introduction to the Natchalnik, and sat down in the khan kitchen, which was a parlour at the same time; an apartment, with a brick floor, one side of which was fitted up with a broad wooden bench (the bare boards being in every respect preferable in such cases to cushions, as one has a better chance of cleanliness). The other side of the apartment was like a hedge alehouse in England, with a long table and moveable benches. Several Servians sat here drinking coffee and smoking; others drinking wine. The Cahwagi was standing with his apron on, at a little charcoal furnace, stirring his small coffee-pot until the cream came. I ordered some wine for myself, as well as the Suregee, but the latter said, "I do not drink wine." I now looked him in the face, and saw that he was of a very dark complexion; for I had made the last stage after sunset, and had not remarked him. _Author_. "Are you a Chingany (gipsy)?" _Gipsy_. "Yes." _Author_. "Now I recollect most of the gipsies here are Moslems; how do you show your adherence to Islamism?" _Gipsy_. "I go regularly to mosque, and say my prayers." _Author_. "What language do you speak?" _Gipsy_. "In business Turkish or Servian; but with my family Chingany." I now asked the Cahwagi the cause of the guards being posted in the streets; and he told me of the attempt at Shabatz, by disguised hussars, in which the worthy collector met his death. Paul not returning, I felt impatient, and wondered what had become of him. At length he returned, and told me that he had been taken in the streets as a suspicious character, without a lantern, carried to the guard-house, and then to the house of the Natchalnik, to whom he presented the letter, and from whom he now returned, with a pandour, and a message to come immediately. The Natchalnik met us half-way with the lanterns, and reproached me for not at once descending at his house. Being now fatigued, I soon went to bed in an apartment hung round with all sorts of arms. There were Albanian guns, Bosniac pistols, Vienna fowling-pieces, and all manner of Damascus and Khorassan blades. Next morning, on awaking, I looked out at my window, and found myself in a species of kiosk, which hung over the Morava, now no longer a mountain stream, but a broad and almost navigable river. The lands on the opposite side were flat, but well cultivated, and two bridges, an old and a new one, spanned the river. Hence the name Tiupria, from the Turkish _keupri_ (bridge,) for here the high road from Belgrade to Constantinople crosses the Morava. The Natchalnik, a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered man, now entered, and, saluting me like an old friend, asked me how I slept.