The Lands of the Saracen: Pictures of Palestine, Asia Minor, Sicily, and SpainTaylor, Bayard
History
The Lands of the Saracen: Pictures of Palestine, Asia Minor, Sicily, and Spain
Taylor, Bayard
Middle East -- Description and travel; Spain -- Description and travel
After the women had retired from the bath, we were allowed to enter. The
interior consisted of a single chamber, thirty feet high, vaulted and
almost dark. In the centre was a large basin of hot water, filled by four
streams which poured into it. A ledge ran around the sides, and niches in
the wall supplied places for our clothes. The bath-keeper furnished us
with towels, and we undressed and plunged in. The water was agreeably warm
(about 90°), had a sweet taste, and a very slight sulphury smell. The
vaulted hall redoubled the slightest noise, and a shaven Turk, who kept us
company, sang in his delight, that he might hear the echo of his own
voice. When we went back to the tent we found our visitor lying on the
ground, trying to stay his hunger. It was rather too bad in us to light
our pipes, make a sherbet and drink and smoke in his face, while we joked
him about the Ramazan; and he at last got up and walked off, the picture
of distress.
We made an early start the next morning, and rode on briskly over the
rolling, grassy hills. A beautiful lake, with an island in it, lay at the
foot of Emir Dagh. After two hours we reached a guard-house, where our
_teskerés_ were demanded, and the lazy guardsman invited us in to take
coffee, that he might establish a right to the backsheesh which he could
not demand. He had seen us afar off, and the coffee was smoking in the
_finjans_ when we arrived. The sun was already terribly hot, and the
large, green gad-flies came in such quantities that I seemed to be riding
in the midst of a swarm of bees. My horse suffered very much, and struck
out his hind feet so violently, in his endeavors to get rid of them, that
he racked every joint in my body. They were not content with sucking his
blood, but settling on the small segment of my calf, exposed between the
big Tartar boot and the flowing trowsers, bit through my stockings with
fierce bills. I killed hundreds of them, to no purpose, and at last, to
relieve my horse, tied a bunch of hawthorn to a string, by which I swung
it under his belly and against the inner side of his flanks. In this way I
gave him some relief--a service which he acknowledged by a grateful motion
of his head.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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