They do not mention the geographical position of this river (methinks it ought to be marked down in Dreamland); all they tell me is that it is concealed beneath a covering of deep darkness and thick night, and that no mortal since Chederle has had the luck to see it; but that Chederle himself, being released from the laws of death, rides to and fro on a gallant steed, which, like its master, has, by a draught of this same water, purged itself of mortal dross. They represent him as one who loves the battle shock, and helps in war those who are in the right, and those who have invoked his aid, of whatever faith they may be. These tales seem absurd, but I will tell you one still more ridiculous. They declare that he was one of the companions and friends of Alexander the Great. The Turks have not the slightest idea of chronology, or of different epochs, and they mix up together in a wonderful way all historical events. Should the thought occur to them, they have no hesitation in stating that Job was king Solomon’s seneschal, and Alexander the Great commander-in-chief of his armies. Even these are not the greatest of their absurdities. There is in the mosque (as the Turks call their temples) a fountain of choice marble, fed by a spring of the purest water; and this they believe to have been miraculously produced by Chederle’s steed. They have many stories also about Chederle’s comrades, his groom and his sister’s son, whose tombs they show in the neighbourhood. They tried hard to persuade us that miracles daily took place for the benefit of those who come to these tombs to ask for aid. They firmly believed, moreover, that chips of stone and earth taken from the spot, where Chederle stood waiting for the dragon, were, when mixed with water, efficacious against fever, headache, and diseases of the eye. I must tell you that the neighbourhood is full of snakes and vipers; they are so numerous that some places in the hot hours positively swarm with the venomous beasts, who are basking in the sun, to such an extent that men dare not approach them. I must not forget to tell you that the Turks shake with laughter when they see in the Greek churches pictures of St. George, whom they declare to be their own Chederle, with a boy sitting on the haunches of his master’s steed, mixing wine and water for him—for this is the manner in which St. George is painted by the Greeks. But our journey has been long and we must shortly rest. There was now only one stage, namely Baglison (Baglijah), between us and our destination, Amasia, which last we reached on April 7, thirty days after our departure from Constantinople. As we drew near we were met by some Turks, who came to congratulate us on our arrival, and to do us the compliment of escorting us into the city.