Having returned to our Han, we found our Mudìr seated on a divan in one of the rooms, which was strewn with bright Roumelian carpets, in general character very like the Slavonian. He knew no tongues but Bosniac, Arabic, Turkish, and modern Greek; but though I succeeded in describing to him our visit to the castle in the language of Thucydides, we found it on the whole better to make use of our host—a Montenegrine by birth, who has picked up a little Swabian—as an interpreter. The Mudìr told us that the Turkish government were anxious to dispose of the old castle as an eligible site, or a useful quarry for building purposes. Shade of Bosnian kings! Our Mahometan, with the greatest _sangfroid_, ordered a bottle of thick red Slavonian wine, and proceeded to consume it before our eyes; but the wine-bar in the upper town had already familiarised us with the laxity of true-believers. As the Mudìr could not understand German, the Montenegrine, who was an ardent Southern Sclave, could give vent to his patriotic sentiments without reserve. He literally devoured our map of the Herzegovina, and entreated us to sell it him. He believed the insurrection would be successful, and had heard that Mostar was blockaded—for rumours of the first slight successes of the insurgents in the Narenta valley had penetrated in an exaggerated form to the extremities of Bosnia. We asked if he believed that the Christian Bosniacs of the neighbourhood would rise? ‘No,’ he answered; ‘I have little hopes of them—they are a poor lot!’ but (pointing to the mountains of the south-east) ‘out there, about Dolnja Tuzla, and along the Serbian frontier, there is a finer race of men; _they_ will join their brothers against the Turkish swine! We think that even you English will leave the Turks to their fate this time.’ I said that there were other European nations from whom the Southern Sclaves had more to fear than from England. ‘Yes,’ he continued; ‘we know the ambition of Russia; but we don’t want the Russians to lord it over us any more than the Turks! no, nor the Austrians either.’ While sketching the Starigrad I had another proof of the kindness with which the Bosniac Turks treat children. A small boy of about seven came up in the most fearless manner and stated for my benefit that a plum-tree was called ‘sliva,’ and a house ‘kuca,’ all which and sundry other items of information the little man volunteered without the slightest sign of distrust at my outlandish appearance. As I took a last twilight glimpse at the mournfully historic castle a star was setting beneath its topmost parapet, as if to betoken that the dreams of patriots were vain and the hopes of Christian Bosnia had set for ever.