This, like the other old castles we have seen, belongs to the days of the Christian kingdom, and is in fact said to have been the work of Tvartko, the first King of Bosnia.[209] In form and general aspect it is very much the same as the Starigrads of Doboj and Tešanj. Like them it terminates at one angle in a polygonal tower; and, like them, is more remarkable for its situation than the beauty of its architecture. It rises on a peninsular rock with ravines on every side, except where a low narrow neck connects it with the mountains, which dominate it so completely that it would be quite untenable at present, though the Turks seem still to use it as a kind of arsenal. [Illustration: Old Castle of King Tvartko at Travnik.] While I was drawing this venerable ruin I became unpleasantly conscious that a battery of some kind or other was opening a lively fire on me from the rear, and presently, a larger stone than usual whizzing past my head, I thought it high time to make a reconnaissance, and looking round perceived that the enemy chiefly consisted of a lad of about fourteen. Seeing me get up with no very amiable intentions, the urchin fell back on his reserves, a group of armed Turks, to whom I made unmistakable signs that I should consider it a favour if they would restrain the enthusiasm of youthful Islâm; and having thus given vent to my feelings I returned tranquilly to my drawing. Then it was that a well-aimed missile—judging by the sensation it produced, larger than any of its predecessors—hit me on the middle of the back; and this time, being thoroughly roused, I went for our young artilleryman in such earnest that he made for a neighbouring house, and slamming the door, disappeared from my indignant view. Whereat, being still in a very pretty temper, I knocked at the door with my stick, hoping at least to wreak vicarious vengeance on the rascal by means of his parents. While in vain attempting to gain an interview with the inmates, one of the group of Turks with whom the boy had first taken refuge came up and shouted to me ‘Tursko! Tursko!’ meaning that the boy being a Turk might throw as many stones as he liked at the cursed Giaour. Finally, as neither knocking nor thumping made any impression on the door, and myself beginning to recover from this ‘short madness,’ I went back to my original station, and was putting a few finishing touches to my sketch, when the door of refuge opened; the lad, accompanied by two armed Turks—one on either side—issued forth, and the three swaggered up to me to insult the dog of a Christian at their leisure.