The day was wild and stormy; the sea broke with a deep, hollow roar amongst the caverns of the rocks. Every now and then fierce gusts of wind drove the clouds madly across the sky, but over the mountains there lay a broad band of sunshine, lighting up the little upland pastures, and making the patches of bright green still more vivid in contrast with the dark shadow of the forests at their feet. Riding along the cliffs we obtained an excellent view of the singular position of Sinope. Built on a narrow strip of land, scarcely a quarter of a mile broad, it commands the two bays, and overlooks for many miles the undulating plain that stretches from the coast to the foot of the mountains. In old times, when the town was fortified, it must have been impregnable, both from sea and land; now the old castellated walls are little more than ruins. One portion, the remains of an ancient tower, said to have been part of the Palace of Mithridates, is remarkably picturesque. The leafy branches of briers and hops now trail across its old brickwork, and the tendrils of the wild caper have clasped in tight embrace many a column and mass of sculptured marble that lies lowly on the ground. Ever since we have been here, notwithstanding the kind assistance of both Pasha and consul, we have had the greatest difficulty in procuring meat, bread, or milk. We were surprised therefore to see outside the town patches of grass that would have afforded excellent pasturage both for sheep and cattle. But it seems, in respect of cow government, Sinope is a republic, every cow doing as seemeth good to herself. She goes out in the morning when she likes, if in the evening it is borne on her mind that she would like to be milked, she comes home, but should her maternal feelings be weak, or should she wish to call upon her friends at a distance, she does not return for a day or two. Under these circumstances the supply of milk is precarious, and as to the bread, it is of the most primitive description. A coarse, dark-brown, nearly black meal is made into a paste by mixing it with a little water. It is then rolled into thin sheets about the size of a small round tea-table, and baked. When quite fresh this bread is not unpalatable, though fearfully indigestible, but the great drawback is that it is apt to get mouldy on the smallest provocation, and after it has been made a few days requires scraping and rebaking before it is possible to eat it. Then, as to the butchers' meat, that is also a vain dream. There is a tradition that once there was a butcher's shop in the town, but this was in a time so long ago that even the oldest inhabitant does not remember it. However, we are told that perhaps some day we may get a wild boar, so we cheer ourselves with this hope, and try to think the unvarying chickens are not so very thin nor so very tough, after all. CHAPTER XVII. STORM-CLOUDS.