The track became firmer. We overtook some Bashi Bazouks returning from Bulgaria. They were most of them Circassians, and one could speak Russian. He was very indignant at having been ordered home, and brandishing his long lance, with bright steel point at least twelve inches long, regretted that he had lost the opportunity of transfixing a few giaour Russians.
"Did you kill many women?" I inquired.
"There were some killed," he replied. "It was a pity. We were sorry for it; but what would you have our men do? Some of their own mothers and sisters had been ravished and then butchered by the Russians."
"Have any of your relatives been treated in this way?" I inquired.
"No," he said, "but in a village not far from Gumri, some horrible cruelties have recently taken place, many women and children were slain, and all because they wished to leave Russia and go to Turkey."
"If my mother or sister had been killed, I should not be particular as to how I avenged her," he continued. "These cowardly Russians set us the example."
There was no sort of similarity in the attire of the Bashi Bazouks. Each man had dressed himself according to his fancy; the broad sashes around their waists were stuck full of pistols and daggers. The fire-arms, too, were of the most primitive kind; some men had old-fashioned muskets of the Tower pattern, and others were armed with double-barrelled guns, which had been converted from flint to percussion. Their horses looked hard and fit for work, they were as a rule not more than fourteen hands high, and their rough shaggy coats reminded me a little of the Cossack horses which I have seen in the neighbourhood of the Don.
The scenery improves as we approach Sabanja. The flat country previously traversed gives way to rising mountains. They bound our view towards the West. On my bridle-hand is a wide lake. It lies like a mirror almost at our feet. Many coloured grasses and shrubs clothe the slopes which lead down to the limpid water. Acres upon acres of rich grass-land—such as would make the mouth of a Leicestershire farmer water with envy—surround Sabanja on every side. We ride into the village; it consists of about 200 houses, mostly built of dried mud, and with much difficulty I obtain accommodation for the night.
Long before daybreak we were in the saddle. Our road wound through mountain passes. Huge clouds of mist slowly rose from the surface of the lake: they floated away into space, and appeared like icebergs as seen in the horizon. Now we rode by a place where preparations had been made for the construction of a railway. Sleepers were lying by the side of a partly-made embankment. On inquiry, no work had been going on for two years. There was to have been a railway to Angora, but "Para yoke, there is no money," was the answer to my questions on the subject.
Presently we came up to a caravan of mules laden with tea and bound for Angora. The road was very narrow, there was barely room for two horses abreast. One mule, turning his head towards the bank, blocked up the entire path; a blow from our Zaptieh's whip recalled him to consciousness. Backing a few yards he slipped, and rolled with his burden down the slope. The owner cursed, and the other muleteers coming up seemed rather to enjoy his discomforture.