There was a great similarity about these places. Houses and walls were built of fine, large, well-squared blocks of stone and marble, with every here and there a trace of carving visible—all showing that the Turk’s quarry was the ruined Roman city, which offered an almost inexhaustible supply.
These little estates were either just above the river, perched on one side, or so arranged that the stream ran right through the grounds, rippling amongst velvety grass lawns, overshadowed by great walnuts, with mulberry and plum trees in abundance.
“Hi, stop a moment,” cried Mr Burne, as they reached one beautiful clump of trees, quite a grove, whose leaves were waving in the soft mountain-breeze.
“What have you found?” said the professor, as Lawrence hurried up.
“That, sir, that,” cried Mr Burne. “See these trees.”
“Yes,” said the professor, “a magnificent clump of planes—what a huge size!”
“Exactly,” said the old lawyer. “Now, do you see what that proves?”
“What—the presence of those trees?”
“Yes, sir,” said the old lawyer dogmatically. “They show, sir, that the Turk is a much-abused man. People say that he never advances, but you see he does.”
“How?” said the professor, “by being too lazy to quarry stone or marble in these mountains, where they abound, and building his house out of the edifices raised by better men?”