“Stupendous!” cried the professor, as they rode on amidst the traces of the former grandeur of the place.
“How bitterly cold!” said the professor.
“We are to dismount here,” said Yussuf quietly, “and go into this old building.”
They obeyed, glad to descend from their horses, which were taken away, and then they were ushered to a great stone-built hall where a fire was burning, which seemed cheery and comfortable after their long ride.
There were rugs on the floor, the roof was sound, and the window was covered by a screen of straw which made the place dark save for the warm glow of the fire, near which a little Turkish-looking man was seated, and a largely proportioned Turkish woman reclined on a rough kind of divan.
“These are to be our quarters, effendi,” said Yussuf, after a brief colloquy with the chief, who had accompanied them, “and these are our fellow-prisoners. But he warns me that if we attempt to escape we shall be shot, for there are sentries on the watch.”
“All right,” said Mr Burne approaching the fire; “tell him not to bother us to-night, only to give us the best they’ve got to eat, or else to let us have our baggage in and leave us to shift for ourselves.”
Just then an exclamation escaped the big Turkish woman, who sprang to her feet, and ran and caught the professor’s hand.
“Mr Preston!” she cried. “Do you not know me?”
“Mrs Chumley!” cried the professor. “You here!”