“It is all one,” he replied. “You should give it back.”
But as we went out through the cloister I noticed that the columns which supported it were double columns of a type peculiar to Christian architecture. They had in all probability been removed from a church.
“Mullah Effendi,” said I, “we are equal. I have taken a tile out of your Moslem tomb, and you the columns from our Christian church.”
The mullah’s indignation vanished in a flash. “Âferîn!” he cried, with a jolly laugh. “Bravo!” and he clapped me on the back.
The ḥammâl’s confidence in the arabajî had not been misplaced; we set out next morning for the Ḳara Dâgh, and every mile was full of delightful reminiscence. The yellow roses dropped their petals in familiar fashion over the mountain path, mullein and borage spread their annual carpet of blue and gold between the ruins, and the peak of Mahalech, on which I had found a Hittite inscription and a Christian monastery, stood guardian, as of old, over the green cup wherein had lain an ancient city. The sturdy Yuruks came striding down from their high yailas to bid us a joyful coming and a slow departure; many were the greetings that passed round the camp fire, and it was well that Fattûḥ had laid in a good provision of coffee at Ḳaramân.
So on a hot morning we struck our last camp and rode down the northern slopes of the mountain to rejoin the railway by which we were to travel to Konia. And as we crossed the level plain Fattûḥ observed with satisfaction:
“The cornland has increased since two years ago. Effendim, there is twice as much sown ground.”
“Praise God!” said I. “It is the doing of the railway.”
“Wherever it passes the corn springs up,” said Fattûḥ. “Mâshallah! Konia will become a great city.”
“It has grown in our knowledge,” said I. “But this year we shall find it much changed, for all our friends have left.”