Our route leads us by some high rocks. They are broken into strange and fantastic forms; they rear themselves up on each bank of the Euphrates, and frown down on the waters below. Here domes and pinnacles stand out in bold relief; there, the figure of a man, shaped as if from the hands of a sculptor, is balanced on a projecting stone, and totters on the brink of the abyss.
Mulberry and apple-trees grow in wild profusion along the banks. We leave them behind. The track steadily ascends. We are more than 1200 feet from the waters. I gaze down on the mighty river; it winds its serpent-like coils at our feet. They twist and foam and lose themselves behind the crags. Higher we go.
Vegetation disappears, we are in the realms of snow; continuing for some miles over the waste, the path descends into a valley. Egin lies before us.
It is a long, straggling town, with a population of 10,000 souls, and much resembles Arabkir. We rode over the roofs of many houses ere we reached our destination—the house of an Armenian merchant, who had ridden out himself to place it at our disposal. The following day I called upon the Caimacan—a little man, who spoke Italian very fairly. He had been only seven months at his present post. The Cadi was seated at his side. After the governor had announced that the Conference was a failure—a piece of news which I had heard before—the Cadi observed that he should like to tell me a story.
"He relates a story very well," said the Caimacan.
"We all like his stories," said the rest of the company.
"By all means," I said; and the Cadi, thus encouraged, began,—
"Many thousand years ago there was a prophet—he was a great man, he was a marvel—his name was Daniel!"
This last word was duly repeated by the assembled guests; and the Caimacan gave a little cough.
"I have heard this story before," he observed; "but it is a good one. Go on."