We were right glad when morning came, and after a mug of thick coffee, a bit of bread, and a handful of figs, we bid farewell to Krevata with no regrets.  A short ride brought us to the brow of the range on which we were traveling, and there lay the valley of Sparta at our feet, and beyond it the Taygetus, if not the highest, the boldest and sharpest mountain-range in Greece.  Its white and jagged crest was still tipped with clouds, and it appeared to rise from the valley of Sparta in an almost unbroken ascent to its hight of seven thousand feet.  This was the finest single prospect of our journey; but we gladly left it, after a short pause, to push on to the warmth and sunshine of the valley below.  The precipitous descent was soon accomplished; we forded the Eurotas, a broad, clear, shallow stream, the only real river we saw in Greece, and stood in Sparta, its site marked by a group of low hills and a few unimportant ruins.  The ground is good, and was then green with young wheat; the valley was sheltered from the winds which had persecuted us on the highlands, and for a few hours in the middle of the day, the clouds were scattered, and we basked in the sun’s rays.  It seemed an Elysium.  A small and thrifty village has recently sprung up south of this group of hills, still within the limits of the ancient city, and here we dined in a cafe (kapheterion) kept by one Lycurgus, not on black broth, but on roast lamb, omelette, figs, oranges, and wine.  Truly, if national character depended wholly on physical geography, we should be inclined to look in the valley of the Eurotas for the rich and luxurious Athens, and seek its stern and simple rival among the bleak hills and sterile plains of Attica.  We had a short ride that afternoon up the valley of the Eurotas, with a keen north wind in our faces, and were not sorry to reach Kalyvia at an early hour.

Dhemetri had sent the pack-horse with our baggage across by a shorter path, and now announced that we were to sleep to-night in a house instead of a khan, that the mayor (demarchos) of Kalyvia had consented to receive us.  Great was our exultation at the prospect of spending a night in this aristocratic mansion, and in truth we found the accommodations here much the most comfortable—­nay, we reckoned them luxurious—­which we had on our journey.  We were first shown into a small room with one glass window, with tight walls, and a chimney.  A fire was burning cheerfully on the hearth—­that is to say, a stone platform slightly elevated above the floor.  The floor around the fire was spread with mats, and in one corner the lady of the house was—­what shall I say?—­squatted upon the floor, engaged in domestic work.  Her daughter, a pretty, blue-eyed maiden, of some fourteen years, named Athena, glaykhopis Hathhena, was working by her side, and the demarch himself, with his stalwart son, were similarly seated on the opposite side of the hearth.  Three rough, unpainted stools, an extra luxury for guests, were brought in for us, and we at once plunged into conversation.