I am awakened at dawn by some one moving about in the room, and I see a man pick up a gun and pass quickly out.  The dogs are barking savagely throughout the village.  Then I look about me.  Imagine my surprise when I discover that I have had five bed-fellows, or rather floor-fellows!  There we lay stretched out in all sorts of angles and curves—­American, Syrian, Circassian; Christian and Mohammedan—­forming a kind of crazy patch-work on the earthen floor.  And imagine my supreme disgust when I discover a big, dirty, odorous, unshod human foot, erect on the heel and with toes spread out like a fan, within a few inches of my face!  Bah!  How was it that I slept!  I turn my face to the wall and soon lose thought of the disturbing vision in slumber.

It is quite late when again I wake.  The host is sitting on his mat near me fumbling beads and chanting prayers.  Without moving I watch him for a while and note that he is also interested in me, and that he now knows that I am awake.  I begin an investigation of myself, and find, to my glad surprise, that while I am stiff and sore I feel quite refreshed.  I dress myself—­a simple matter this morning, simply putting on my shoes—­and while my dragoman prepares our breakfast I exercise myself somewhat by walking down to an old Roman bridge spanning the small stream flowing through the village.  In this half-hour I get a good general knowledge of the location of the town, its outline, its magnificent ruins, etc.  But I am not ready yet for sight-seeing.  I prefer to listen to the brook singing its happy way almost hidden among the pink oleanders that grow in such profusion along its sides.  The running water, the perfume of the flowers, the flood of sunlight—­these are like balm to me after my awful yesterday.  Certainly I shall be ready early to study the ruins of this wonderful, mysterious, ancient city.

Breakfast is ready.  It consists of boiled eggs, bread, cheese, and tea.  Our table is the floor on which we slept.  The male members of the house-hold join us as we sit on mats around the simple meal.  Our host sends one of the men (a visitor to a Mohammedan home never meets, and frequently never sees a woman) to bring a little of his own bread.  It does not look at all tempting to me, but I am told that if I wish to secure my host’s friendship I must eat of it.  This I do, but only once, and now he would be almost willing to die for me should occasion arise.

After breakfast he shows me some antique coins that he had found, and when my guide explains that I am an American schoolmaster, he manifests exceedingly his delight.  He almost pulls me out into his little yard where he had been digging, and where he had unearthed an inscribed cylindrical block of marble about two feet in diameter and four feet in length.  The lettering is in Greek.  He thinks it must tell of hidden treasure.  And so it does to me, but not of the kind for which he is looking.  The inscription is partially effaced, but I see enough to conclude that it was likely at one time the pedestal of a statue.