The Ottoman horseman, raised by his saddle to a great height above
the humble level of the back that he bestrides, and using an
awfully sharp bit, is able to lift the crest of his nag, and force
him into a strangely fast shuffling walk, the orthodox pace for the
journey. My comrade and I, using English saddles, could not easily
keep our beasts up to this peculiar amble; besides, we thought it a
bore to be FOLLOWED by our attendants for a thousand miles, and we
generally, therefore, did duty as the rearguard of our "grand
army"; we used to walk our horses till the party in front had got
into the distance, and then retrieve the lost ground by a gallop.
We had ridden on for some two or three hours; the stir and bustle
of our commencing journey had ceased, the liveliness of our little
troop had worn off with the declining day, and the night closed in
as we entered the great Servian forest. Through this our road was
to last for more than a hundred miles. Endless, and endless now on
either side, the tall oaks closed in their ranks and stood gloomily
lowering over us, as grim as an army of giants with a thousand
years' pay in arrear. One strived with listening ear to catch some
tidings of that forest world within--some stirring of beasts, some
night-bird's scream, but all was quite hushed, except the voice of
the cicalas that peopled every bough, and filled the depths of the
forest through and through, with one same hum everlasting--more
stifling than very silence.
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