The boy's address
resembled a little that of a highly polished and insinuating Roman
Catholic priest, but had more of girlish gentleness. It was
strange to hear him gravely and slowly enunciating the common and
extravagant compliments of the East in good Italian, and in soft,
persuasive tones. I recollect that I was particularly amused at
the gracious obstinacy with which he maintained that the house in
which I was so hospitably entertained belonged not to his father,
but to me. To say this once was only to use the common form of
speech, signifying no more than our sweet word "welcome," but the
amusing part of the matter was that, whenever in the course of
conversation I happened to speak of his father's house or the
surrounding domain, the boy invariably interfered to correct my
pretended mistake, and to assure me once again with a gentle
decisiveness of manner that the whole property was really and
exclusively mine, and that his father had not the most distant
pretensions to its ownership.
I received from my host much, and (as I now know) most true,
information respecting the people of the mountains, and their power
of resisting Mehemet Ali.
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