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Mudura Ghana provides me with a repast of bread and yaort, and endeavors to make my brief halt comfortable. While I am discussing these refreshments, himself and another unwashed, unkempt old party come to high, angry words about me; but whatever it is about I haven't the slightest idea. Mine host seems a regular old savage when angry.

Vartarian himself, his brother and tho whole roomful of visitors rise simultaneously to their feet, and equally simultaneously put their hands on their respective stomachs, and, turning toward me, salaam; mine host then comes forward, shakes hands, gives me the letter to Mudura Ghana, and permits me to depart.

The other man doesn't seem to mind it, though, and keeps up his end of the controversy or whatever it is in a comparatively cool and aggravating manner, that seems to feed Mudura Ghana's righteous wrath, until I quite expect to see that outraged person reach down one of the swords off the wall and hack his opponent into sausage-meat.

Vartarian complacently nods assent, and his brother, with equal complacency rolls me a cigarette, after which a good half-hour is consumed in preparing for me a letter of introduction to their friend Mudura Ghana in the village of Kachahurda, which I expect to reach somewhere near noon; mine host dictates while his brother writes.