A priest, with an emaciated
visage, sore eyes, and a distracted look, came up, and wished me good
evening, and began a lengthened tale of grievances. I asked the
khan-keeper who he was, and received for answer that he was a Greek
priest from Bosnia, who had hoarded some money, and had been squeezed
by the Moslem tyrant of his village, which drove him mad. Confused
ejaculations, mingled with sighs, fell from him, as if he supposed his
story to be universally known.
"Sit down, good man," said I, "and tell me your tale, for I am a
stranger, and never heard it before. Tell it me, beginning with the
beginning, and ending with the end."
"Bogami Gospody," said the priest, wiping the copious tears, "I was
once the happiest man in Bosnia; the sun never rose without my
thanking God for having given me so much peace and happiness: but Ali
Kiahya, where I lived, received information that I had money hid. One
day his Momkes took me before him. My appeals for mercy and justice
were useless. I was thrown down on my face, and received 617 strokes
on my soles, praying for courage to hold out.
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