I had observed armed guards at the entrance of the
town, and felt at a loss to account for the cause. The rooms of the
khan being uninhabitable, I sent Paul with my letter of introduction
to the Natchalnik, and sat down in the khan kitchen, which was a
parlour at the same time; an apartment, with a brick floor, one side
of which was fitted up with a broad wooden bench (the bare boards
being in every respect preferable in such cases to cushions, as one
has a better chance of cleanliness).
The other side of the apartment was like a hedge alehouse in England,
with a long table and moveable benches. Several Servians sat here
drinking coffee and smoking; others drinking wine. The Cahwagi was
standing with his apron on, at a little charcoal furnace, stirring his
small coffee-pot until the cream came. I ordered some wine for myself,
as well as the Suregee, but the latter said, "I do not drink wine." I
now looked him in the face, and saw that he was of a very dark
complexion; for I had made the last stage after sunset, and had not
remarked him.
_Author_. "Are you a Chingany (gipsy)?"
_Gipsy_.
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