Looking at Semendria from one of the three land
sides, you have a castle of Ercole di Ferrara; looking at it from the
water, you have the boulevard of a Van der Meulen.
The Natchalnik accompanied me in a visit to the fortress, protected
from accident by a couple of soldiers; for the castle of Semendria is
still, like that of Shabatz, in the hands of a few Turkish spahis and
their families. The news from Shabatz having produced a alight
ferment, we found several armed Moslems at the gate; but they did not
allow the Servians to pass, with the exception of the Natchalnik and
another man. "This is new," said he; "I never knew them to be so wary
and suspicious before." We now found ourselves within the walls of the
fortress. A shabby wooden _cafe_ was opposite to us; a mosque of the
same material rose with its worm-eaten carpentry to our right. The
cadi, a pompous vulgar old man, now met us, and signified that we
might as well repose at his chardak, but from inhospitality or
fanaticism, gave us neither pipes nor coffee. His worship was so
proud, that he scarcely deigned to speak.
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