222 
THE MEDITERRANEAN NATURALIST 
bullets for bis Peabody breech-loader, and a for- 
midable yataghan — all which articles thrust into , 
his belt cause his figure to protrude in front fulh 
as much as it does behind in the storey below. 
The fifth stratum is composed of a dark blue 
jacket and waistcoat, profusely braided, and so 
shallow on the back as scarcely to cover his 
shoulders, leaving a broad strip of shirt visible 
between waistcoat and belt. His long jacket 
sleeves hang loosely from his shoulders in collegiate ' 
fashion. His bushy head is crowned with a 
crimson fez; not the skull-cap worn alike by Turks 
and Greeks in the East, but tall and square-topped 
like a chimney pot, bound with a silk rag instead 
of a turban, and decorated with a bunch of flowers, 
strangely incongruous with the wild and often 
savage expression of his swarthy countenance. 
The better class of Zeybec wears round his neck, 
suspended by a silver chain, a small square case of 
the same metal, containing his papers, and another 
of triangular form holding some text from the 
Koran, to insure him protection on his perilous 
raids. 
Years ago one of the London illustrated perio- 
dicals gave a full-length portrait of one of these 
mountaineers, entitling it “the last of the Zeybecs.” 
but the race is not yet extinct, as can be proved 
by any one who ventures into the recesses of the 
Tmolus or Messogis. 
In the morning Mr. Ramsay felt so much indis- 
posed that he decided to return to Smyrna by 
the first train. Having despatched him under 
the safe guidance of Kara All to the station of 
Sultan Hissar, Mr. Purser and I started for the 
Meadow with an escort of Zeybecs, all armed, 
some on foot in front, seven or eight on horseback 
behind, with mounted servants bringing up the 
rear. 
On our way to the opposite half of the village we 
crossed the torrent by a narrow bridge of planks. 
Here the horse of one of the Zeybecs, who was lead- 
ing it, suddenly pulled the end of the bridle out of 
his hand and fell backwards upon a shelf of rock, 
many feet beneath, but, being saved by his massive 
saddle, the beast managed to scramble out of the 
stream with scarcely a scratch. We followed the 
upward course of the ravine by a rugged path 
worn by the charcoal burners across the mountain 
range. The slopes on either hand were shaded by 
young oaks, and the torrent between them fretted 
its way among rocks of grey limestone, white 
marble, or glittering schist. At a spot where the 
path was narrowest, we encountered a train of 
horses, laden with charcoal, and driven by grimy 
Bulgarians. In the attempt to pass, the leading 
horses of our party lost their footing, Mr. Purser 
was thrown to the ground, with Baba the Zeybec 
upon him, but the accident fortunately resulted 
in bruised instead of broken limbs. The path 
indeed was in many parts dangerous, especially 
when it wound round the heads of the little 
gullies, which fed the main stream, and kept the 
narrow path moist and slippery, just where a false 
step would have precipitated beast and rider into 
a rocky chasm. 
The woods we were traversing bore abundant 
traces of the havoc made by the carbonari. Here 
they were felling trees with a dexterity which our 
own grand old wood-cutter might have envied: 
there they were trimming them into logs, or 
stacking them on the steep hill side, or covering 
the stacks with earth, from which the smoke was 
sullenly escaping in blue wreaths. In a few places 
we observed a cleared spot, sown with barley, or 
planted with walnut or cherry-trees. But of 
habitations, after leaving Malagatch, we saw nor, ?. 
After an ascent of some two hours and a half we 
emerged from the ravine and exchanged the 
wooded slopes for grassy downs, thinly studded 
with venerable Spanish chestnuts, which reminded 
me that the name given by the Turks to the 
Messogis chain is that of Ivestaneh Pagli — the 
“mountain of chestnuts" — which tree is said ’ > 
abound throughout the higher regions of this 
range. From a; spot called Dikeli Tash, or “I'p- 
right Stone”, we looked southward into an 
adjoining Here, running almost parallel to that 
through which we had ascended; and far away in 
the opposite direction, to a lofty snowclad chain 
of mountains, which I recognised as the Tmolus, 
under whose shadow I had explored the tombs of 
the Lydian kings in the winter of 1863-69. and 
again, with the Temyle of Cybele at Sardis in the 
spring of 1882. 
An hour and a half over these downs, and the 
Meadow we were seeking, called Ovajik by the 
Zeybecs, lay beneath us — a green plateau on the 
northern verge of the Messogis, just where the 
