Our
_caiquegee_, as the oarsman of a caique is called, ought not to be
overlooked. His costume was in keeping with his pretty caique, which was
painted a delicate straw-color and had white linen cushions. He was a
tall, finely-built fellow, a Cretan or Bulgarian I should think, for he
looked too wide awake for a Turk. The sun had burned his olive
complexion to the deepest brown, and his black eyes and white teeth when
he smiled lighted up his intelligent face, making him very handsome. He
wore a turban, loose shirt with hanging sleeves and voluminous trousers,
all of snowy whiteness. A blue jacket embroidered with gilt braid was in
readiness to put on when he stopped rowing. It must have taken a ruinous
amount of material to make those trousers. They were full at the waist
and knee, and before seating himself to his oars he gracefully threw the
extra amount of the fullness which drooped behind over the wide seat as
a lady spreads out her overskirt.
[Illustration: SHEPHERDS.]
Last night we bade farewell to the strange old city with its picturesque
sights, its glorious views and the many points of interest we had grown
so familiar with. Our adieus were said, the ammales had taken our
baggage to the steamer, which lay at anchor off Seraglio Point, and
before dark we went on board, ready to sail at an early hour.
The bustle of getting underway at daylight this morning woke me, and I
went on deck in time to take a farewell look.
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