‘TA-MÍ, ta-mí! Shumah ta-mí?’ M.'s firm decided tone of voice roused me from as profound a sleep as mortal man could possibly desire in such an inhospitable hostelry, and to the consciousness of a stormy debate that was going on between him and the soi-disant master of the house, regarding the various items in a bill about three feet in length, at the same time that I became thoroughly aware of the filthiness of my al fresco bed-chamber. Though the daylight, in a leaden-grey complexion, was struggling hard to obtain an ascendency over the stubborn gloom of the dawn, and surrounding objects were all but imperceptible, everybody was astir and busy. M. had been up for a long time, had seen the ponies fed, and was now beginning to practise the Mandarin tongue with a force and intentness of purpose that would have startled a dormouse. The particular matter in dispute at that moment seemed to be a novelty to him, as he kept repeating and inquiring about it, until I rejoiced to learn that it was only barley—the barley that had been given to our four-footed bed-fellows.

Rubbing my eyes, hot and painful as they felt from the yellow glare and smoky flame of the lamp, and scrambling down from the hard board, booted and spurred, with legs cramped and head aching, I did not find the prospect of such an early getting-up at all cheering; but there was no help for it, and I longed to get a mouthful of good air.