a cyclops, with one fiery eye in the middle of my forehead.
We came into the fields where the daisies and poppies were sleeping together, and passing through still another field, we arrived at the place where the Damlaly Pasha lived. Then I knew that the opening in the wall and the goddess had invited me to call on them that night.
Climbing over the opening was not an easy task, for my bedroom slippers were soft, and the stones of the tumble-down wall were hard and sharp; but I accomplished it. As for the fireflies, they had no difficulty: they flew over the wall as if it were not there at all.
Inside, the sense of real exploration came over me. The garden was old-fashioned, where the flowers grew in disorder, as they generally do in Turkish gardens. How delicious was the perfume of the flowers. I felt sure that, like me and the fireflies and the frogs and the nightingales, the flowers here were awake—and not like the daisies and poppies, who are sleepy-heads. But in vain did I look for my goddess. She was not there.
Presently another little form came moving along through the bushes. We met in the shrubbery. I pushed aside the branches, put my face through, and in Turkish I said:
"Hullo, Sitanthy!"
