All laugh and talk and holler. My little companion whispers to me to do just what the others do. I see the master of ceremonies lift a huge knife, and then with one blow which makes the glasses dance, sever the entire roasted lamb. One more blow and the “jaraz” lies cut in four parts.
The guests drop the edge of the table cloth, wipe their eyes and hair—the ones who did not skilfully hide and shelter themselves with the cloth. The master of the house congratulates the master of ceremonies upon his skill and dexterity.
This officially ends the meal. To be sure cakes and fruit are brought in, but only the ladies taste of them. The men continue to drink. The Archimandrite rises, thanks the master of the house for the banquet. The kissing of shoulders begins again, and I attempt to take advantage of the opportunity by making my own adieux, when the hands of my little companion grab me by the arm and she whispers: “Please don't go now. I'm afraid! I'm afraid!” I see that she is watching anxiously a little group at one end of the table.
Beside the master of the house stands that young gloomy looking man—the wooer whom Nine had
