There was indeed no such thing there. The spot was covered by half a
thousand or so of wooden houses, mixed together, higgledy-piggledy, so
inextricably, that the shortest way to everybody's house was through his
neighbour's passage, hall, or courtyard, and inasmuch as the inmates of
whole rows of these houses were in the habit of living together in the
closest and most mysterious harmony, every house was so arranged that
the inhabitants thereof could slip into the neighbouring dwelling at a
moment's notice. In some cases, for instance, the roofs were continuous;
in others the cellars communicated, so that if ever anyone of the
inhabitants were suddenly pursued, he could, with the assistance of the
roofs, passages, and cellars, vanish without leaving a trace behind him.
Halil Patrona's house was of wood like the rest. It consisted of a
single room, yet this was a room which could be made to hold a good
deal. It had a fire-place also, and if perhaps a chance guest were a
little fastidious, he could at any rate always make sure of a good bed
on the roof, which was embowered in vine leaves. There was certainly no
extravagant display of furniture inside. A rush-mat in the middle of the
room, a bench covered with a carpet in the corner, a few wooden plates
and dishes, a jug on a wooden shelf, and a couple of very simple
cooking-utensils in the fire-place--that was all. From the roof of the
chamber hung an earthenware lamp, which Patrona kindled with an
old-fashioned flint and steel.
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