He Was A Tall, Bony, And Broad-Shouldered Mountaineer, About
Forty Years Old, With The Large Bombe Brow, The Fierce Eyes, Thin Lips,
Lean Jaws, And Peaky Chin Of His Race.
His mustachios were enormously
long and tapering, and the rest of his face, like his head, was close
shaven.
His Fustan[FN#23] was none of the cleanest; nor was the red
cap, which he wore rakishly pulled over his frowning forehead, quite
free from stains. Not permitted to carry the favourite pistols, he
contented himself with sticking his right hand in the empty belt, and
stalking about the house with a most military mien. Yet he was as
little of a bully as carpet knight, that same Ali Agha; his body showed
many a grisly scar, and one of his shin bones had been broken by a
Turkish bullet, when he was playing tricks on the Albanian hills,-an
accident inducing a limp, which he attempted to conceal by a heavy
swagger. When he spoke, his voice was affectedly gruff; he had a sad
knack of sneering, and I never saw him thoroughly sober.
Our acquaintance began with a kind of storm, which blew over, and left
fine weather. I was showing Haji Wali my pistols with Damascene barrels
when Ali Agha entered the room. He sat down before me with a grin,
which said intelligibly enough, "What business have you with
weapons?"-snatched the arm out of my hand, and began to inspect it as a
connoisseur.
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