ace."

"It is a consolation to me to think that my presence may render it
unnecessary for you to strangle, crucify, burn alive, and drown the
whole population of Yeni Koej," I answered. "I dare say you have done
most of those things at one time or another."

"In insurrections, such as we occasionally have in Albania and Crete, it
is imperative sometimes to make an example. But I am not bloodthirsty."

"No; from your conversation I should take you for a lamb," said I.

"I am not bloodthirsty," continued Gregorios. "I should not care to kill
a man who was quite defenseless, or who was innocent. Indeed, I would
not do such a thing on any account."

"You amaze me," I observed.

"No. But I like fighting. I enter into the spirit of the thing. There is
really nothing more exhilarating,--I even believe it is healthy."

"For the survivors it is good exercise. Those who do not survive are, of
course, no longer in a condition to appreciate the fun."

"Exactly; the fun consists in surviving."

"One does not always survive," I objected.

"What is the difference?" exclaimed Balsamides, who probably shrugged
his shoulders, in his dark corner of the carriage. "A man can die only
once, and then it is all over."

"A man can also live only once," said I. "A living dog is better than a
dead lion."

"Very little," answered Balsamides, with a laugh. "I would rather have
been a living lion for ever so short a time, and be dead, than be a Pera
dog forever. The Preacher would have been nearer to the truth if he had
said that a living man is better than a dead man. But the Preacher was
an Oriental, and naturally had to use a simile to express his meaning."

Suddenly the carriage stopped in the road. Then, after a moment's pause,
we turned to the right, and began to descend a steep hill, slowly and
cautiously, for the night was very dark and the road bad.

"We are going down to Yeni Koej," said Balsamides. "In twenty minutes we
shall be there. I will get out of the carriage first. Remember that,
once there, you must not speak a word of any language but Turkish."

Slowly we crept down the hill, the wheels grinding in the drag, and
jolting heavily from time to time. There were trees by the
roadside,--indeed, we were on the outskirts of the Belgrade forest. The
bare boughs swayed and creaked in the bitter March wind, and as I peered
out through the window the night seemed more hideous than ever.

"By the by," said I, suddenly, "we