egiment, irreproachable in every detail of his
dress, and delicate as a woman in his tastes. I saw before me a man of
good height, wrapped in an old Turkish kaftan of green cloth lined with
fur, his feet thrust into a pair of worn-out red slippers. His dark
brown hair had grown till it fell upon his shoulders, his beard reached
halfway to his waist, his face was ghastly white and thin to emaciation.
The hand he had given me was like a parcel of bones in a thin glove. I
doubted whether he were the man, after all.

"We must be quick," I said. "Have you anything to take away?" He cast a
piteous glance at his poor clothing.

"This is all I have," he said in a low voice. Then, with a half-feminine
touch of vanity, he added, "You must excuse me: I am hardly fit to go
with you." He looked wildly at me for a moment, and again laughed and
sobbed hysterically. The apartment was indeed empty enough. There was a
low round table, a wretched old divan at one end, and a sort of bed
spread upon the floor, in the old Turkish fashion. The whole place
seemed to consist of a single room, lighted by a small oil lamp which
hung in one corner. The stuccoed walls were green with dampness, and the
cold was intense. I wondered how the poor man had lived so long in such
a place. I put my arm under his, and threw my heavy military cloak over
his shoulders. Then I led him away through the open door. The key was
still in the lock without, and Balsamides held Selim tightly by the
collar. When we had passed, Gregorios, instead of following us, held the
Lala at arm's-length before him. Then he administered one tremendous
kick, and sent the wretch flying into the empty cell; he locked the door
on him with care, and withdrew the keys.

"I told you I would protect you," he called out through the keyhole.
"You will be quite safe there for the present." Then he turned away,
laughing to himself, and we all three hurried down the path under the
wall, till we reached the small door by which we had entered the garden.
Stumbling down the narrow lane, we soon got to the road, and found the
carriage where we had left it. There was no time for words as we almost
lifted the wretched Russian into the carriage and got in after him.

"To my house in Pera!" cried Balsamides to the patient coachman. "Pek
tchabuk! As fast as you can drive!"

"Evvet Effendim," replied the old soldier, and in another moment we were
tearing along the road at breakneck speed.

Hitherto