XVI.

If any of the party could have guessed what Gregorios Balsamides and I

were doing on that dark night, they would not have slept as soundly as

they did. It was an evil night, a night for a bad deed, I thought, as I

looked out of the carriage-window, when we were clear of the houses and

streets of Pera. The black clouds drove angrily down before the north

wind, seeming to tear themselves in pieces on the stars, as one might

tear a black veil upon steel nails. The wind swept the desolate country,

and made the panes of the windows rattle even more loudly than did the

hoofs and wheels upon the stony road. But the horses were strong, and

the driver was not a shivering Greek, but a sturdy Turk, who could laugh

at the wind as it whistled past his ears, striking full upon his broad

chest. He drove fast along the rising ground, and faster as he reached

the high bend which the road follows above the Bosphorus, winding in and

out among the hills till it descends at last to Therapia.

"The clouds look like the souls of the lost, to-night," said Balsamides,

drawing his fur coat closely around him. "One can imagine how Dante

conceived the idea of the scene in hell, when the souls stream down the

wind."

"You seem poetically inclined," I answered.

"Why not? We are out upon a romantic errand. Our lives are not often

romantic. We may as well make the best of it, as a beggar does when he

gets a bowl of rice."

"I should fancy you had led a very romantic life," said I, lighting a

cigarette in the dark, and leaning back against the cushions.

"That is what women always say when they want a man to make

confidences," laughed Balsamides. "No, I have not led a romantic life. I

pass most of my time sitting on my horse in the hot sun, or the driving

snow, preserving, or pretending to preserve, the life of his Majesty

from real or imaginary dangers. Or else I sit eight or nine hours a day

chatting and smoking with the other adjutants. It is not a healthy life.

It is certainly not romantic."

"Not as you describe it. But I judged from the ease with which you made

the preparations for this expedition that you had done things of the

sort before."

My friend laughed again, but turned the subject.

"I hope that when we meet your friends to-morrow morning, we may have

something to show for our night's work," he said. "Fancy what an

excitement there would be if we brought Alexander Patoff back with us!

Not that it is at all probable. We may bring back nothing but broken

bones."

"I do not think Selim will hurt us much," I answered. "He is not exactly

an athlete. I would risk a fight with him."

"I dare say. But there may be plenty of strong fellows about the

premises. There are the four caidjs, the boatmen, to begin with. There

is a coachman and probably two grooms. Very likely there are half a

dozen big hamals about."

"That makes thirteen," I said. "Six and a half to one, or four and a

third to one, if we count upon our own driver."

"You may count upon him," replied Gregorios. "He is an old soldier, and

as strong as a lion. In case of necessity he will call the watch from

Yeni Koej. There is a small detachment of infantry there. But we shall

not have to resort to such measures. I believe that I can make the

Khanum confess. If so, I can make her order Selim to give up Patoff, if

he is alive."

"And if he is dead?"

"It will be the worse for the Khanum and her people. She is not in good

odor at the palace. It would not take much to have her exiled to Arabia,

even though she be dying, as they say she is. That is the question. Let

me only find her alive, and I will answer for the rest."

"She might very well refuse to confess, I fancy," I remarked, surprised

at my friend's tone of conviction.

"I believe not," he said shortly. Then he remained silent for some time.

My nerves are good; but I did not like the business, though I knew it

was undertaken for a good purpose, and that if we were successful we

should be conferring great and lasting happiness upon more than one of

my friends. I had heard many queer stories of wild deeds in the East,

and in my own experience had been concerned in at least one strange and

unhappy story, which had ended in my losing sight forever of a man who

was very dear to me. I do not think that the fact of having been in

danger necessarily brings with it a liking for dangerous adventures,

though it undoubtedly makes a man more fit to encounter perils of all

kinds. Few men are absolutely careless of life, and those who are, do

not of necessity court death. It is one thing to say that one would

readily die at any moment; it is quite another to seek risks and to

incur them voluntarily. The brave man, as a general rule, does not feel

a thrill of pleasure until the struggle has actually begun; when he is

expecting it he is grave and cautious, lest it should come upon him

unawares. This, at least, I believe to be the character of the Northern

man, and I think it constitutes one of his elements of superiority.

Balsamides is an Oriental, and looks at things very differently. In his

belief death will come at its appointed time, whether a man stay at home

and nurse his safety, or whether he lead the front in battle. The

essence of fatalism is the conviction that death must come at a certain

time, no matter what a man is doing, nor how he may try to protect

himself. This is the reason why the fanatic Mussulman is absolutely

indifferent to danger. He firmly believes that if he is to die, death

will overtake him at the plow as surely as in storming an enemy's

battery. But he believes also that if he dies fighting against

unbelievers his place in Paradise will be far higher than if he dies

upon his farm, his ambrosial refreshment more abundant, and the

dark-eyed houris who will soothe his eternal repose more beautiful and

more numerous. The low-born hamal in the street will march up to the

mouth of the guns without so much as a cup of coffee to animate him,

with an absolute courage not found in men who have not his unswerving

faith. To him Paradise is an almost visible reality, and the attainment

of it depends only on his individual exertions. But what is most strange

is the fact that this indifference to death is contagious, so that

Christians who live among Turks unconsciously acquire much of the Moslem

belief in fate. The Albanians, who are chiefly Christians, are among the

bravest officers in the Turkish army, as they are amongst the most

faithfully devoted to the Sultan and to the interests of the Empire.

Balsamides was in a mood which differed widely from mine. As we

clattered over the rough road in the face of the north wind, I was

thinking of what was before us, anticipating trouble, and determining

within myself what I would do. If I were ready to meet danger, it was

from an inward conviction of necessity which clearly presented itself to

me, and I consequently made the best of it. But Balsamides grew merry as

we proceeded. His spirits rose at the mere thought of a fight, until I

almost fancied that he would provoke an unnecessary struggle rather than

forego the pleasure of dealing a few blows. It was a new phase of his

character, and I watched him, or rather listened to him, with interest.

"This is positively delightful," he said in a cheerful voice.

"What?" I inquired, with pardonable curiosity.

"What? In an hour or two we may have strangled the Lala, have forced the

old Khanum to confess her iniquities, kicked the retainers into the

Bosphorus, and be on our way back, with Alexander Patoff in this very

carriage! I cannot imagine a more delightful prospect."

"It is certainly a lively entertainment for a cold night," I replied.

"But if you expect me to murder anybody in cold blood, I warn you that I

will not do it."

"No; but they may show fight," he said. "A little scuffle would be such

a rest after leading this monotonous life. I should think you would be

more enthusiastic."

"I shall reserve my enthusiasm until the fight is over."

"Then it will be of no use to you. Where is the pleasure in talking

about things when they are past? The real pleasure is in action."

"Action is not necessarily bloodshed," said I. "Active exercise is

undoubtedly good for mind and body, but when you take it by strangling

your fellow-creatures"----

"Rubbish!" exclaimed Balsamides. "What is the life of one Lala more or

less in this world? Besides, he will not be killed unless he deserves

it."

"With your ideas about the delight of such amusements, you will be

likely to find that he deserves it. I do not think he would be very safe

in your keeping."

"No, perhaps not," he answered, with a light laugh. "If he objects to

letting me in, I shall take great pleasure in making short work of him.

I am rather sorry you have put on that uniform. Your appearance will

probably inspire so much respect that they will all act like sheep in a

thunderstorm,--huddle together, and bleat or squeal. It is some

consolation to think that unless I appeared with an adjutant they would

not believe that I came from the palace."

"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 have no names. What am I to call you,

if I have to speak to you?"

"Anything," said Balsamides. "She does not know the name of the court

physician, I suppose. However, you had better call me by his name. She

might know, after all. Call me Kalopithaki Bey. You are Mehemet Bey.

That is simple enough. Here we are coming to the house; be ready, they

will open the door if they recognize the palace carriage through the

lattice. Of course every one will be up if the old lady is dying, and it

is not much past twelve. The man has driven fast."

The wheels rattled over the pavement, and we drew up before the door of

Laleli's house. We both descended quickly, and Balsamides went up the

broad steps which led to the door and knocked. Some one opened almost

immediately, and a harsh voice--not Selim's--called out,--

"Who is there?"

"From the palace, by order of his Majesty," answered Balsamides,

promptly. I showed myself by his side, and, as he had predicted, the

effect produced by the adjutant's uniform was instantaneous. The man

made a low salute, which we hastily returned, and held the door wide

open for us to pass; closing it and bolting it, however, when we had

entered. I noticed that the bolts slid easily and noiselessly in their

sockets. The man was a sturdy and military Turk, I observed, with

grizzled mustaches and a face deeply marked with small-pox.

We entered a lofty vestibule, lighted by two hanging lamps. The floor

was matted, but there was no furniture of any description. At the

opposite end a high doorway was closed by a heavy curtain. A large

Turkish mangal, or brazier, stood in the middle of the wide hall. The

man turned to the right and led us into a smaller apartment, of which

the walls were ornamented with mirrors in gilt frames. A low divan,

covered with satin of the disagreeable color known as magenta,

surrounded the room on all sides. Two small tables, inlaid with

tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl, stood side by side in the middle of

the apartment.

"Buyurun, be seated, Effendimlir," said the man, who then left the room.

A moment later we heard his harsh voice at some distance:--

"Selim, Selim! There are two Effendilir from Yildiz-Kioeshk in the

selamlek!"

We sat down to wait.

"The porter is a genuine Turk, and not a Circassian. A Circassian would

have said 'Effendilir,' without the 'm,' in the vocative when he spoke

to us, as he did when he used it in the nominative to Selim."

I reflected that Balsamides had good nerves if he could notice

grammatical niceties at such a moment.