passengers, with a large amount of baggage, came alongside and were taken aboard; and as a double precaution, the distinguished pasha and his attendants went down the forepeak until the vessel got outside.  Their goods were put into the upper side-bunkers, and a wooden bulkhead put up to obscure them from view in case the vessel was boarded before getting clear.  At midnight the anchor was weighed, and the steamer slipped out into the Black Sea.  Every ounce of steam was used to make speed, and she was soon into safety so far as distance could help her.

The passengers, composed of the pasha, his priest, cook, interpreter, and servant, were then brought from their hiding-place and taken to the captain’s private room.  The vessel by this time was enveloped in a dense black fog.  The first blast of the steam whistle startled the party, and the panic-stricken interpreter rushed on to the bridge.  In a confusion of languages he implored the captain to say whether there was danger, and begged him to come to his master and his priest and reassure them that the whistle was being blown to let passing vessels know of their whereabouts and the course they were steering.

“Ah,” said he, “my master is a brave, clever soldier; but like most soldiers, he does not know anything about the sea, and was in consequence uneasy when he heard the shrill sound of the whistle.  Indeed, it made him change colour; he thought it might be a Russian privateer demanding you to stop.  And the priest did not wait one minute; he went on to his knees and bowed his head in prayer, and the pasha ordered me to come to you quick.  You must not think that I was nervous, captain; I was very excited only.”

“Very well,” replied the captain, smiling.  “You may call it excitement, but I should call it white funk, the way you conducted yourself on my bridge.  Why, you spoke every language in the universe!”

“Ah, that was not funk, captain; that was what you call confusion, caused by anxiety for that brave soldier in your cabin, and his spiritual adviser.  Besides, captain, how can you speak to one of your own countrymen in this fashion, and accuse him of talking so many tongues!  I am a Maltese, and have interpreted for many years for my good friend, Osman Pasha.”

“What!” cried the captain.  “Is this the Turkish patriot, Osman Pasha?”

“Now, captain, you are excited; but I do not say that you speak many languages.  Keep cool, and I will tell you.  It is not Osman, but it is very near him, being his lieutenant or aide-de-camp.”

“Is it Suleiman?”

“No, it is not.”

“Then who the devil is it?  By Jupiter!  I believe it is Osman.”

“I dare not tell you his name; he has been reconnoitring, and has had narrow escapes.”

“That’s not what I want to know.  Tell me straight away—­is it Osman Pasha, or is it not?”

“Captain,” said the wily interpreter, “this is a secret mission.  I cannot tell secrets that may get us all into trouble; but I will inform you that you will hear of this warrior during the next few months.  I must ask you to come and see him.  He cannot speak one word of English.  Bring your chart, as he is sure to ask you to point out to him exactly our position.”