The other was an honest Mussulman about thirty years old, with a thick, coal-black beard and passionate, irritable features, whose true character was very fairly reflected in his pair of flashing black eyes.  His turban was drawn deep down over his temples, obliterating his eyebrows completely, which made him look more truculent than ever.

The stranger seemed to be going towards the Etmeidan, the other man to be coming from it.  The former let the latter pass, by squeezing himself against the wall, and only ventured to address him when he perceived that he had no evil intentions towards him.

“I prythee, pitiful Mussulman, be not wrath with me, but tell me where the Etmeidan piazza is.”

The person so accosted instantly stopped short, and fixing the interrogator with a stony look, replied angrily: 

“Go straight on and you’ll be there immediately.”

At these words the knees of the questioner smote together.

“Woe is me! worthy Mussulman, I prythee be not wrath, I did not ask thee where the Etmeidan was because I wanted to go there, but to avoid straying into it.  I am a stranger in this city, and in my terror I have been drawing near to the very place I want to avoid.  I prythee leave me not here all by myself.  Every house is fast closed.  Not one of the khans will let me in at this hour.  Take me home with you, I will not be a burden upon you, I can sleep in your courtyard, or in your cellar, if only I may escape stopping in the streets all night, for I am greatly afraid.”

The Turk so addressed was carrying in one hand a knapsack woven out of rushes.  This he now opened and cast a glance into it, as if he were taking counsel with himself whether the fish and onions he had just bought in the market-place for his supper would be sufficient for two people.  Finally he nodded his head as if he had made up his mind at last.

“Very well, come along!” said he, “and follow me!”

The stranger would have kissed his hand, he could not thank his new friend sufficiently.

“You had better wait to see what you are going to get before you thank me,” said the Turk; “you will find but scanty cheer with me, for I am only a poor man.”

“Oh, as for that, I also am poor, very poor indeed,” the new-comer hastened to reply with the crafty obsequiousness peculiar to the Greek race.  “My name is Janaki, and I am a butcher at Jassy.  The kavasses have laid their hands upon my apprentice and all my live-stock at the same time, and that is why I have come to Stambul.  I shall be utterly beggared if I don’t get them back.”

“Well, Allah aid thee.  Let us make haste, for it is already dark.”

And then, going on in front to show the way, he led the stranger through the narrow winding labyrinth of baffling lanes and alleys which lead to the Hebdomon Palace, formerly the splendid residence of the Greek Emperors, but now the quarter where the poorest and most sordid classes of the populace herd together.  The streets here are so narrow that the tendrils of the vines and gourds growing on the roofs of the opposite houses meet together, and form a natural baldachino for the benefit of the foot-passenger below.