“To whom have we the honor of expressing our thanks?” smiled Pagratide.

The Osmanli responded with a deprecating gesture of self-effacement.

“To one of the least of men,” he said.  “I am called Abdul Said Bey.  I am the humble servant of His Majesty, the Sultan—­whom Allah preserve.”

As the launch put off, the elliptical figure of Abdul Said Bey, on the lowest step of the landing, speeded its departure with a gesture of ceremonious farewell—­fingers sweeping heart, lips and forehead.  “If you go to shop in Stamboul,” he shouted after them, “have a care.  The pigs will cheat you—­all save Mohammed Abbas.”

When the reflected lights of the launch shimmered in vague downward shafts at a distance, he turned and the scattered throng of beggars regathered to group themselves about him with no trace of fear.

“You will know them when you see them in the bazaars?” he demanded.  “You shall be taught in time what is expected—­likewise bastinadoed upon your bare soles if you fail.  Now you have only to remember the faces of the Infidels.  Go!” He swept out his hand and the Bedouins scattered like rats into a dozen dark places.

* * * * *

If the panorama of Constantinople fades from a lurid silhouette to a sooty monotone by night, it at least makes amends by day.  Then the sun, shining out of a sky of intense blue, on water vividly green, catches the tiled color-chips of the sprawling town; glints on dome and minaret, and makes such a city as might be seen in a kaleidoscope.

Her insatiable appetite for beauty had brought Cara on deck early.  The early shore-wind tossed unruly brown curls into her eyes and across the delicate pink of her cheeks.

When the yachtsman joined her, she read in his eyes that he had been long awake and was deeply troubled.  In the shadow of the after-cabin she stopped him with a light touch on his arm.

“Now tell me,” she demanded, “what is the matter?”

His voice was quiet.  “There is nothing in my thoughts that you cannot read—­so—­” He lifted the eyes in question, half-despairing despite the smile he had schooled into them.  “Why rehearse it all again?”

Her face clouded.

He turned his gaze on the single dome and four minarets of the Mosque of Suleyman.

“Besides,” he added at length, speaking in a steady monotone, “I couldn’t tell it without saying things that are forbidden.”

When she spoke the dominant note in her voice was weariness.

“My life,” she said, “is a miserable serial of calling on you and sending you away.  Back there”—­she waved her hand to the vague west—­“it is summer—­wonderful American summer!  The woods are thick and green....  The big rocks by the creek are splotched yellow with the sun, and green with the moss....  I wonder who rides Spartan now, when the hounds are out!” She broke off suddenly, with a sobbing catch in her throat, then she shook her head sadly.  “You see, you must go!” she added.  “You will take my heart with you—­but that is better than this.”