“What else would the roadside robbers like them to bring?”

“No Turkish servants!  They throw Turks over a bridge-side in Zeitoon!  I myself will provide servants, who shall bring them back safely!”

It seemed to me that he breathed inward as he said that.  A Turk would have added “Inshallah!”—­if God wills!

“Make ready for a journey of two months,” he said.

“When and where shall the start be?”

It would obviously be unwise to start from the consulate.

“From the Yeni Khan in Tarsus,” said Will.

“That is very good—­that is excellent!  I will send Zeitoonli servants to the Yeni Khan at once.  Pay them the right price.  Have you horses?  Camels are of no use, nor yet are wheels—­you shall know why later!  Mules are best.”

“I know where you can hire mules,” said the consul, “with a Turkish muleteer to each pair.”

“Oh, well!” laughed Kagig, leaning back against the rail and moving his hands palms upward as if he weighed one thought against another.  “What is the difference?  If a few Turks move or less come to an end over Zeitoon bridge—­”

It was only for moments at a time that he seemed able to force himself to speak as our inferior.  A Turk of the guide class would likely have knelt and placed a foot of each of us on his neck in turn as soon as he knew we had engaged him.  This Armenian seemed made of other stuff.

“Then be on hand to-morrow morning,” ordered Monty.

But the Eye of Zeitoon had another surprise for us.

“I shall meet you on the road,” he announced with an air of a social equal.  “Servants shall attend you at the Yeni Khan.  They will say nothing at all, and work splendidly!  Start when you like; you will find me waiting for you at a good place on the road.  Bring not plenty, but too much ammunition!  Good day, then, gentlemen!”

He nodded to us—­bowed to the consul—­vaulted the rail.  A second later he grinned at us again through the tiny window.  “I am the Eye of Zeitoon!” he boasted, and was gone.  A servant whom the consul sent to follow him came back after ten or fifteen minutes saying he had lost him in a maze of narrow streets.

His latter, offhanded manner scarcely auguring well, we debated whether or not to search for some one more likely amenable to discipline to take his place.  But the consul spent an hour telling us about the letter that went to Adrianople, and the bringing back of the answer that hastened peace.

“He was shot badly.  He nearly died on the way back.  I’ve no idea how he recovered.  He wouldn’t accept a piaster more than the price agreed on.”

“Let’s take a chance!” said Will, and we were all agreed before he urged it.

“There’s one other thing,” said the consul.  “I’ve been told a Miss Gloria Vanderrnan is on her way to the mission at Marash—­”

“Gee whiz!” said Will.