We got by, of course, but his roars put the Tziganes right, and they followed the scent instead of losing it as we reckoned they would. The only thing for Nikka to do in the circumstances was to twist and turn without heed to direction and lose both pursuers and ourselves in the breakneck purlieus of Stamboul. He succeeded in shaking off the Gypsies finally, but we were hopelessly astray, and it was past midnight when we found the Khan of the Georgians and staggered through the gate to thread a precarious path between sleeping men, camels, bullocks, asses and horses.
Wasso Mikali awakened with the first knock on his door, and admitted us. Smoking cigarette after cigarette as rapidly as he could roll them, he listened to the story of our adventures with avidity,—although I discovered later that Nikka had suppressed Kara's part—and immediately dispatched his young men to spy around Tokalji's house, and learn the dispositions the enemy were taking. Then he insisted that we should sleep while he kept watch, and the last memory I have of that awful night is of the old Gypsy's figure stretched out on the floor, his back against the bolted door and a cigarette in his mouth.
When we awakened the sun was streaming in through the open door along with all the noises of the Khan and many of its smells. Our guardian had coffee ready for us in a pot on the brazier, and his young men had sent in a report. The women and children had left Tokalji's house under escort of several of the men shortly after dawn. A vigilant guard was being maintained on the entrance, and nobody had come or gone—aside from the party of women and children—since observation had been established. Before sunrise our spies had heard the sounds of digging inside the premises.
Wasso Mikali looked doubtful as he imparted this last information.
"Perhaps they, too, have discovered the location of the treasure," he suggested.
"No," said Nikka, smiling. "They are burying their dead."
"Ha, that is a good thought to hold in the mind," exclaimed the old Gypsy, immensely pleased. "What better pleasure could a man ask than to contemplate his enemies burying their brother that he slew!"
But instead of indulging in this Tzigane pastime we decided to take our European clothing and adjourn to a neighboring Turkish bath where we could remove the evidence of our Gypsy life. Wasso Mikali went with us to carry back to the khan our discarded Gipsy costumes. I urged him to join us in the pool after we had soaked off the top layer of iniquities in a private room; but he shook his head with a grimace of disgust.
"Tell Jakka, O son of my sister," he said, "that I marvel at the way you risk your naked skins. How can a man hope to withstand the cold and heat if he has nothing but clothing to cover him? Too much water is bad for the strongest. It weakens the muscles."