An instant later a stout Turk in official uniform broke through the confusion, shouting imprecations.
"Back, you children of swine!" he declaimed. "Back to your mires, you pigs! Do you dare to affront the great Pashas?" Then, turning obsequiously, he bowed with profound apology. "It is a bitter sorrow that you should be annoyed," he assured them, "but it is over."
"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.