“Come with us for the night,” she suggested.
Thanking her, I took to my heels. I had not paid much attention to the crooked streets traversed thus far, and as I absolutely lack the sense of location I must now have gone in some other direction than that of the tekhe; for after long running back and forth, and hiding in the by-streets whenever I heard anyone approaching, I came to the awful conclusion that I could not find the tekhe, and, alone and unprotected, was lost in the streets of Stamboul. I wondered, too, what the others were doing. Afterward I learned that, when they got to the entrance, one of the women of our party had fainted, and, to avoid danger, they had hidden in a dark passage while waiting for her to come to her senses. In their excitement they did not notice my disappearance, and when they found it out they searched everywhere, finally deciding that the others should go home while my brother and one of the men hid near the tekhe, thinking that sooner or later I should turn up there. It was only in the early morning that they went away, hoping that by some lucky chance I had returned to the house.
Meanwhile I was roaming far from the tekhe, exposed to all kinds of dangers. I grew desperate. Horrible stories of the Greek Revolution recurred to my mind: how our women were tortured to death by the Turks, and how others, to avoid shame and torture, had thrown themselves into the sea. If I could only reach the water! With that idea in my mind I ran in the direction in which I thought the sea lay. Fragments of prayer taught me in childhood, and long forgotten for lack of use, came back to me, and I began to pray. I was glad for the many saints in the Greek Faith to whom I could appeal. I tried to remember where in the church was the particular niche of each of the saints. It took my mind from my danger, and gave it a definite object, as I hurried on.
Into the intensity of my prayers there broke the muffled sound of leather boots. The night patrol was on its rounds. I stood still. To all appearances I was a Turkish woman, alone in the streets. The patrol would arrest me. What if I threw away the feredjé and the yashmak? Though as a Turkish woman I should be taken to prison, what my fate would be as a Christian I did not know, and the unknown fate was the more terrifying. The Turkish garb was my danger, but also my momentary protection.
I drew the black silk about me. While waiting for the approach of the night patrol, my mind worked quickly. I must belong to some man’s harem, either as lady or slave. I was afraid that I might not act meekly enough for a slave; then it must be as somebody’s wife. Whose should it be? The tall, stalwart figure of Arif Bey flashed across my mind’s eye. He had had two wives when I knew him: he probably had more now—and besides I knew where his town house was.
By the time the patrol came near me I felt quite safe in the thought of the dashing figure and handsome face of the man I had chosen as my husband. I walked up to the patrol, though I was swallowing hard, and told them that I was lost, and wished them to take me to the police station and send for Arif Pasha, my husband. I addressed myself to the man who appeared to be the officer of the small band, and spoke very low, in order that he might not detect any hesitancy in my Turkish.
He saluted in military fashion, divided his few men into two groups, and between them escorted me to the police-station. There a consultation took place between him and his superior, and the latter asked me where I had been, and how I had happened to lose my party.
I smiled sweetly at him. “I shall tell that to my husband, and he will tell you, if he thinks best.”
This was so admirable a wifely sentiment that it left my inquisitor bereft of questions.
“It is a long way to your house,” he remarked. “It may take some hours for your husband to come here.”