“Not so,” the Turk answered, pointing through the trees. “The palace is still a blaze of light.”
Domiloff swore softly between his teeth.
“Do not be so hasty, my friend,” he exclaimed.
“My country,” Effenden Pasha answered, “is too often the tool of yours. We are to do the work, and at the last moment—the Bear’s paw. We are to conquer Theos for Russia.”
“You are entirely wrong,” Domiloff declared earnestly. “The eventual possession of the country may become a matter of private treaty between your Court and mine, but I will give you the word of the Czar that if for any reason we should desire to occupy it you shall have a quid pro quo. You shall have a free hand in Asia Minor and a loan.”
“You will give me pledges of this nature in writing?” Effenden Pascha asked.
“Certainly!”
The Turk walked to the window with a smile.
“Allah!” he exclaimed. “It will be good to hear once more the guns roar in the Balkans. We Turks, Domiloff, are a nation of soldiers, and these long intervals of peace are ill for us.”