"What more do you want, effendi?" he asked me after I had made a few casual complaints (for it was useless to take him seriously). "You have one of the most beautiful views in Europe from the garden."
"But I am not allowed into the garden."
"Have a little patience, mon cher," said he. "It is rather crowded with older prisoners now. But in a little time perhaps, when I have discovered the name of that forger . . ."
And with a condescending smile he passed on between ranks of sentries standing stiffly at attention, to inspect another portion of his miserable menagerie.
Ah, Djevad, mon cher, those days seem distant now! You and your popinjays have passed. . . .
[9] Five shillings.