"Your brother's life is threatened by some secret enemy. Let him exercise an Albanian's caution! This is the advice of a stranger."
A little before this, as the "poor Italian" was moving away from the gate of Phranza, a gorgeous palanquin, with silken canopy and sides latticed with silver rods, was borne in by four stout and well-formed men, with bare legs and arms, purple short trousers, embroidered jackets, and jaunty red caps, whose long tassels hung far down their backs.
The "Italian" stepped into an angle that the palanquin might pass; and stood gazing a long time after it had disappeared. At length, turning away, he said to himself:
"Strange! It must be that my imagination has been disturbed by the scenes of last night. But the lady in yonder palanquin is my dream made real. The pretty face of the child with whom I once played on the mountains must have cut its outlines somewhere on my brain, for I seem to see it everywhere. My captive in the mountains of Albania had the same features—though I saw them only under the flash of a torch. Imagination that, surely! The girl at Sfetigrade was similar. And now this one! The aga's advice to beware female illusions was good. But she may be the Albanian lady after all. Impossible! Stupidity! Perhaps my chosen houri in paradise is only flashing her beauty upon my soul from these fair earthly faces, and so training me first to love her as an ideal, that the joy of the realization may be perfect. But, tut! tut! silly boy that I am!"
Whistling monotonously he turned down a street.
A short, crooked-necked officer passed along. His face at the moment was the picture of dissatisfaction. The "Italian" stopped him, and, with a courtesy which belied his common apparel, addressed him:—
"Captain Urban of the engineers, is it not?"
"And who are you?" was the surly, yet half respectful, reply, as the one addressed glanced into the other's face.
"One who knows that the cannon you are casting are not heavy enough to lodge a ball against the old tower of Galata yonder across the Golden Horn, much less breach a fortification; and further, that all you can cast at this rate from now until the Turks take Byzantium would not enable you to throw ten shot an hour."
"By the brass toe of St. Peter! man, I was just saying the same thing to myself," replied Urban.