Constantine donned the Turkish uniform he had brought with him, and climbed down the mountain. Sentinels were posted here and there upon bold points from which they might get a view of the great plain beyond. Toward this they kept a constant watch, as one of them remarked to his comrade upon a neighboring pinnacle of rock: "Lest some of Scanderbeg's lightning might be lying about loose." Posing like a sentinel whenever he was likely to be observed, Constantine passed through their lines, the guards being too far apart to detect one another's faces. Hailed by a sentinel, he gave back the playful salute with a wave of his hand.
Emboldened by the success of his disguise, he descended to a ledge so near the group of officers that he could easily hear their conversation. They did not use the pure Turkish speech, but sometimes interspersed it with Servian, for many of the officers, as well as the men, in the Sultan's armies were from the provinces where the Turkish tongue was hardly known. The common soldiers in this group Constantine observed used the Servian altogether.
"Good!" said he to himself, "point number one in my plot."
"The highest throw wins the choice of the captives," cried one of the officers. "What say you, Oski?"
"Agreed," replied the one addressed, "but she will never be your houri in paradise, Lovitsch?"
"Why not?"
"Because the Koran forbids casting lots?"
"Well," replied his comrade. "I will take my beauty now, in this world, rather than wait for the next. So here goes!"
"By Khalif Omar's big toe! You have won, Oski. Which will you take?"
"The little one with the bright black eyes," replied Oski; "unless you can prevail upon Captain Ballaban to give me his. The man who owns that girl will never have any houris in paradise. They would all die for jealousy."