"Look," she said, "here is a bezant."
At sight of the gold piece, the man's countenance darkened, and he stopped rowing.
"I can't change that. You might as well have no money at all."
"Friend," she returned, "row me swiftly to the first gate of the Cynegion, and the piece is yours."
"By my blessed patron! I'll make you think you are on a bird, and that these oars are wings. Sit in the middle—that will do. Now!"
The fellow was stout, skilful, and in earnest. In a trice he was under headway, going at racing speed. The boats in the harbor were moving in two currents, one up, the other down; and it was noticeable those in the first were laden with passengers, those of the latter empty. Evidently the interest was at the further end of the line, and the day a holiday to the two cities, Byzantium and Galata. Yet of the attractions on the water and the shores, the woman took no heed; she said never a word after the start; but sat with head bowed, and her face buried in her hands. Occasionally, if the boatman had not been so intent on earning the gold piece, he might have heard her sob. For some reason, the day was not a holiday to her.
"We are nearly there," he at length said.
Without lifting the veil, she glanced at a low wall on the left-hand shore, then at a landing, shaky from age and neglect, in front of a gate in the wall; and seeing it densely blockaded, she spoke:
"Please put me ashore here. I have no time to lose."
The bank was soft and steep.