The man arose, and looked at the bystanders, but they turned away.
"A hundred noumiae for two willing hands!" he shouted.
There was no reply. "If not for the money, then in honor of the noble lady who has feasted you and your wives and children."
A voice answered out of the throng: "Here am I!" and presently the hamari appeared with the bear behind him.
"Here," he said, "take care of Joqard for me. I will row in the sick man's place, and"—
The remainder of the sentence was lost in an outburst of gibing—and laughter. Finally the Princess asked the rowers if they were satisfied with the volunteer.
They surveyed him doubtfully.
"Art thou an oarsman?" one of them asked.
"There is not a better on the Bosphorus. And I will prove it. Here, some of you—take the beast off my hands. Fear not, friend, Joqard's worst growl is inoffensive as thunder without lightning. That's a good man."
And with the words the hamari released the leading strap, sprang into the boat, and without giving time for protest or remonstrance, threw off his jacket and sandals, tucked up his shirt-sleeves, and dropped into the vacant fifth seat. The dexterity with which he then unshipped the oars and took them in hand measurably quieted the associates thus audaciously adopted; his action was a kind of certificate that the right man had been sent them.