“Yes,” he answered; “I am from Russia.”
“You are a pilgrim?”
“Yes; I come from Jerusalem.”
The man was walking in a great hurry, and by this time we had reached the Galata Bridge.
“Who were those men the soldiers were leading?” the pilgrim asked me.
“Those were prisoners—soldiers who mutinied.”
Here two others, a grey-bearded man, and a little, dark man, joined in; the grey-bearded man had a medicine bottle sticking out of his coat pocket. I am certain it contained an intoxicating spirit.
“Some soldiers were hanged here,” I added.
“Where?” said the man.
“There,” I answered, showing him the exact spot. “They stayed there all day.”