“Certainly. But Kutchuk Saïd and Kiamil Pasha requested me not to—accompanied by gendarmes.”
“You’d have lost your life,” remarked Neeland.
“Yes. But then war would surely have come, and today my Emperor would have held the Dardanelles where the Turkish flag is now flying over German guns and German gunners.”
He shook his head:
“Great mistake on my part,” he muttered. “Should have pulled Abdul’s lop ears. Now, everything in Turkey is ‘Yasak’ except what Germans do and say; and God knows we are farther than ever from St. Sophia.... I’m very thirsty with thinking so much, old fellow. Did you ever drink German champagne?”
“I believe not––”
“Come on, then. You shall drink several gallons and never feel it. It’s the only thing German I could ever swallow.”
“Prince Erlik, you have had considerable refreshment already.”
“Copain, t’en fais pas!”
The spectacle of two young fellows in evening dress, in a friendly tug-of-war under the lamp-posts of the Boulevard, amused the passing populace; and Sengoun, noticing this, was inclined to mount a boulevard bench and address the wayfarers, but Neeland pulled him down and persuaded him into a quieter street, the rue Vilna.