Arethusa Page 3

  CHAPTER II

  Omobono had drawn on a pair of well-greased raw-hide boots that camehalf-way up his thin legs, and had wrapped himself in his big browncloak before going out. On his smooth grey head he wore a soft felthat, the brim turned up round the crown at the back but pulled out toa long point in front, and he carried a tough cornel stick in hisright hand. He had been careful to leave in the strong box the pursethat contained money belonging to his employer, and had but a fewsmall coins of his own in his wallet to pay a ferryman if he shouldneed one, or to give to a hungry beggar. Like most men who have failedto make money Omobono was very sorry for poor people, and did notbelieve that all beggars could be rich if they would work. But he waspoor himself, and his charity was of the humble kind.

  There was a fairly broad street behind Carlo Zeno's house, and herethe early spring sun had dried the mud to something like a solidsurface; but Omobono followed this thoroughfare only for a littledistance, and then turned into a narrow and filthy lane that led toother lanes, and to others still beyond, all crowded with humanity,all dark and muddy, all foul with garbage, all reeking with theoverpowering smell of Eastern cooking made up of garlic, fryingonions, sour cream, oil of sesame, and roasting mutton where therewere Jews or Mohammedans, or fried fish where Christians lived, sinceit was Friday.

  The small wooden houses, black with smoke and the dampness of the pastwinter, overhung the way so that the opposite balconies of the secondstories almost touched each other. Had the buildings been higher,scarcely any light at all would have reached the lower windows; as itwas, a man with good eyes might just see to read at noon if he werenot too far within.

  Omobono evidently knew his way well enough, for he did not pause as hethreaded the labyrinth, and only now and then glanced up at certaindingy signs that hung from the crazy wooden balconies, or from woodenarms that stuck out here and there like gallows from the walls. As hewalked, he was chiefly occupied in not running against the people hemet, and in not stepping upon the half-naked children that squirmedand squalled in the mud before every doorstep. For there were childreneverywhere, children and dirt, dirt and children, all of much the samecolour in those dusky lanes. Near almost every open door theslatternly mother stirred a dark mess of some sort over a littleearthen pan of coals, or toasted gobbets of fat mutton on a black ironfork, or fried some wretched fish in boiling oil. The Christian womenwere by far the dirtiest, and their children were the least healthyand the most neglected, for many of the little creatures had not astitch of clothing on them. Most decent were the Mohammedans; they hadalready the bearing and the self-respect of the conquering race, andthey treated their Greek and Bokharian neighbours with silentcontempt. Did not Sultan Amurad, over there on the Asian shore, makeand unmake these miserable little Greek emperors as he pleased? If hechose could he not take Constantinople and turn a stream of Christianblood into the Golden Horn that would redden the Sea of Marmora as faras Antigone and Prinkipo?

  Omobono went on and on, picking his way as he might, and littlenoticed by the people. He was not by any means in the poorest quarterof the city, and no one begged of him as he went by. If he thought ofanything except of not setting his booted foot down on some child'ssprawling leg or arm, he thanked heaven and the saints that he hadbeen born a Venetian, and had been washed and sent to school like aChristian boy when he was little instead of having first seen thelight, or what passed for light, in a back street of Constantinople.

  He turned another corner, entered a lane even narrower than those hehad yet traversed, but almost deserted, and much less dark because oneside of it was occupied by a wall not more than ten feet high, inwhich only one small door was to be seen. Along the top of the masonryall sorts of sharp bits of rusty iron and a quantity of brokencrockery were set in mortar with the evident intention of discouragingany attempt to climb over, either from within or from without. Thedoor itself was in good repair, and had been recently coated with tarand sharp sand by way of preserving it against the damp. A well-wornhorizontal slit an inch long, and an upright one a foot higher up,showed that it had two separate Persian locks into which keys wereoften thrust.

  Omobono rapped on the tarred wood with the iron-shod end of his stickand listened. He could hear a number of girls' voices chattering, andone was singing softly in a language he did not understand. He knockedagain, a moment later the voices were suddenly silent, and he heardthe clacking of heavy slippers on wet flags as some one came to open.

  'Who knocks?' asked a deep and harsh female voice from within, in theGreek tongue but with a thick accent.

  'A Venetian who has business with the worthy Karaboghazji,' answeredOmobono in a conciliatory tone.

  'Which Karaboghazji?' enquired the voice suspiciously.

  'Rustan,' explained Omobono mildly.

  From his voice, the woman probably judged that if he had come with anynefarious purpose she was more than a match for him. The door openedafter some rattling and creaking of locks, and Omobono started inspite of himself. She was indeed a match for him, or for any other manwho was likely to knock at the door. It was no wonder that theVenetian secretary drew back and hesitated before he spoke again.

  The woman was a huge red-haired negress in yellow, fully six feet tallin her heelless slippers, and her black arms, bare above the elbow,were as sinewy and muscular as any fisherman's or porter's. Her thicklips were parted in a sort of savage grin that showed two rows ofteeth as sharp and white as a shark's; her hair must have been justdyed that day, for it was as red as flame to the very roots, and itstood out almost straight from her shiny black forehead and temples;as she rather contemptuously scrutinised Omobono from head to foot thewhites of her coal-black eyes gleamed in a way that was positivelyterrifying. She wore wide Greek trousers of blue cotton, gathered atthe ankle, and a wadded coat of yellow, that hung down below her kneesin loose folds, like a sort of skirt, but fitted tightly over hertremendous shoulders. This garment was closely girded round her amplewaist by a red sash, in which she carried her armoury, consisting of aserviceable Arab knife with a bone hilt and brass sheath, and a smallwhip made of a broad flat thong of hippopotamus hide with a short oakstock.

  This terrific apparition stood in the little vestibule holding thedoor open and grinning at Omobono. She had closed another door behindher before opening the outer one, for the slave-dealer's establishmentwas evidently managed with a view to the safety of his merchandise.

  'And what do you want of Rustan Karaboghazji at this time of theafternoon?' enquired the negress. 'Who are you?'

  'I am only a clerk,' answered Omobono in a deprecating tone, andshrinking a little under his cloak, as the awful virago thrust herhead forward. 'I am the clerk of Messer Carlo Zeno, a rich Venetianmerchant, who sends a message by me to your master----'

  'My master!' interrupted the black woman, with a scornful laugh. 'Mymaster, indeed!'

  'I--I supposed----' faltered Omobono apologetically.

  The negress moved a little and rested one huge hand on her hip, whileshe slipped the other slowly up the door-post till it was above herhead. In this attitude she looked gigantic.

  'You mean my husband,' she said, showing all her teeth. 'RustanKaraboghazji is my husband. Do you understand?'

  'Yes, Kokona--I--I mean Kyria--yes, certainly! I should have known atonce that you were the mistress of the house if you had notcondescended to open the door yourself, Kyria.'

  'And what would become of the cattle,' enquired the negress with abackward toss of her head towards the yard behind her, 'if the stabledoor were in charge of a slave? If your master--' she dwelt on the twowords contemptuously--'wishes to buy of us, he will have to come hereand choose for himself.'

  'No, no!' answered Omobono hastily. 'It is another matter. I think itis a commission for a friend. It is something very especial. That iswhy I beg to be allowed to speak with the Kyrios, your husband.'

  The black woman had listened attentively.

  'At this hour,' she said after a moment's thought, 'Rustan is at hisdev
otions.'

  'I would not interrupt them for the world,' protested Omobono. 'I canwait----'

  'No. You will probably find him at the church of Saint Sergius andSaint Bacchus. If he is not there, ask the sacristan where he is. Myhusband is a very devout man; the sacristan knows him well.'

  'I hope,' said Omobono, whose curiosity scented a mystery, 'that thesacristan will not take me for an importunate stranger and send me ona fool's errand. If the Kyria would give me some sign by which thesacristan may know that I came from her----'

  Omobono paused on this suggestion, hoping for a favourable answer.Again the big woman waited a moment before speaking.

  'Ask the sacristan to direct you to find Rustan Karaboghazji, by fourtoes and by five toes,' she said at last. 'He will certainly tell youthe truth if you ask him in that way.'

  'By four toes and by five toes,' repeated Omobono. 'I cannot forgetthat. I thank you, Kyria Karaboghazji, and I wish you a good day.'

  The negress nodded and showed her teeth but said nothing more, drewback and shut the door without waiting any longer. Omobono stood stilla moment, listened to the slapping of the heavy slippers on the wetflags within, and then went away down the almost deserted lane,wondering much at the taste of the Bokharian merchant in marrying anAfrican giantess. But soon his natural curiosity began to occupyitself more actively with the hidden meaning of the password given himby Rustan's wife; and, meditating on this problem, he made his waythrough the heart of the city, traversing many narrow and tortuousstreets, till he suddenly emerged into a broad highway where marblebuildings gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine, and richly dressedGreeks lounged in the wide exedrae and stately porticoes, discussingthe affairs of the Empire in general and their neighbours' mostparticularly.

  Omobono trudged along, past the corner of the wide Forum ofTheodosius, once the centre of the city's teeming life, but now givenover to the tanners and leather-dressers, for one end of it was usedas a slaughterhouse and the hides had not to be dragged far to becured; he walked on quickly, keeping to the left, and was soon innarrow streets again, where afterwards the Grand Bazaar was built, andwhere even in those days the Persian merchants and the jewellers, thedealers in fine carpets and Eastern merchandise, the perfumers, theEgyptian goldsmiths and the Bokharian money-changers had their homesand the headquarters of their business. Here Omobono exchangedgreetings now and then with men of all nationalities except Genoese,and very few of these last were to be seen, for they kept to their ownquarter beyond the Golden Horn, in Pera. But Omobono would not stop totalk, and the streets were clean here, and well kept, and the childrenwere not to be seen, so that he could walk quickly, without pickinghis way.

  On still, and farther on; through the almost classic Forum ofConstantine, past the hill on which the bronze-bound porphyry columnstill stands, and down on the other side, keeping the Hippodrome onhis left and diving into the Bokharian quarter, as different from thelast through which he had come, as that had been from those he hadpassed before. For then, as now, Constantinople was a patchwork ofdivers nations and languages and customs, and their quarters were likedistinct towns,--some filthy, noisy and unhealthy, some rich andstately, some quiet and poor, some asleep all day and riotous allnight, others silent as sleep itself from nightfall till dawn, andnoisy all day with the hum of business or the ceaseless hammeringclang and clatter of workmen's tools.

  Before Omobono emerged upon the little square which then surroundedthe churches of Saints Sergius and Bacchus and of Saints Peter andPaul--the latter is now destroyed--he heartily wished that he hadhired a horse and man at one of the street corners; but he forgot hisweariness when his destination was reached, and he saw a littlebandy-legged sacristan in an absurdly short cassock of shabby blackand purple cloth, leaning against one of the columns of the portico.

  Omobono ascended the broad steps that led up from the level of thestreet, as though he were going in, but just as he was close to thesacristan he stopped, as if without any premeditation, and made agesture of salutation, smiling in a friendly way.

  'Praised be our Lord,' he said, in the Greek manner.

  'Our Lord be praised. Amen,' answered the sacristan indifferently, forit was the custom to do so.

  'Could you inform me,' proceeded the Venetian clerk, 'whether thatgood man Kyrios Rustan Karaboghazji is now in the church at hisdevotions?'

  The sacristan had a perfectly round head with a pair of very smallround eyes; moreover, his snub nose was quite round at the end. Henow pursed out his lips and made his mouth round, too, as if he weregoing to whistle. Intentionally or unintentionally, he made himselflook like an idiot, and slowly wagged his bullet head as if he did notunderstand.

  'The church is open,' he said, at last. 'You may see,'

  Omobono now applauded himself for having asked and obtained apassword, but he meant to be cautious in using it.

  'Thank you,' he said politely, and he went on, into the church.

  The sun was low and cast a rich light through the open door, full uponthe grating and closed gate of the sanctuary, and the gilt andburnished bars reflected and diffused the warm rays, like a glorybefore the unseen high altar. Omobono glanced quickly to the right andleft as he passed between the pillars, but he saw no one. Farther on,before him and under the wide dome, two women in brown were at theirprayers, the one kneeling, the other prostrate, in Eastern fashion,her forehead resting on the marble pavement. There was no man insight.

  Omobono chose a clean spot, hitched up his cloak in front and kneltupon one knee. He crossed himself and said a little prayer.

  'O Lord,' he prayed, 'grant wealth and honour to the Most SereneRepublic and give Venice the victory over the Genoese. Bless MesserCarlo Zeno, O Lord, and preserve him from sudden death. Send bread tothe poor. Give Omobono strength to resist curiosity. For ever andever. Amen.'

  It was not a very eloquent little prayer and it lacked the set formsof invocation and doxology which devout persons use; but Omobono hadmade it up for himself long ago, and said it every day at least once,for it precisely expressed what he sincerely wished and intended toask with due humility; and he was a good man, in spite of hisbesetting fault, and believed that what he asked would be granted. Asyet, Venice had not triumphed over those unspeakable dogs of Genoese,though the day of glory was much nearer than even the Venetians daredto hope. But so far Carlo Zeno had been preserved from sudden death inspite of his manifest tendency to break his neck for any whim; for therest, Omobono had more than once been the means of saving poor peoplefrom starvation, though at some risk of it to himself, poor man; andas for his curiosity, he had at least kept it so far in bounds asnever to read his master's letters until his master had opened themhimself, which was something for Omobono to be grateful for. On thewhole, he judged that his small prayer was not unacceptable, and heused it every day.

  He knelt a moment after he had finished it, partly because he was alittle ashamed of its being very short though he never could think ofanything to add to it, and he did not wish people to think that he wasirreverent and gabbled over a prayer merely as a form; for he was verysensitive about such things, being a shy man. And partly he remainedon his knees a little longer because the gilded grating was veryhandsome in the light of the setting sun, and reminded him of thegrating in Saint Mark's, and that naturally made him think of heaven.But presently he rose and went out.

  The sacristan was still standing by the same pillar.

  'Kyrios Rustan is not in the church,' said Omobono, stopping again.

  Once more the sacristan seemed to be about to purse his lips into acircle, and to put on an air of blank stupidity, and the clerk sawthat the time had come to use the password.

  'I must see him,' he said, dropping his voice, but speaking verydistinctly. 'I beg you to direct me by four toes and five toes, sothat I may find him.'

  The sacristan's face and manner changed at once. His small eyes weresuddenly full of intelligence, his mouth expanded in a friendly smile,and his snub nose seemed to draw itself to a
point like the muzzle ofa hound on a scent.

  'Why did you not say that at once?' he asked. 'Rustan left the churcha quarter of an hour before you came, but he is not far away. Do yousee the entrance to the lane down there?'

  He pointed towards the place.

  'Yes,' said Omobono, 'by the corner.'

  'Yes. Go into that lane. Take the first turn to the left, and then thesecond to the right again. Before you have gone far you will findRustan walking up and down.'

  'Walking up and down?' repeated Omobono, surprised that the Bokharianshould select for his afternoon stroll such a place as one mightexpect to find in the direction indicated.

  'Yes.' The sacristan grinned and winked at the Venetian clerk in aknowing way. 'He is a devout man. When he has said his prayers hewalks up and down in that little lane.'

  The man laughed audibly, but immediately looked behind him to seewhether any one coming from within the church had heard him, for heconsidered himself a clerical character. Omobono thanked him politely.

  'It is nothing,' answered the sacristan. 'A mere direction--what isit? If I had asked you for your purse and cloak by four toes and fivetoes, I am quite sure that you would have given me both.'

  'Of course,' replied Omobono nervously, seeing that the reply wasevidently expected of him. 'Of course I would. And so, good-day, myfriend.'

  'And good-day to you, friend,' returned the sacristan.

  The clerk went away, devoutly hoping that no unknown person wouldsuddenly accost him and demand of him his cloak in the name of fourtoes and five toes, and he wondered what in the world he should do ifsuch a thing happened to him. He was quite sure that he should beunable to hide the fact that he knew the magic formula, for he hadnever been very good at deception; and if the words could procure suchinstant obedience from such a disagreeable person as the sacristan hadat first seemed to be, some dreadful penalty was probably the portionof those who disobeyed the mandate.

  Thus reflecting, and by no means easy in his mind, the clerk crossedthe square and entered the lane. He had supposed that it led to acontinuation of the Bokharian quarter, but he at once saw his mistake.Even now a man may live for years in Constantinople and yet be farfrom knowing every corner of it, and Omobono found himself in a partof the city which he had never seen. It was in ruins, and yet it wasinhabited. Few of the houses had doors, hardly any window had ashutter, and as he passed, he saw that in many lower rooms the lightfell from above, through a fallen floor and a broken roof above it.

  Yet in every ruined dwelling, and almost at every door, there was someone, and all were frightful to see; all were in rags that hardly clungtogether, and some could scarcely cover themselves modestly; one wasblind, another had no arms or no legs, another was devoured by hideousdisease--many were mere bundles of bones in scanty rags, and stretchedout filthy skeleton hands for alms as the decently dressed clerk camenear. Omobono stood still for a moment when he realised that he was inthe beggars' quarter, where more than half the dying paupers of thegreat city took refuge amidst houses ruined and burnt long ago whenthe Crusaders had sacked Constantinople, and never more than halfrepaired since then.

  The clerk stood still, for the sight of so much misery hurt him, andit hurt him still more to think that he had but very few small coinsin his wallet. The poor creatures should have them all, one by one,but there would be few indeed for so many.

  He was talking with an old beggar woman.]

  And then, as he took out a little piece of bronze money, he heardsounds like nothing he had heard before; like many hundred sighs ofsuffering all breathed out together; and again, like many dyingpersons praying in low, exhausted voices; and again, like a gentle,hopeless wail; and through it all there was a pitiful tremor ofweakness and pain that went to the clerk's heart. He could do verylittle, and he was obliged to go on, for his errand was pressing, andthe people were as wretched at one door as they would be at the next,so that it was better not to give all his coins at once. He droppedone here, one there, into the wasted hands, and went on quickly,scarcely daring to glance at the faces that appeared at the low doorsand ruined windows. Yet here and there he looked in, almost againsthis will, and he saw sights that sent a cold chill down his back,sights I have seen, too, but need not tell of. And so he went on,turning as the sacristan had instructed him, till he saw a tall, thinman in a brown cloth gown edged with cheap fox's fur, and having atight fur cap on his head. He was talking with an old beggar woman,and his back was turned so that Omobono could only see that he had along black beard, but he recognised Rustan, the Bokharian dealer. Thehouse before which the two were standing seemed a trifle better thanthe rest in the street; there were crazy shutters to the large lowerwindows, which were open, however; there was a door which was ajar,and an attempt had been made to scrape the mud from the threshold. Forthe street was damp and muddy after the spring rains, but nototherwise very dirty. There was no garbage, not so much as acabbage-stalk or a bleaching bone; for bones can be ground to dustbetween stones and eaten with water, and a cabbage-stalk is half adinner to a starving man.

  In spite of the prayer he had recently offered up against hisbesetting fault of curiosity, Omobono could not help treading verylightly as he came up behind the Bokharian, and as the mud was in apasty state, neither hard nor slimy, his heavy boots made hardly anymore noise in treading on it than a beggar's bare feet. In this way headvanced till he could see through an open window of the house, and hestood still and looked in, but he made as if he were politely waitingfor Rustan to turn round. Either the old beggar woman was blind, orshe thought fit not to call the Bokharian's attention to the fact thata well-dressed stranger was standing within a few feet of him. The twotalked volubly in low tones and in the Bokharian language, whichOmobono did not understand at all, and when he was quite sure that hecould not follow the conversation he occupied his curiosity inwatching what was going on inside the house. The window was low,having apparently once served as a shop in which the shopkeeper hadsat, in Eastern fashion, half inside and half out, to wait upon hiscustomers. During half a minute, which elapsed before Rustan turnedround, the clerk saw a good deal.

  In the first place his eyes fell on the upturned face of a woman whowas certainly in the extremity of dangerous illness, and was probablydying. She had been beautiful once and she had beauty still, that wasnot only the soft shadow of coming death. The wasted body was coveredwith nameless rags, but the pillow was white and clean; the refinedface was the colour of pure wax, and the dark hair, grey at thetemples, had been carefully combed out and smoothed back from theforehead. The woman's eyes were closed, and deeply shadowed bysuffering, but her delicate nostrils quivered now and then as she drewbreath, and her pale lips moved a little as though trying to speak.

  There were young children round the wretched bed, silent, thin, andwondering, as children are when the great mystery is very near themand they feel it. In their miserable tatters one could hardly havetold whether the younger ones were boys or girls, but one was mucholder than the rest, and Omobono's eyes fixed themselves upon her, andhe held his breath, lest the Bokharian should hear him and turn, andhide the vision and break the spell.

  The girl was standing on the other side of the sick woman, bendingdown a very little, and watching her features with a look of infinitecare and sorrow. One exquisite white hand touched the poor coveringsof the bed, rather than rested on them, as if it longed to be of someuse, and to relieve the woman's suffering ever so little. But theclerk did not look at the delicate fingers, for his eyes were rivetedon the young girl's face. It was thin and white, but its lines werebeautiful beyond comparison with all that he had ever seen, even inVenice, the city of beautiful women.

  I think that true beauty is beyond description; you may describe thechangeless, faultless outlines of a statue to a man who has seen goodstatues and can recall them; you can perhaps find words to describethe glow, and warmth, and deep texture of a famous picture, and whatyou write will mean something to those who know the master's work; youmay eve
n conjure up an image before untutored eyes. But neither minutedescription nor well-turned phrase, neither sensuous adjective norspiritual simile can tell half the truth of a beautiful living thing.

  And the fairest living woman is twice beautiful when gladness or loveor anger or sorrow rises in her eyes, for then her soul is in herface. As Omobono looked through the window and watched the beggar girlleaning over her dying mother, he hardly saw the perfect line of thecheek, the dark and sweeping lashes or the deep brown eyes--the firmand rounded chin, the very tender mouth, the high-bred nostrils or therich brown hair. He could not clearly recall any of those things a fewminutes later; he only knew that he had seen for once something he hadheard of all his life. It was not till he dreamt of her face thatnight--dreaming, poor man, that she was his guardian angel come toreprove him for his curiosity--that the details all came back, andmost of all that brave and tender little mouth of hers, so delicatelywomanly and yet so strong, and that unspeakable turn of the cheekbetween the eye and the ear, and that poise of the small head on theslender neck--the details came back then. But in the first moment heonly saw the whole and felt that it was perfect; then, for an instant,the eyes looked at him across the dying woman; and in a moment morethe Bokharian turned, caught sight of him and came quickly forward,and the spell was broken.

  Rustan Karaboghazji held out both hands to Omobono, as if he weregreeting his dearest friend, and he spoke in fluent Italian. He was ayoung man still, not much past thirty, with dark, straight features,stony grey eyes, and a magnificent black beard.

  'What happy chance brings you here?' he cried, immediately drawing theVenetian in the direction whence the latter had come. 'Fortunateindeed is Friday, the day of Venus, since it brings me into the pathof my honoured Ser Omobono!'

  'Indeed, it is no accident, Kyrios Rustan----' began Omobono.

  'A double fortune, then, since a friend needs me,' continued theBokharian, without the slightest hesitation. 'But do not call meKyrios, Ser Omobono! First, I am not Greek, and then, my honouredfriend, I am no Kyrios, but only a poor exile from my country,struggling to keep body and soul together among strangers.'

  While he talked he had drawn Omobono's arm through his own and wasleading him away from the house with considerable haste. The Venetianlooked back, and saw that the old woman had disappeared.

  'I have a message from my master,' he said, 'but before we go on, Ishould like to----' he hesitated, and stopped in spite of Rustan.

  'What should you like to do?' asked the latter, with suddensharpness.

  Omobono's hand felt for the last of the small coins in his wallet.

  'I wish to give a trifle to the poor people in that house,' he said,summoning his courage. 'I saw a sick woman--she seemed to bedying----'

  But Rustan grasped his wrist and held it firmly, as if to make him putthe money back, but he smiled gently at the same time.

  'No, no, my friend,' he answered. 'I would not have spoken of it, butyou force me to tell you that I have been before you there! I takesome interest in those poor people, and I have just given enough tokeep them for a week, when I shall come again. It is not wise to givetoo much. The other beggars would rob them if they guessed that therewas anything to take. Come, come! The sun is setting, and it is notwell to be in this quarter so late.'

  Omobono remembered how the sacristan had winked and laughed, when hehad spoken of Rustan's walks in the dismal lane, and the Venetian nowproceeded to draw from what he had seen and heard a multitude of verylogical inferences. That Rustan was an utter scoundrel he had neverdoubted since he had known him, and that his domestic life was perhapsnot to his taste, Omobono guessed since he had seen the red-hairednegress who was his wife. Nothing could be more natural than that theBokharian, having discovered the beautiful, half-starved creature whomOmobono had first seen through the window, should plot to get her intohis power for his own ends.

  Having reached this conclusion, the mild little clerk suddenly feltthe blood of a hero beating in his veins and longed to takeKaraboghazji by the throat and shake him till he was senseless, neverdoubting but that the cause of justice would miraculously give him thestrength needed for the enterprise. He submitted to be hurried away,indeed, because the moment was evidently not propitious for a feat ofknight-errantry; but as he walked he struck his cornel stick viciouslyinto the pasty mud and shut his mouth tight under his well-trimmedgrey beard.

  'And now,' said Rustan, drawing something like a breath of relief asthey emerged into the open space before the church, 'pray tell me whaturgent business brings you so far to find me, and tell me, too, howyou came to know where I was.'

  Here Omobono suddenly realised that in his deductions he had made somegreat mistake; for if Rustan had been in the beggars' quarter for sucha purpose as the Venetian suspected, how was it possible that heshould have left any sort of directions with his wife and thesacristan for finding him, in case he should be wanted on some urgentbusiness? Omobono, always charitable, at once concluded that he hadbeen led away into judging the man unjustly.

  'Messer Carlo Zeno, the Venetian merchant, is very anxious to see youthis very evening,' he said. 'From his manner, I suspect that thebusiness will not bear any delay and that it may be profitable toyou.'

  Rustan smiled, bent his head and walked quickly, but said nothing forseveral moments.

  'Does Messer Zeno need money?' he asked presently. 'If so, let us stopat my house and I will see what little sum I can dispose of.'

  Mild as Omobono was, an angry, contemptuous answer rose to his lips,but he checked it in time.

  'My master never borrows,' he answered, with immense dignity. 'I canonly tell you that so far as I know he wishes to see you in regard tosome commission with which a friend in Venice has charged him.'

  Rustan smiled more pleasantly than ever, and walked still faster.

  'We will go directly to Messer Zeno's house, then,' he said. 'This isa most fortunate day for buying and selling, and perhaps I haveprecisely what he wants. We shall see, we shall see!'

  Omobono's thin little legs had hard work to keep up with theBokharian's untiring stride, and though Rustan made a remark now andthen, the clerk could hardly answer him for lack of breath. The sunhad set and it was almost dark when they reached Zeno's house, and thesecretary knocked at the door of his master's private room.