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“These be troublous times,” puffed his Swarthiness through his mustache, his tobacco-stained fingers meanwhile rolling a cigarette; a dark-skinned, heavily-bearded Oriental, this Pasha, with an eye that burned holes in you. “You should await a more peaceful season, effendi, for your art.”

“On account of the Armenians, your Excellency?” I ventured to inquire with a smile.

“Yes.” This, in translation by Joe, came with a whistling sound, like the escaping steam of a radiator.

“But why should I fear these disturbers of the peace, your Supreme Highness? The Turk is my friend, and has been for years. They know me and my pure and unblemished life. They also know by this time that I have been one of the chosen few among nations who have enjoyed your Highness’s confidence, and to whom you have given protection.” Here my spine took the form of a horseshoe curve–Moorish pattern. “As to these dogs of Armenians” (this last was Joe’s, given with a growl to show his deep detestation of the race–part of his own, if he would but acknowledge it), “your Excellency will look out for them.” He WAS looking out for them at the rate of one hundred a day and no questions asked or answered so far as the poor fellows were concerned.

At this the distinguished Oriental finished rolling his cigarette, looked at me blandly–it is astonishing how sweet a smile can overspread the face of a Turk when he is granting you a favor or signing the death warrant of an infidel–clapped his hands, summoning an attendant who came in on all fours, and whispered an order in the left ear of the almost prostrate man. This done, the Pasha rose from his seat, straightened his shoulders (no handsomer men the world over than these high-class Turks), shook my hand warmly, gave me the Turkish salute–heart, mouth, and forehead touched with the tips of flying fingers–and bowed me out.

Once through the flat leather curtain that hid the exit door of the Pasha’s office, and into the bare corridor, I led Joe to a corner out of the hearing of the ever-present spy, and, nailing him to the wall, propounded this query:

“What did the High-Pan-Jam say, Joe?”

Hornstog raised his shoulders level with his ears, fanned out his fingers, crooked his elbows, and in his best conglomerate answered:

“He say, effendi, that a guard of ein men, Yusuf, his name–I know him–he is in the Secret Service–oh, we will have no trouble with him–” Here Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger with the movement of a paying teller counting a roll. “He come every morning to Galata Bridge for you me. He say, too, if any trouble while you paint I go him–ah, effendi, it is only Joe Hornstog can do these things. The Pasha, he know me–all good Turk-men know me. Where we paint now, subito? In the plaza, or in the patio of the Valedee, like last year?”

“Neither. We go first to the Mosque of Suleiman. I want the view through the gate of the court-yard, with the mosque in the background. Best place is below the cafe. Pick up those traps and come along.”

Thus it was that on this particular summer afternoon Joe and I found ourselves on the shadow side of a wall up a crooked, break-neck street paved with rocks, each as big as a dress-suit case, from which I got a full view of the wonderful mosque tossing its splendors into the still air, its cresting of minarets so much frozen spray against the blue.

The little comedy–or shall I say tragedy?–began a few minutes after I had opened my easel–I sitting crouched in the shadow, my elbow touching the plastered wall. Only Joe and I were present. Yusuf, the guard, a skinny, half-fed Turk in fez and European dress, had as usual betaken himself to the cafe fronting the same sidewalk on which I sat, but half a block away; far enough to be out of hearing, but near enough to miss my presence should I decamp suddenly without notifying him. There he drank some fifty cups of coffee, each one the size of a thimble, and smoked as many cigarettes, their burned stubs locating his seat under the cafe awning as clearly as peanut-shells mark a boy’s at the circus. I, of course, paid for both.