We battled to a corner, where a of building stood out into the street. It was our only chance to protect our backs, to stand up with the of stone between us. It was only the work of seconds. One instant we were groping our way in the darkness, the next we were pinned against a wall with a throaty mob surging round us.  
It took me a moment or two to realize that we were attacked. Every man has one special funk in the back of his head, and mine was to be the of an angry crowd. I hated the thought of it—the mess, the blind struggle, the sense of passions different from those of any single blackguard. It was a dark world to me, and I don’t like darkness. But in my nightmares I had never imagined anything just like this. The narrow, fetid street, with the icy winds fanning the , the unknown tongue, the , and my utter ignorance as to what it might all be about, made me cold in the pit of my stomach.
 
“We’ve got it in the neck this time, old man,” I said to Peter, who had out the pistol the commandant at Rustchuk had given him. These pistols were our only weapons. The crowd saw them and hung back, but if they chose to rush us it wasn’t much of a barrier two pistols would make.
 
Rasta’s voice had stopped. He had done his work, and had to the background. There were shouts from the crowd—“Alleman” and a word “Khafiyeh” constantly repeated. I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but now I know that they were after us because we were Boches and spies. There was no love lost between the Constantinople scum and their new masters. It seemed an end for Peter and me to be done in because we were Boches. And done in we should be. I had heard of the East as a good place for people to disappear in; there were no newspapers or incorruptible police.
 
I wished to Heaven I had a word of Turkish. But I made my voice heard for a second in a pause of the , and shouted that we were German sailors who had brought down big guns for Turkey, and were going home next day. I asked them what the devil they thought we had done? I don’t know if any fellow there understood German; anyhow, it only brought a of cries in which that word Khafiyeh was predominant.
 
Then Peter fired over their heads. He had to, for a chap was pawing at his throat. The answer was a of bullets on the wall above us. It looked as if they meant to take us alive, and that I was very clear should not happen. Better a end in a street than the tender mercies of that bandbox bravo.
 
I don’t quite know what happened next. A press drove down at me and I fired. Someone , and I looked the next moment to be strangled. And then, suddenly, the scrimmage ceased, and there was a wavering splash of light in that pit of darkness.
 
I never went through many worse minutes than these. When I had been hunted in the past weeks there had been mystery enough, but no to face. When I had been up against a real, urgent, physical risk, like Loos, the danger at any rate had been clear. One knew what one was in for. But here was a threat I couldn’t put a name to, and it wasn’t in the future, but pressing hard at our throats.
 
And yet I couldn’t feel it was quite real. The patter of the pistol bullets against the wall, like so many , the faces felt rather than seen in the dark, the clamour which to me was pure gibberish, had all the madness of a nightmare. Only Peter, cursing in Dutch by my side, was real. And then the light came, and made the scene more !
 
It came from one or two torches carried by wild fellows with long staves who drove their way into the heart of the mob. The glare ran up the steep walls and made shadows. The wind swung the flame into long streamers, dying away in a fan of sparks.
 
And now a new word was heard in the crowd. It was Chinganeh, shouted not in anger but in fear.
 
At first I could not see the newcomers. They were hidden in the deep darkness under their of light, for they were holding their torches high at the full stretch of their arms. They were shouting, too, wild cries ending sometimes in a of rapid speech. Their words did not seem to be directed against us, but against the crowd. A sudden hope came to me that for some unknown reason they were on our side.
 
The press was no longer heavy against us. It was thinning rapidly and I could hear the scuffle as men made off down the side streets. My first notion was that these were the Turkish police. But I changed my mind when the leader came out into a patch of light. He carried no torch, but a long stave with which he belaboured the heads of those who were too tightly packed to flee.
 
It was the most eldritch you can conceive. A tall man dressed in skins, with bare legs and sandal-shod feet. A wisp of cloth clung to his shoulders, and, over his head down close to his eyes, was a skull-cap of some kind of with the tail waving behind it. He like a wild animal, keeping up a strange high monotone that fairly gave me the creeps.
 
I was suddenly aware that the crowd had gone. Before us was only this figure and his half-dozen companions, some carrying torches and all wearing clothes of skin. But only the one who seemed to be their leader wore the skull-cap; the rest had bare heads and long hair.
 
The fellow was shouting gibberish at me. His eyes were glassy, like a man who smokes , and his legs were never still for a second. You would think such a figure no better than a , and yet there was nothing comic in it. Fearful and and uncanny it was; and I wanted to do anything but laugh.
 
As he shouted he kept pointing with his stave up the street which climbed the hillside.
 
“He means us to move,” said Peter. “For God’s sake let us get away from this witch-doctor.”
 
I couldn’t make sense of it, but one thing was clear. These had delivered us for the moment from Rasta and his friends.
 
Then I did a dashed silly thing. I pulled out a sovereign and offered it to the leader. I had some kind of notion of showing , and as I had no words I had to show it by deed.
 
He brought his stick down on my wrist and sent the coin spinning in the . His eyes blazed, and he made his weapon sing round my head. He cursed me—oh, I could tell cursing well enough, though I didn’t follow a word; and he cried to his and they cursed me too. I had offered him a mortal insult and stirred up a worse hornet’s nest than Rasta’s push.
 
Peter and I, with a common impulse, took to our heels. We were not looking for any trouble with demoniacs. Up the steep, narrow lane we ran with that bedlamite crowd at our heels. The torches seemed to have gone out, for the place was black as pitch, and we tumbled over heaps of offal and splashed through running drains. The men were close behind us, and more than once I felt a stick on my shoulder. But fear lent us wings, and suddenly before us was a blaze of light and we saw the of our street in a main thoroughfare. The others saw it, too, for they slackened off. Just before we reached the light we stopped and looked round. There was no sound or sight behind us in the dark lane which dipped to the harbour.
 
“This is a queer country, Cornelis,” said Peter, feeling his limbs for . “Too many things happen in too short a time. I am breathless.”
 
The big street we had struck seemed to run along the of the hill. There were lamps in it, and crawling cabs, and quite civilized-looking shops. We soon found the hotel to which Kuprasso had directed us, a big place in a courtyard with a very tumble-down-looking , and green sun- which in the winter’s wind. It proved, as I had feared, to be packed to the door, mostly with German officers. With some trouble I got an interview with the , the usual Greek, and told him that we had been sent there by Mr Kuprasso. That didn’t affect him in the least, and we would have been shot into the street if I hadn’t remembered about Stumm’s pass.
 
So I explained that we had come from Germany with and only wanted rooms for one night. I showed him the pass and a good deal, till he became civil and said he would do the best he could for us.
 
That best was pretty poor. Peter and I were doubled up in a small room which contained two camp-beds and little else, and had broken windows through which the wind whistled. We had a wretched dinner of stringy mutton, boiled with vegetables, and a white cheese strong enough to raise the dead. But I got a bottle of whisky, for which I paid a sovereign, and we managed to light the stove in our room, fasten the shutters, and warm our hearts with a of toddy. After that we went to bed and slept like logs for twelve hours. On the road from Rustchuk we had had uneasy .
 
I woke next morning and, looking out from the broken window, saw that it was snowing. With a lot of trouble I got hold of a servant and made him bring us some of the treacly Turkish coffee. We were both in pretty low spirits. “Europe is a poor cold place,” said Peter, “not worth fighting for. There is only one white man’s land, and that is South Africa.” At the time I agreed with him.
 
I remember that, sitting on the edge of my bed, I took stock of our position. It was not very cheering. We seemed to have been enemies at a furious pace. First of all, there was Rasta, whom I had insulted and who wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. He had his crowd of Turkish riff-raff and was bound to get us sooner or later. Then there was the in the skin hat. He didn’t like Rasta, and I made a guess that he and his friends were of some party hostile to the Young Turks. But, on the other hand, he didn’t like us, and there would be bad trouble the next time we met him. Finally, there was Stumm and the German Government. It could only be a matter of hours at the best before he got the Rustchuk authorities on our trail. It would be easy to trace us from Chataldja, and once they had us we were absolutely done. There was a big black dossier against us, which by no conceivable piece of luck could be upset.
 
It was very clear to me that, unless we could find and shed all our various pursuers during this day, we should be done in for good and all. But where on earth were we to find sanctuary? We had neither of us a word of the language, and there was no way I could see of taking on new characters. For that we wanted friends and help, and I could think of none anywhere. Somewhere, to be sure, there was Blenkiron, but how could we get in touch with him? As for Sandy, I had pretty well given him up. I always thought his enterprise the craziest of the lot and bound to fail. He was probably somewhere in Asia , and a month or two later would get to Constantinople and hear in some pot-house the of the two wretched Dutchmen who had disappeared so soon from men’s sight.
 
That at Kuprasso’s was no good. It would have been all right if we had got here unsuspected, and could have gone on quietly frequenting the place till Blenkiron picked us up. But to do that we wanted leisure and , and here we were with a pack of hounds at our heels. The place was horribly dangerous already. If we showed ourselves there we should be gathered in by Rasta, or by the German military police, or by the madman in the skin cap. It was a impossibility to hang about on the off-chance of meeting Blenkiron.
 
I reflected with some bitterness that this was the 17th day of January, the day of our assignation. I had had high hopes all the way down the Danube of meeting with Blenkiron—for I knew he would be in time—of giving him th............