CHAPTER XXXIII

THE INNOCENT ONLOOKER

Kostakes went to the bazaar of his friend Mehemet Effendi. Mehemet was about of an age with the Captain, and had attended school with him. He was young and handsome, with red cheeks, thin, large nose, and thick lips. He affected European costume, but, being a full-blooded Turk, was a sincere worshiper of the prophet, and an enthusiastic member of that society of youths who believed that Islam was about to be rejuvenated and purified, after which it would rise and overwhelm the unbeliever in a series of victories greater than when it swept Asia and the isles of the sea with the besom of fanaticism and carried its one star to the gates of Vienna. Mehemet's partner was a black-bearded, pale-faced Persian, forty years of age, who wore a blue vest, blue trousers that were full about the hips and tight at the ankles, carpet slippers and a red fez. Hassan Ben Sabbath was a Mohammedan by profession, but his belief was colored and weakened by the secret influence of an ancient religion. His soul was haunted by the unrecognizable ghosts of the dead gods of Mardonis and Masistius. He was prudent in business and mildly deprecatory in speech. The bazaar into which Kostakes now walked was a tiny room, fronting upon the kaleidoscopic square. The greater portion of its stock was piled in the capacious windows,--brass candlesticks, Cretan knives and revolvers, Byzantine silver jewelry, antique earthenware, Turkish and Persian embroideries. The only furniture consisted of a round-topped wooden table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that stood in the middle of the floor; a divan and two chairs. Side by side upon the wall, in cheap frames, hung the sad, cruel, blasé faces of Abdul Hamid and the latest successor of Xerxes.

Mehemet was standing under his awning watching the shifting throng, and occasionally casting expectant glances at the bay. His eyes were bright and his face was pale from nervousness.

"Any news, Kosta? Any news?" he demanded in a cautious tone. Kostakes made no reply, but flinging himself into one of the chairs, began to beat a lively tattoo with his riding whip on the top of his boot. Ben Sabbath, who had been pretending to sleep on the divan, rose to a sitting position and yawned.

"Don't betray your feelings so," said Mehemet; "the hour when the faithful shall triumph is almost at hand. Be patient."

"I'm sick of the whole cursed spawning of Christians," cried Kostakes, making the whip crack on his boot top like a pistol shot. "I want to see the throats of the last one of them slit. I--"

"Now, Kosta, Kosta, in the name of Allah," protested Ben Sabbath, springing to the door and looking to right and left.

Mehemet patted the excited man on the shoulder soothingly.

"He cannot help it," he explained. "It is Islam rising. Patience, Kosta, but a little longer, and you shall have your fill of slitting. We shall spare no one, eh? No Christian dogs to breed more litters of Christians; no babes to grow up into Christians!"

"Merciful Allah! If you should be heard!" whispered Ben Sabbath in an ague of fear.

"You can't make anything out of a Christian, try how you will," continued Kostakes. "They don't appreciate kindness. Now, take that girl of mine, Panayota--"

"You are not trifling with her yet?"

"I have treated her with the greatest kindness, I have humbled myself to her, but she despises me, she abhors me--me!"

And rising to his full height he smote his expanded chest.

"Never mind, never mind," said Mehemet.

"I've offered to make her the head of my harem, to--to--do everything in fact, but still she is obstinate. O, I am through with kindness now. This is a fine state of society when it is possible for a Christian hussy to despise a Turkish gentleman and an officer to boot!"

Under ordinary circumstances some of Mehemet's Christian neighbors would have heard Kostakes' raving from afar, and would have stolen near. At the present moment, however, the entire population of the square was surging down to the water's edge watching an English ship that was rapidly and noiselessly sliding into the harbor. Evidently it had been expected, and its mission on this occasion was supposedly favorable to the Christians, for they were noisily jubilant and addressed many facetious but insulting remarks to their Mohammedan neighbors. The latter remained silent and gazed with scowling brows at the approaching vessel.

"Here it comes!" cried Ben Sabbath from the door, as the masts and funnels of the "Hazard" suddenly drifted into the background, above the heads of the throng. Mehemet grabbed Kostakes by the arm and dragged him to the door.

"See there!" he cried, forgetting all restraint. "There comes the disgrace of Islam, my brother--they have come to enslave us. Those English are Christians, and they hate us. But your time has come, dogs, your time has come!" and he shook his fist toward the ship.

"But in the name of Allah!" expostulated Ben Sabbath. "These English are our best customers. Only yesterday I sold a piece of Rhodes embroidery to an English lieutenant for four times its value. And we can't fight the English; they take the most terrible revenge. Look at--"

"Bah! Look at nothing! Look at our most glorious Sultan, the light of the world and the defender of the faith. Has he not been keeping all Europe at bay for the last ten years? There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his prophet!"

"We must not interfere with the English, I tell you," protested Ben Sabbath, in great alarm.

"A Christian is a Christian--all dogs--froth of the spittle of dogs. Kostakes, they have come to install the new Christian officials and to collect the tax. The money of the faithful goes into Christian hands. Your old enemy, Platonides, is to be made deputy collector. How do you like that?"

"Curse his Virgin!" growled Kostakes, again resorting to Greek. "But he won't live long to enjoy it. I'll see to that--despise me!"

"Now you're talking sensibly," interposed Ben Sabbath, admiringly. "There's a way and a time to do all things, of course. But to oppose the English by force--it's the veriest madness."

The metallic burr of the chain, paying out rapidly as the "Hazard's" anchor plunged, came to their ears with startling distinctness. Mehemet groaned.

"Our slavery dates from this moment, unless we nip this tyranny in the bud, unless we strike a terrible blow. They will be coming into our houses next and taking our Christian wives away from us."

"Not into mine while I have two hundred Bashi Bazouks at my back!" cried Kostakes. "Curse the Christians!"

"Have they not given them the privilege of trading in the town? Have they not denied to Mohammedans the right to go out and visit their farms and gardens? You will see what their next move will be."

The sharp, clear tones of an English officer could be heard, and the rattle of oars as they were unshipped and boated by the crew of a man-of-war's boat. The crowd at the wharf surged back with groans and cheers. But the wharf was not destined to be the chief center of attraction. The scrannel drone of a bagpipe sounded faintly in the distance, and grew rapidly more distinct, a waving thread of sound that led the measured tread of many feet, marching to quickstep, out of the silence and nearer, nearer. The three Mohammedans fixed their eyes upon the opening of a street that gave, not far away, into the square. The bagpipe turned the corner, and its defiant wail came straight to their ears. The throng at the wharf turned and looked, then turned back again, like the distracted spectator at a modern circus, where the prodigality of attractions prevents the enjoyment of any. But they were not long in doubt as to the principal attraction, for the street ejected from its mouth at that moment the most devil-may-care, picturesque, obstreperous, robust, business-like compound of wailing wind and true courage on earth--a Scotch bagpiper. Tamas Macmillan flung across the square, looking neither to right nor left. His hair was red, and his face flamed in the tropic sun. Every time that he puffed his cheeks full his head shook with the effort, and the streamers of his Scotch cap leaped on the breeze. He was a tall, gaunt, awkward Scot, whose projecting kneecaps played in front of the sinewy knees like round shields. On he fared, with chest thrust out and face thrust up, squeezing the bag beneath his brawny arm and letting out its protesting squeals in the notes of "Bonnie Prince Charlie." Behind him at a distance came a small body of Seaforth Highlanders and a few bluejackets, bound straight for the custom house. The throng scrambled out of the way to right and left, as though from a bayonet charge. In fact, the natives did not wait for the troops, but melted away before the flaming countenance of Tamas Macmillan.

One of Kostakes' Bashi Bazouks, a great, splendid fellow, with a blue and yellow turban about his head and a gaudy sash about his waist, appeared beneath Mehemet's awning and salaamed.

"Your men are going up to the custom house," he said.

Kostakes was fretting to and fro in the shop like a big lion in a small cage, gnawing his upper lip, twitching at his mustache. Every moment his passion grew, and the snorts of indignation became more and more frequent.

"Doesn't want me, eh? What does she want? Wouldn't have me on any terms? Ha, ha! We'll see about that!"

"Effendi," said the man, in a louder voice.

The Captain whirled about with a jerk and glared at the speaker.

"Well, what do you want?"

The man retreated a step. Kostakes' face was purple and his eyes looked uncanny in the half light, like a cat's.

"Your men, I said, are going to the custom house."

"Bah! Tell them to go to the devil!"

The Bashi Bazouk salaamed and started away, but Mehemet caught him by the arm.

"The Effendi is in a terrible rage about Platonides. Tell the men to go up in twos and threes, and--and--to keep out of mischief."

"We are not armed, Effendi," replied the man, smiling grimly, and laying his hand upon the butt of one of the large, old-fashioned pistols in his belt. Besides these weapons, he carried a long Cretan knife in a leathern sheath, tipped with silver.

"We are not armed," he repeated, "except for dress."

"There will surely be trouble," whined Ben Sabbath, "and these foreigners are our best customers."

"What are the Christians doing now?" sneered Kostakes, standing in the door. He had passed into one of those periods of calm which manifest themselves after violent ebullitions of rage, like the fearful silences between thunderclaps.

Mehemet pointed. The British troops and the marines were drawn up in front of the custom house. Red jackets and gleaming helmet tips on one side; bare knees in a row, kilts and little caps with frisking tails on the other. Numerous Bashi Bazouks were seen standing among the throng, several of them upon its outer edge. Kostakes caught sight of the hated Platonides in company with a British officer. The guard saluted, and the Cretan raised his hat, as though the military courtesy were intended for him.

"If there is a row," chuckled Kostakes, "my men will attend to you. They'll install you!"

And he started briskly across the square, accompanied by Mehemet.

Ben Sabbath retired into the shop, trembling with fear.

"Our best customers," he muttered, "and they never forgive nor forget!" But he could not restrain his curiosity, and so, after another moment, he peeped from the door again. Everything was proceeding quietly and in order.

"Bah! There will be no trouble, with all those English there."

He tiptoed across the open space in front of the door, ready to scurry back at the least symptom of alarm. He reached the edge of the throng, and forgetting his fear, in the midst of so many friends and neighbors, pushed boldly through, arriving at the farther edge just in time to receive a bullet in his breast. Clutching at the air, he staggered a few steps into the open and fell dead, with one loud cry to Allah for help. Like many another peaceful and inoffensive man he had fallen the first victim in a scene of violence.