The Veiled Lady | Page 9

are only curious, monsieur," he said in French. "If they
disturb you I will have them sent away. So few painters come--you are
the first I have seen in many years. If it will not annoy you, I'd like to
watch you a while."
"Annoy me, my dear sir!" I was on my feet now, hat in hand. (If he had
been my long-lost brother, stolen by the Indians or left on a desert
island to starve--or any or all of those picturesque and dramatic
things--I could not have been more glad to see him. I fairly hugged
myself--it seemed too good to be true.) "I will be more than delighted if
you will take my dragoman's stool. Get up, Joe, and give--"
The request had already been forestalled. Joe was not only up, but was
bowing with the regularity and precision of the arms of a windmill, his
fingers, with every rise, fluttering between his shirt-stud and his
eyebrows. On his second upsweep the young prince got a view of his
face--then his hand went out.
"Why, it is Hornstog! We know each other. We met in Damascus. You
could not, monsieur, find a better dragoman in all Constantinople."
Only three pairs of eyes now followed the movements of my brush, the
crowd having fallen back out of respect for the young man's rank,
Yusuf having communicated that fact to those who had not recognized
him.
When the light changed--and it changed unusually early that morning,
about two hours ahead of time (I helped)--I said to the prince:
"It may interest you to see me finish a sketch in color. Come with me as
far as Suleiman. We can sit quite out of the sun up a little back street
under a wall, and away from everybody. I began the drawing yesterday.
See!" and I uncovered the canvas.
"Ah, Suleimanyeh! The most beautiful of all our mosques. Yes,
certainly I'll go."
Joe dug his knuckles into my thigh, under pretence of steadying
himself--he was squatting beside me like a frog, helping with the
water-cups--and gasped: "No; don't take him--please, effendi! No--
no--"

I brushed Joe aside and continued: "We can send for coffee and spend
the afternoon. I'll have some chairs brought from the cafe. Pick up
everything, Joe, and come along."
On the way to the crooked, break-neck street my thoughts went racing
through my head. On one side, perhaps, a tap on the shoulder in the
middle of the night; half a yard of catgut in the hands of a Bashi-
Bazouk; an appeal to our consul, with the consciousness of having
meddled with something that did not concern me. On the other a pair of
tear-stained, pleading eyes. Not my eyes--not the eyes of anybody that I
knew--but the kind that raise the devil even in the heart of a staid old
painter like myself.
Joe followed, with downcast gaze. He, too, was scheming. He could not
protest before the prince, nor before Yusuf. That would imply previous
knowledge of the danger lurking in the vicinity of the old wall. His was
the devil and the deep sea. Not to tell the prince of Yuleima's
whereabouts, after their combined search for her, and the fees the
prince had paid him, would be as cruel as it was disloyal. To assist in
Mahmoud's finding her would bring down upon his own head--if it was
still on his shoulders--the wrath of the chief of police, as well as the
power behind him.
Once under the shadow of the wall, the trap unpacked, easel and
umbrella up, and water-bottle filled, Joe started his windmill, paused at
the third kotow, looked me straight in the eye, and, with a tone in his
voice, as if he had at last come to some conclusion, made this request:
"I have no eat breakfast, effendi--very hungry-- you please permit Joe
go cafe with Yusuf--we stay ONE hour, no more. Then I bring coffee.
You see me when I come--I bring the coffee myselluf."
He could not have pleased me more. How to get rid of them both was
what had been bothering me.
I painted on, both of us backed into the low gate with the sliding panel,
my eyes on the mosque, my ears open for the slightest sound. We
talked of the wonderful architecture of the East, of the taper of the
minarets, of the grace and dignity of the priests, of the social life of the
people, I leading and he following, until I had brought the conversation
down to the question:
"And when you young men decide to marry are you free to choose, as
we Europeans are?" I was feeling about, wondering how much of his

confidence he would give me.
"No; that's why, sometimes, I wish I was like