secular; though it was wholly plain and worn. The old man might have been a priest somehow sunken to the care of his family, or he might have been the gardener of a monastery. But the white hair covering his shoulders, the white beard falling to his waist, cave him an air of the patriarchal which was indescribably sweetened by a gentleness of eye and smile. If it was possible for him to be more perfect, his great height made him so. In short, as I have said, he was the most wonderful old man imaginable.
Anastass followed him a moment, ascertained that he was alone, saw him hesitate between the two exits to the Bridge. Then he stepped forward and made a profound salute.
“Good morning, father,” he said. “Give me God’s blessing.”
The old man offered no reply, but he made a gesture half of appeal and half of deprecation.
Anastass increased at once the amenity of his regard and the keenness of his observation. The eyes, the nose, the hands—everything was right. It is only your dilettante, however, who sticks unquailing to his generalizations. Your expert will never be surprised to find his Greek turn out an Armenian or a Jew. Still; our young man ventured:
“Have you far to go?”
The old man sighed.
“I do not know,” he answered—in Greek.
“Ah—it is a hot morning. Do me the honor to come into this café and take a coffee with me.” The amenity of Anastass became unction.
Again saying nothing, the old man allowed himself to be led to one of the little tables. There he sat, alike inscrutable in his silence and in his benignity. The fragrance of the smoking zarjs, however, when the waiter set them down, seemed to touch him to expression.
“Son,” he said, “you are good. There—there—they were not good.” He made a vague motion with his hand.
“On the island?” suggested Anastass.
“Yes,” replied the old man. “On the island.”
So far, so good. But Anastass wondered.
“Where was the house?” he asked.
“Oh—far,” said the old man. “Far. And up—there were the pines, and down—there was the sea. Far, yes. And they were not good. There was only the little Pipina. But she went away. And then went, too—far.”
To which Anastass quickly made answer:
“Father, come to-night to me. I am alone in the world. I have nothing but an empty house, a solitary garden. Let us share them together!”
An ordinary old man would have betrayed some excess of emotion, of curiosity, of repugnance. This old man had none. He merely smiled and said:
“Son, you are good.”
And then he gave himself as in a dream to contemplation of the spectacle which his companion had hitherto found so engrossing. The latter, however, had now other ideas in mind. After a certain interval he said “Come,” and taking the old man’s arm he led the way to the main level of the Bridge. They made a curious couple as they walked toward the Stamboul side—the shabby old man and the smart young one. But they were not more curious than many another pair that stumbled across that hot planking; nor, perhaps, was their errand so strange as that of the first man to whom they might have spoken.
Yet they did speak to a man—or Anastass did. It was indeed to Dimitri, the vender of shoestrings, whom we have already seen. This personage was apparently more interested in the companion than in the patronage of Anastass. For it was the latter who, after fingering at his leisure in the sheaf of laces, spoke first.
“So I have found,” he said, “exactly what I wanted. They told me it didn’t exist, but I told them it did!”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Dimitri, coming back with a start, “these?” and he pulled out a pair of laces. He could not, however, keep his eyes off the old man.
That gentle person, unmoved by the flow of the bizarre world about him, smiled without eagerness and without ennui. Dimitri shifted under it, and Anastass, with his superior knowledge, smiled as well.
“Yes,” he said, “those. And now I am going home. When you have found what you want, why stay out any longer? And then, too, it is better not to let too many people see. You might lose it.”
With which he led the way to the landing of the Bosphorus boats.
