I next came to the ancient military gate called Tou Tritou, now closed. The shattered condition of towers and curtains show that some of Orbano’s mighty cannon must have been directed against this portion of the defences. It is thought, indeed, that here was one of those three breaches which Muhammad II. pointed out to his army on the first day of the assault, saying, “You can ride into Constantinople on horseback through the three openings I have made for you.” Next I came to an open gate flanked by two octagonal towers, which, from its small bridge supported on three charming arches of a beautiful golden color, I identified as the _Silivri_ Gate, leading to ancient _Selymbria_, corrupted by the Turks into _Silivri_. During the siege this gate was defended by a Genoese, Maurizio Cottaneo. Some of the paving laid by Justinian can still be seen. Facing it is an enormous cemetery, beyond which stands the celebrated Balukli monastery. On entering the cemetery I found without difficulty the solitary spot where are interred the heads of the famous Ali of Tepelen, pasha of Janina, his sons Veli, governor of Trikala; Muctar, administrator of Arlonia, Saalih, administrator of Lepanto, and of his nephew, Mehemed, son of Veli, administrator of Delvino. There are five small stone columns, surmounted by turbans, bearing the date 1827,[B] and an inscription of the simplest kind. They were erected by the poor Soliman dervish, Ali’s boyhood’s friend, who bought the heads after they were removed from the Seraglio walls, and interred them with his own hands. The inscription upon Ali’s tombstone, which stands in the middle, reads as follows: “Here lies the head of the celebrated Ali Pasha of Tepelen, governor of the sanjak of Janina, who for upward of fifty years labored for the independence of Albania;” which proves that pious lies may be found even upon Mussulman gravestones. Pausing for a few moments to muse over the little corner of earth covering that once formidable head, Hamlet’s interrogations addressed to Yorick’s skull came into my mind: “Where now are your klephtis, lion of Epirus? where are your brave Arnaouts, your castles bristling with guns, your charming pavilions reflected in the still waters of Janina’s lake, your buried treasures? and where, alas! the beautiful eyes of your beloved Vasilik, that lovely unfortunate who wandered a homeless outcast through the streets of the capital distracted by the memories of her lost happiness and high estate?” At this point my reflections were disturbed by a slight noise behind me, and, turning, I found a tall, emaciated man, clad in a long dark tunic, gazing at me with a look of interrogation. From his gestures I understood that he was a monk from the Greek monastery of Balukli offering to show me the Holy Well, and I accordingly followed him in the direction of the church. Leading the way across a deserted courtyard, he opened a small door, and, having lighted a candle,