But alas! this seeming plenty is naught more than the crumbs from nature's table--harpy war has seized the feast. Above all the hum of tongues, the braying of donkeys, the rattle of shod feet on the cobbles, rings out at intervals the bugle's wakening call. Turkish soldiers lounge about the streets, squat, greasy, ungroomed, cruel. There is a slight smell of smoke in the air, as the wind drifts over from the smouldering ruins of the Christian quarter, burned during the latest outbreak. Possibly there is a charred body or two among the cinders, but pshaw! you cannot smell that. It is only imagination. And here comes a foreign military demonstration. They are Italians, immaculate in brown linen, with tufts of long blue feathers rustling spitefully in their Garibaldi hats. Down the street they swing at double quick, and through the crowded quay they plunge, while the lazy Orientals scramble out of the way. How these Italians glitter! There is a bugle corps in front, with shining instruments, and an Adonis of an officer at the side with flashing, drawn sword; a bayonet slants skyward from every shoulder in the squad, dancing and blazing in the tropic sun. They are gone and the throng closes in again, like water in the wake of a ship. Such is Canea, below its many colored awnings. Cast your eye above them and you see the square white houses of a Greek town. Look higher up, and there is the Grecian sky, the same sky that looked down upon the birth of Jove and the giving of Cretan law, upon the flitting sail that brought the yearly tribute of youths and maidens from Athens, upon the knightly vengeance of Theseus, striding down the labyrinth, all clad in ringing mail. Centuries of oppression may drag their slow length along, the children of the desert may come and go as they will, but that chaste sweet sky is patiently waiting above. And beneath it is Greece. CHAPTER XXV THREE WIVES A Turkish woman, closely veiled and carrying a black umbrella, was walking along the Spladjia, or principal street of Canea. A nondescript urchin, bare-footed, with a tuft of black hair shooting straight up through a rent in his straw hat, followed with a string of red mullets and a sheaf of Italian lettuce. As the mysterious woman passed the little group of men sitting under the awnings, they turned their heads discreetly to one side, not even casting a furtive glance at the dainty, embroidered slippers, that now and then peeped out from under the black robe. Turning down a narrow street, she tiptoed along beneath the projecting upper stories of the houses, with that motion peculiar to women whose slippers are so constructed that they fall off if the toe is not shoved into them at each successive step. Stopping for a moment, she drew a handkerchief from her bosom, and, passing it under her veil, wiped her face. "Whew!" she said, "it's hot." Then, raising her head, she sniffed the air sharply, eagerly.