To turn back was scarcely advisable; but the road he was following went straight past the diners. Clement was in a fix; but he determined at last to put a bold face on the matter, so he trotted by the gaping group with affected nonchalance, pretending to be intent all the while on calculating the exact number of acorns on the wayside oaks, and merely raised his hat to the Tartars with a brief "_Salem aleikum!_" when he came close up to them, as if he only then perceived them for the first time, passing quickly on without looking once behind him. So far all was well, but at that very moment two of the Tartars sprang up from the fire and called to the rider to stop. Clement, perceiving that they were both unarmed, argued therefrom that they had no murderous designs upon him, and therefore halted and awaited them. No sooner had the two dog-headed figures come up to him, one on each side, than they caught hold of his legs and displayed no less an intention than to rob him of his beautiful boots. "Would you? ye sons of Belial!" cried Clement, beside himself with rage, and grasping the hilt of his sword he tried to pull it from its leather sheath, in order to cut off the ears of his assailants forthwith. But the good blade, which had not quitted its sheath for ten years, had grown so rusty that Clement, despite all his endeavours, could not pluck it forth, and in the meantime the two Tartars pulled the wriggling rider hither and thither by the legs, naturally without succeeding in loosening the tight-fitting boots in the least. The Tartars reviled Clement, and Clement reviled the Tartars: their language was perfectly horrible. The noise brought the Aga to the spot--an ourang-outang-like object whose mahogany features were framed by a white beard--and he asked in a hoarse whisper what was the matter. Clement the Clerk at once drew his credentials from the pocket of his mente, and shook it in the Aga's face--he was too wrathful to speak--while the Tartars, pointing with frantic gestures at the boots, jabbered something to the Aga. "Who art thou, O bow-legged unbeliever!" asked the Aga, "that thou dost presume to wear on thy lowest extremities, on thy mud-wading feet, forsooth! the sacred colour of the Prophet, that radiant green which the faithful may only behold on the arches of their mosques and on the turban of the Padishah? Thou shalt be burned alive, thou godless Giaour!" "I am the Patrol-officer of his Highness Prince Michael Apafi!" declaimed the ex-student, with terrified pathos. "My person is sacred and inviolable. I am he who provides the host of the sublime Sultan with meat and drink; I proclaim and collect the taxes, so let me go, for I am a very important personage." This mode of defence pleased the Tartars. The Aga exchanged glances with his subalterns, as much as to say--"This is the very man we want!" and addressed him again in a more friendly tone.