"Will it be much money?" inquired my companion, who, very reluctant to open his purse-strings, was equally averse to having his shirt-fronts rumpled. "No, sir, leave it to me," replied the Greek, with an air of great importance. "I know that this scoundrel will rob us!" ejaculated the silk-merchant. "But we are in his hands. We must pay, whether we like it or not." We arrived at the custom-house. An elderly official approached the Greek, and, pointing to us, said something in his ear. "We shall be robbed, I know we shall," muttered my companion excitedly. "If I could only speak the language, I would just give that official a piece of my mind." The Greek now put some money into the inspector's hand, and the latter, opening and shutting a hat-case, announced that the examination was over. Some porters carried our luggage up the steep hill which led from the port to Pera. We followed in a rickety old carriage. The springs were very weak, and the vehicle rolled from side to side as our horses panted along the wretchedly dirty street. Presently, to the relief of my companion and self, who were neither of us feather weights, the driver pulled up at our destination. In the evening I went to a Turkish Café Chantant. It was a curious sight. Solemn-looking Turks were seated round the room, each man smoking his Nargileh. Little active-looking Greeks with cigarettes in their mouths, were eagerly reading the most recent telegrams, and discussing the chances of peace or war. In the interval between the songs a small knot of younger Turks loudly applauded a vocalist, and the latter began to sing about Sultan Abdul Aziz, of all his glory, and how at last pride turned his head. He did foolish things, went mad, and killed himself. "But it was not his fault," continued the singer, in another verse, "it was his kismet. If he had been destined to die a natural death, or on the battle-field, he would have done so. We are all under the influence of destiny. Sultans are like the rest of the world. Great Sultan, rest in peace!" I had the good fortune to be accompanied by a friend, an old resident in Constantinople. He was a perfect master of Turkish, and he readily translated to me each verse of the song. "What is your opinion about Abdul Aziz's death?" I inquired of my companion, as the last strains of the melody died away. "Did he really kill himself, as the world would have us believe? or did some one else save him the trouble?" My companion laughed ironically, paused for a few moments, and then remarked,— "No one knows the exact facts of the case, but the popular belief is that he was assassinated. Indeed, the Turks say that he had agreed to sell the fleet to Russia, and had consented to allow a Russian force to garrison Constantinople."