The café, or rather music hall, was a fine building, crowded with men of all nationalities. Good-looking Hungarian and Italian girls took the place of waiters, and bustled about, receiving orders from the more than usually excited true believers. Many of the latter, in spite of the Prophet's injunction, were freely partaking of raki. Volumes of smoke from the cigarettes and chibouks of the spectators had created a dense atmosphere in the building. Some of the attendants were remarkably handsome girls. Indeed, as I subsequently learnt, the proprietor of the café would not engage an ugly woman, his idea being that the Turks, his chief customers, came quite as much to look at and talk to his waitresses, as to see the performance. It must have been a hard trial for the digestive organs of the better-looking of these girls. One in particular, a tall and very handsome Italian, with large dark eyes and an innocent expression, which probably her character belied, was in great request, the Turks always inviting her to share the raki or the coffee which she brought them. The performance lasted from eight p.m. till about two in the morning; it was a wonder that her constitution could stand the trial. I called for a cup of coffee, and when she handed it to me, I asked in Italian what she would like for herself. The girl's eyes sparkled on being addressed in her native tongue. "Nothing, signore," she said; "I am not a barrel, although the Turks think I am; but you are not a Turk. However, I cannot afford to offend them, for the proprietor pays us no wages; all I have is what the visitors give me. It is a dreadful life, signore. Chocolate, raki, and beer. I only sip, but I have to swallow a little all the same; then there is lemonade, coffee, mastic, and occasionally, when gentlemen like yourself come here—champagne. It is such a mixture. I have a pain sometimes," she continued, at the same time pointing to the bodice of her dress, "I wish to cry, but I have to run about, smile, wait upon the visitors, and drink with them—it is a dreadful life. Oh, if I could only return to Florence!" A Turk seated near me, and who was eagerly gazing at the girl, made a sign to her. "I must go," she said. "He is a friend of the proprietor—I dare not offend him." Presently she was sipping some punch from his glass. My friend caught my eye, and laughed. "Yes," he said, "she is adding punch to the other mixtures. Poor child, it will be a wonder if she does not go off by spontaneous combustion some day. But, hush! the famous singer is just going to give us the song about the Turcos." A tall and rather stout French girl now came upon the stage. Some long black tresses were hanging down her back. Her dress, which was made of white muslin, was very low in front, and a flaming red sash encircled her waist. The song had reference to the bravery of the Turcos, how they died for France, and how France loved them.