The girl had a good voice. As the last notes died away in the hall, the Turks became greatly excited. Shouts of applause resounded through the building. Close to my table were two Englishmen. One of them appeared to be a correspondent of some newspaper. His pocket-book was open on the table. He was taking notes. "Patriotic song," he remarked to his companion, "capital scene for a graphic letter—sympathy between French and Turks—you see she says France loves the Turks." "Nonsense," said his companion, "she is singing about the Turcos in Algeria, not about the Turks—you have written it all wrong." The Special changed colour for a moment, and then muttered, "Confound it! yes! Algeria is not Turkey, but it does not much signify." And he went on writing. CHAPTER IV. Osman—Five horses for sale—An industrious man—A cemetery—A wall-eyed Turk—A little black—"He ain't got no shoulders"—A horse with a sore back—A roarer—The blind beggars hear him coming—A Turkish horseshoe—Provisions for the journey—A prince belonging to the Russian Embassy in the hospital—A prince a boot-cleaner—Osman's relatives—The Hôtel Royal—A stirrup-cup—Osman's religious scruples—The boat for Scutari—Shipping our horses—Jealous husbands—A Turk's seraglio—Was it a torpedo?—The panels of the Bey's carriage—An explosion of cartridges—Readjusting the luggage—A torrent of expletives. The following morning I was awoke by a tap at the door, and who should enter my room but the newly-engaged servant, Osman. "Effendi," he said, "I have five horses for you to see. They are in a large yard close to the hotel. Splendid horses they are too. I am so industrious," he added, "the Effendi will find this out for himself soon. I am not like other Turks—I like working; I have been running all over Constantinople after the horses, for I heard that the Effendi was in a hurry to start. When will he go and see the animals?" About half an hour later I accompanied the industrious man to a small plot of ground not far from Pera. It was surrounded by a high wall, and, judging from the number of loose stones which lay about, had once been a cemetery. But cemetery or not it was all the same to Osman, who had not the same reverence for the dead as the rest of his countrymen. "There are a great many stones," I observed. "All the better, Effendi," was the reply; "we shall ride over a number of stones on the road to Kars, and a little sooner or later for the horses does not make much difference."