The designer’s naïf joy in a fresh architectural expression shines from this Byzantine Paradise of Revelations. It radiates from these walls whose foundations were Jasper, Sardonyx, and Emerald—Chalcedony from the Macedonian peninsula our troops now hold—and all the other stones whose names are songs, from these arches springing one above another, these shell-ribbed cupolas and alcoves, these vistas of limitless arcades, where storks stand sentinel and peacocks spread their jewelled tails, coloured like cornflowers in grass. On the low vaulting of the surrounding chapels, hollowed out in the twenty foot thick fortress wall, humble local birds find a place. Ducks and quails, cranes and smaller wild fowl from the Vardar marshes cover the diapered gold ground. Under the Osmanli rule these chapels were reserved for the different companies of the Sultan’s Regiment of Guards, hence the church’s Moslem name—Orta Sultan Osman Djami. Last to be discovered at Salonica are the few Byzantine churches so small and insignificant they were never claimed by the Turks. No minarets point these out. But they are well worth finding for their splendid carved and painted screens. Backwards and forwards the churches’ fate has swung. Bullet holes pit their soaring spires, witness to the most recent changes. Feast days and Holy days abound in this town of many faiths. Perhaps the prettiest among them is the Feast of Bairam, when the minarets that remain in the hands of the Moslems twinkle with rows of little lights. Then from my window I could see just how many mosques were left; each one marked by a tall fairy candle, burning steadily on the blue darkness of the hill. * * * * * ‘Signora, wake, make haste, your Excellency’s boat leaves to-day at noon!’ My reverie over the old town came to an abrupt stop. If this were true, it was useless trying to decide where among all my favourite haunts I would sketch for the last time. Eudocia, the good-natured Greek-Italian maid, making a noisy entry with my coffee, brought the surprising, unwelcome news. ‘But the _Thraki_ doesn’t sail until Saturday!’ I protested. ‘Are you sure?’ Yes, she was positive. Had not Anastasie, the porter, told her this moment, having got it casually from the haughty-looking Greek Staff Colonel as he flicked imaginary dust off his boots after his early morning ride? Well, I could not see V. again, or even let him know I was going; that much was certain. But there was only one thing to be done, and with a sinking heart I started to finish packing as rapidly as I could. In the middle of it I remembered I must rush off to the bankers who acted as my Salonican ‘Cook’; the day before, when I had tried to see them, having been one of the numerous fête days, when banks and shops were shut.