told me, and was now returning to his wife, who lived in a little
village on the Dardanelles, after an absence of sixteen years. She had
no idea that he was coming, he said, as he had planned to surprise her.
Perhaps he was the one to be surprised. Sixteen years is a long time for
a woman to wait for a man, even in a country as conservative as Turkey.

The officers of the _Padova_ talked a good deal about the mine-fields
that still guarded the approaches to the Dardanelles and the possibility
that some of the deadly contrivances might have broken loose and drifted
across our course. In order to cheer us up the captain showed us the
charts, on which the mined areas were indicated by diagonal shadings,
little red arrows pointing the way between them along channels as
narrow and devious as a forest trail. To add to our sense of security he
told us that he had never been through the Dardanelles before, adding
that he did not intend to pick up a pilot, as he considered their
charges exorbitant. At the base of the great mine-field which lies
across the mouth of the Straits we were hailed by a British patrol boat,
whose choleric commander bellowed instructions at us, interlarded with
much profanity, through a megaphone. The captain of the _Padova_ could
understand a few simple English phrases, if slowly spoken, but the
broadside of Billingsgate only confused and puzzled him, so, despite the
fact that he had no pilot and that darkness was rapidly descending, he
kept serenely on his course. This seemed to enrage the British skipper,
who threw over his wheel and ran directly across our bows, very much as
one polo player tries to ride off another.

"You ---- fool!" he bellowed, fairly dancing about his quarter-deck with
rage. "Why in hell don't you stop when I tell you to? Don't you know
that you're running straight into a mine-field? Drop anchor alongside me
and do it ---- quick or I'll take your ---- license away from you. And