The next instant the young man stood by my side.

"The people are only curious, monsieur," he said
in French. "If they disturb you I will have them
sent away. So few painters come--you are the first
I have seen in many years. If it will not annoy you,
I'd like to watch you a while."

"Annoy me, my dear sir!" I was on my feet
now, hat in hand. (If he had been my long-lost
brother, stolen by the Indians or left on a desert
island to starve--or any or all of those picturesque
and dramatic things--I could not have been more
glad to see him. I fairly hugged myself--it seemed
too good to be true.) "I will be more than delighted
if you will take my dragoman's stool. Get up, Joe,
and give--"

The request had already been forestalled. Joe
was not only up, but was bowing with the regularity
and precision of the arms of a windmill, his fingers,
with every rise, fluttering between his shirt-stud and
his eyebrows. On his second upsweep the young
prince got a view of his face--then his hand went
out.

"Why, it is Hornstog! We know each other. We
met in Damascus. You could not, monsieur, find a
better dragoman in all Constantinople."