THE DEATH OF TAHIR THE LAZZ 187
forest where the gendarmes carried their rifles ready on
the saddle, and so we came to the crest. With a last
look back at the Bosphorus where in the clear black
night it gleamed sable and caught the soft light of the
myriad stars dusted across the sky, we descended and
rode rapidly inland.
We came to Mahmud Shevket Pasha, a Greek village
that lay among steep hills with a river running between
the houses and a great open square full of ancient chest-
nut trees. The houses were empty and many in ruins.
Only a few villagers had come back to reap the crops.
The head man, Constanides, hobbled down to meet us
and take us to his house. He was an old man with
a twisted back and red bloodshot eyes that watered and
showed the insides of the lower lids. His coat and
trousers were of rough local weaving and his shoes were
of heavy leather and soled with wood. As an autocrat
he had ruled this village for many a long day and endea-
voured to save it from disaster by steering clear of the
rocks of politics.
We found in the house his wife and daughters, terrified
by the night's brigandage. There was a son there who
was a waiter in Pera and with his broken English, his
unpleasant European imitation of clothes and manners,
his oily vulgarity and his breath full of the stench of
garlic, he represented all that I hated in the Levan-
tine.
Husni had gone to collect the evidence, and while I
sat with the headman, the old asthmatic priest of the
village came to see us. His long beard was dirty and
discoloured* He brought with him a young priest who