with　your　stalling；”　Hasan　said　decisively。　“I　refuse　to　listen　to　this

prattle。　It’s　very　cold　here。　I　froze　out　here　trying　to　get　your　attention　with

the　rocks—didn’t　you　hear　them？”

“Black　had　lost　himself　in　my　father’s　illustrations；”　I　said。

Had　I　done　wrong　in　saying　this？

Hasan　spoke　in　precisely　the　same　false　tone　that　I　sometimes　resorted　to

with　Black：　“Shekure；　as　you　are　my　brother’s　wife；　your　best　course　of　action

is　to　return　now　with　your　children　to　the　house　of　the　hero　spahi　cavalryman

to　whom　you’re　still　wed　according　to　the　Koran。”

“I　refuse；”　I　said；　as　if　hissing　into　the　heart　of　the　night。　“I　refuse；　Hasan。

No。”

“Then；　my　responsibility　and　devotion　to　my　brother　forces　me　to　alert　the

judge first thing tomorrow morning of what I’ve heard here。 Otherwise；

they’ll　call　me　to　account。”

“They’re going to call you to account anyway；” said Black。 “The moment

you　go　to　the　judge；　I’ll　reveal　that　you’re　the　one　who　murdered　Our　Sultan’s

cherished　servant；　Enishte　Effendi。　This　very　morning。”

“Very　well；”　said　Hasan　calmly。　“Make　that　revelation。”

I shrieked。 “They’ll torture the both of you！” I shouted。 “Don’t go to the

judge。　Wait。　Everything　will　bee　clear。”

“I have no fear of torture；” Hasan said。 “I’ve been tortured twice before；

and both times I understood it was the only way the guilty could be culled

from　the　innocent。　Let　the　slanderers　fear　torture。　I’m　going　to　tell　the　judge；

the　captain　of　the　Janissaries；　the　Sheikhulislam；　everybody　about　poor　Enishte

Effendi’s book and its illustrations。 Everybody