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 with his doggish intuition feel that I was disloyal in my heart to the old régime?

"Why, Giaour!" I cried, "don't you know me? We used to be friends, you and I."

He stood rigidly on his old legs, his band alert to follow his lead. These dogs, which were anathema to the stranger, had a double duty to perform in their unhappy city. They were not only scavengers, but the defenders of her defenceless quarters. The stranger only saw their scarred bodies and ugly appearance; but we who were born in Constantinople knew how they formed their bands, and how they protected us. Each quarter had some twenty dogs, and they guarded it both against other dogs, and against strangers. The young ones, as they grew up, had to win their spurs, and their position was determined by their bravery and skill, both in fighting and in commanding. I had seen Giaour win his leadership, a month or so before I left Constantinople. He had been nicknamed Giaour by a Turkish kapoudji, because he had a white cross plainly marked on his face.

To my entreaties he only stood growling. "Come, Giaour," I begged, "I have changed, I know, but I am still enough myself for you not to bark at me."

He listened, mistrustfully watching every movement I made, and because of this I perpetrated a shameful deed. I retreated to