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 friendly visits to their countrymen in the city, and it was to be hoped that no more fires would be the consequence. Of course the Greeks could do nothing but acquiesce, or fight, and they did not like fighting.

Three months passed in ceaseless endeavour to complete this unpopular tax of 200,000 marks. Isaac continued to feast his astrologers and lying monks, and Alexis found his sole delight in the Latin camp. The people murmured, whispered, and told stories to each other. In January, the hungry dogs of war across the Golden Horn sent a message to the two emperors. Unless the money was paid immediately, they would be compelled to declare war. One does not quite understand the policy of this announcement. The Venetians, one would think, must have known the true state of affairs—the utter poverty of the empire, the general collapse of all its resources. Perhaps they hoped by such a measure to obtain large concessions for their trading interests, to keep Pisa and Genoa out of the Dardanelles altogether, to take advantage of the weakness of Constantinople—just as, six hundred and seventy years later, the Russians would try to take advantage of the weakness of Turkey—and make that queen of cities a vassal and dependent on Venice.

They could hardly have reckoned on what really happened, which would have been too much of a risk to face. For the people—would that contemporary historians would tell us more of the poor, suffering, patient people—refused to bear any more, and rose in swift and sudden revolt. It was the evening of January 25, 1204.