In two minutes they were talking hard. The old woman was a Bulgarian,
but they were able to understand each other. What Jo told the old woman
was translated to the dustman, and when Jan came up they were introduced
each to the other, the dustman with his broom bowing to the ground like
some old-time court usher.

Once a Greek woman offered a chair to Jo. She was much embarrassed, as
the only Greek words she had picked up were "How much?" and "Yet
another;" and as both seemed unsuitable she tried to put her gratitude
into the width of her smile.

We scrambled on ever afterwards through streets which were more like
cliff climbs than roads. The sun grew red till all Salonika lay at our
feet a maze of magenta shadow. We sat down in an old Turkish cemetery,
where we could watch the old wall sliding down to plains of gold, where,
falling into ruins, it lent its degraded stones for the construction of
Turkish hovels.

A kitten with paralysed hind legs crawled up to us and accepted a little
rubbing. When dusk came we moved on, marvelling at the inexhaustible
picturesqueness of Salonika.

As we clambered down the breakneck paths, the priests were illuminating
the minarets with hundreds of twinkling lights.

The next day was the Feast. Mahommedans were everywhere. By the women's
trousers, which twinkled beneath the shrouding veils, one could see that
they were gorgeously dressed. Befezzed men were lounging and smoking in
all the café's.