It was obvious that he was more dead than alive and Lord Castleford guessed that he was, or so the crowd believed, a Russian spy.

War always engenders witchhunts and easily inflames a mob.

His Lordship had already learnt on his arrival at Constantinople that the City was in the grip of ‘spy fever’ and that the Turks were ready to suspect of being Russian any stranger whose nationality could not be accounted for.

The man the crowd had captured was being beaten with sticks by those who were not carrying him, kicked and spat upon and subjected all the time to an unintelligible but nevertheless very violent form of abuse.

As the rioters came level with Lord Castleford, they slowed their progress owing to the men in front of them being blocked where the road narrowed.

Seated on his horse Lord Castleford could see that the victim who had incurred the wrath of the mob, looked beneath his wounds, a man of some culture and of a better class than those who were persecuting him.

“Is there – nothing we can – do?”

For a moment he wondered who had spoken.

Then he saw that the lady who was pressed against the wall beside him was bending towards him so as to make herself heard.

She spoke in English, although he realised that she had a foreign accent.

“Unfortunately nothing can be done,” he replied almost sharply. “To get embroiled with this mob, considering we are also foreigners, would be to court disaster.”

“But he may have done nothing – wrong.”

“They believe him to be a spy – a Russian!”

“That is what I thought,” the lady said, “but they may be mistaken.”

“Perhaps they are,” Lord Castleford replied, “but it is not for us to interfere. In fact, quite frankly, we simply dare not do so.”

Even as he spoke, the crowd still shouting and screaming, moved on, brushing against his horse and causing the animal to fidget.

The man, who had been hit and knocked about all the time they had paused, now seemed to be unconscious as they carried him with them.

There were still stragglers coming down the narrow street and it was obvious that several of the younger men working in the shops or perhaps the proprietors’ sons, were ready to join in and see the fun.

“We should get away from here as quickly as possible!” Lord Castleford said.

He knew only too well that mob violence was something that could spread and intensify rapidly and that one fight usually led to another. The Bazaar would not be a safe place to be in until everything had quietened down again.

He looked at the woman standing beside him.

“If you would ride in front of me on my saddle,” he said, “I think it would be safer for you than attempting to walk.”