She looked different, he thought, from any woman he had seen before and he wondered what nationality she was.

She was certainly not English, although she spoke the language extremely well. Her eyes were very large and dark and her hair was dark too.

But her skin, which had an almost magnolia quality about it, was very white.

Looking down at her, he could see that her face was heart-shaped with a small pointed chin. She had a tiny straight nose and her mouth, he thought, was almost perfect in its soft curves.

It struck him immediately that she was far too beautiful to be walking about Constantinople with only the protection of one elderly Turkish servant.

Because he was curious, he asked,

“I think we should introduce ourselves. I am English and my name is Castleford – Lord Castleford. I am staying at the British Embassy.”

“I am French, monsieur, and I am extremely grateful to you for coming to my rescue.”

She spoke in French, a correct classical French which was quite faultless and yet Lord Castleford thought that she did not actually look or even sound French.

Then he told himself that, living away from her own country, she might easily be harder to identify than if he had in fact met her in France.

“And your name?” he enquired.

“Yamina.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“That is hardly a French name.”

“I have lived in this part of the world all my life.”

That accounted for the fact that she did not seem French, he thought.

He realised too that she did not wish to give him her surname and, although he wished that she would assuage his curiosity, at the same time he applauded her prudence.

After all they had met only casually and a well bred young woman would not be precipitate in becoming closely acquainted with a stranger.

“Will you tell me where you live?” he asked.

She explained and he looked a trifle surprised.

It was near one of the outer walls of the City and he knew that there were few houses in that vicinity where a European would live.

Because he was definitely intrigued by the woman sitting elegantly in front of him, he did not hurry his horse, but walked him quietly over the grass-covered ground.

“You like Constantinople?” he asked conversationally.

“Sometimes I hate it!” she answered. “As I did a few minutes ago, when the crowd was being so cruel, even bestial!”

There was a little tremor in her voice and Lord Castleford knew that she was still unhappy over the spy, who had doubtless suffered torture and, even if he was now dead, was still being abused.

“The Turk can be very cruel,” he said. “At the same time he is a good fighter and is, I hear, highly commended by the British and the French for his fighting qualities in the Crimea.”

“It is a senseless and unnecessary war!” Yamina replied.