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night storm that flashed and twinkled over the other shore, beyond the hillsbehind Uskudar.At first he walked without thought, and then his unsure steps strengthenedwith purpose and he came to the foot of the hill where he had camped thatmorning. There was no protection here from the wind that ran straight andcold from the Russian Steppes and there were no lights to show his path.Already he had walked further than perhaps he meant.The Bosphorous that had seemed so green and warm by day leaped a littlein the air as though to welcome in the clouds that rolled heavily down fromthe north, and near the beach it raced along in waves that splattered againstthe cold wet sand.He thought he needed rest and found a low stone ledge. Staring acrossthe water he wondered if perhaps some ship would come by, or a tug andbarge at least. The glow from the Asiatic shore seemed dim to his tiring eyes,but still he watched the water in between, noting the change of each waveand crest. There were no ships within his arc of view. He might have satfor hours, he could not know for he had no watch and the moon had beeneclipsed by cloud. Later, he felt numbness spreading from his seat on themoss down to his legs and up to his thin stiff neck. He kept on watching,thinking perhaps that the water was rising a little with the wind.It seemed to him that he had no strength when he came to climb acrossthe ledge and back to the path, but he thought only that perhaps he had sattoo long. His legs were tense and unsteady and his back was aching wherehe had bent for protection against the wind. The water had risen even more,throwing an icy spray which dribbled from his hair across his face, salty onhis tongue.Once on the path, he found that it was raining. He should have broughta hat, he thought again.From high on the hill above he had often looked down on a small cafethat seemed well sheltered behind a bulge in the cliff. He could not see itnow but knew that it was there, just around the corner.It was a difficult walk for him, although the distance was so short. Thecase against his back was heavier now and the strap cut into his shoulderblades, so he carried it in his hands.The wind had grown stronger, pushing hard against him, and his chest feltcold and tight.As he walked he kept his eyes on the ground, concerned only with eachstep he took, and with each step he sensed the Bosphorous as it leaped aroundhim. It crashed dovra on the esplanade, dwarfing him as it rose into the sky,and then fell back, just short.He might have taken the path through the chff to the tar-macadam road,but it was steep and dark, with sHppery twisted trees and boulders and twigsthat scratched.He would rather be with the water.He reached the cafe at last and cowered against the wet stone wall for amoment, gasping for breath. His clothes were soaked clean through and thestinging rain and spray ran freely down his frozen body. Looking away fromthe building he found he could no longer see the Bosphorous but only whitewaves of spray that hung queerly in the sky and then fell in a rattling shower18WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967