He was in Syria when the Armistice was signed; and returning with high hopes to Constantinople, sank broken-hearted before the treachery of Mudros! But not for long. Never the man to nurse despair, he quickly rose again to his country’s call. Offered the post of Inspector of the East (that is, High Functionary of the Eastern Villayets), he accepted at once, and hurried into Anatolia to prepare for resistance. From the moment he stepped out at Samsoun, _the movement began_. What shall we say of the “Man at the Helm—the Hero and the Genius?” Were his “Destinies,” indeed, “written on the tablets of heaven”; or may he not rather claim: “I am Master of my Fate I am Captain of my Soul” * * * * * Every detail of the work had to be built up, as it were, stone by stone, entirely afresh—an army to be found anywhere and everywhere from nothing. Yet it was trained and organised to become, what Colonel Mougin tells me, is “the best-disciplined and best-officered army in the world.” Perhaps the Battle of the Sakharia, lasting fifteen days without interruption, may be quoted as the Great Victory. It was certainly one of the battles of this century. When one of the majors asked for instructions about “the line provided for retreat,” he was told: “There will be no retreat. Advance, or die in your trenches!” On the anniversary of the Battle of the In-Enus, Ismet Pasha told me a little about his victory, and what it meant. What victory _must_ mean when you have nothing with which to conquer. Already the military experts have written pages about the advance and the victory. One day, we hope, “The Pasha” will give us his own version. How, again, shall we tell the endurance of the people, suffering through long years in silence and alone? To us who could but look on them, pitying and admiring from a distance, it seemed as if someone _must_ get through somehow to offer the hand of friendship and give, at least, heartfelt sympathy. I tried, but it could not be done. Even now, I cannot say all it has cost me to reach Angora! Mustapha Kemal must put on record “The Birth of a Nation”; and from Halidé Hanoum we want the thousand and one pictures of the agony of simple folk—desolate village homes, women who weep _and_ work, the little ones crying, “What is it, mother?”; all that war means to men, all that men can endure for liberty and the right. “What does it matter,” she has written, “though the world call us pariah? We will die with honour. What does it matter if food be denied us by all our neighbours? Our own soil will keep us alive, sheltered in sackcloth!”