Alas! I am not, after all, a true Eastern. My philosophy will not bring sleep. Never since the days when the awful stream of gassed men were being carried into the hospital, have I listened to such a terrible chorus of coughs. There is little enough “quiet in sleep” on these saturated clay mounds, although I no longer hear the Nationalist Anthem and other patriotic strains, to the accompaniment of a piping flute, which had been rising about me in the evening air. Probably the cold that seemed almost beyond endurance, did not really master me for long, as all these numbing horrors were lost in unconsciousness before the dawn. I am awakened at last by the officer who ventures to “shake the sleeper,” being seriously alarmed, he tells me, by my pale looks. There is a most welcome glass of hot tea, and a fire! A mingling of German and Turkish assail my ears, while from the distance I hear a silver voice calling the “faithful” to prayer. Here is a free translation from the cheik, of the muezzin’s words: “Get up, you lazy fellows, rise, make your ablutions, and praise God for His goodness.” I can only repeat “praise God,” though in face of what we have seen even these words seem almost mockery. “God is great,” said the holy man, “but man will not understand His greatness. God loves the East, whence came thought, philosophy, and faith. The Christ we, too, venerate, came from the East. Yet the West has given us nought but injustice. You who love the East, pray for tolerance and understanding between all peoples.” The muezzin has awakened all the soldiers in the mountains. One could fancy a scurry of rabbits from the hidden tents. They are fetching water for the ablutions, and I, too, must wash me—in eau de Cologne. The blood flowing into my numbed limbs forces a cry I cannot stifle. “That is what happens when a woman goes out to war,” I said with a laugh, for the officer confessed that I had given him some anxious moments. Yet another cup of tea outside the now stifling tent, over the exquisite violet-tinted fumes of a charcoal fire—deadly poison, maybe, but harmless so long as you do not _know_. The ablutions, a religious rite, are performed here in couples—one pouring the water into the other’s hands, that he may wash his face three times, carefully going over the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. When he, in his turn, pours the water for his companion. The cheik tells me Moslem custom demands the body _must_ be clean, though the clothes may not be free from dirt. If only the morning “ablutions” were part of our Christian creed, what a difference they would make to the comfort, _par exemple_, of Naples!