As we plunge into the tunnel, about a kilometre long, our men raise strange howls which echo around us with the most weird effect; but we are in darkness that can be felt, and anyone coming unwarned in an opposite direction, which is _downhill_, could scarcely avoid a crash. As it happens, there is an engineer on the line. Our men lift off his wagonette and replace it, further down, than ours. I marvelled that they had sufficient strength for the job, living on coffee and bread. Meanwhile, our flashlight revealed Turkish ladies walking along the tunnel without a glimmer of light to guide them, who made their way by a continuous beating of sticks upon the wall. In this strange land, one is not afraid! I think of all the alarm my journey excited in Smyrna, and am more than ever convinced that I _only_ need an interpreter. If I knew the language, I would go alone and without fear! Primitive people in Turkey have a high code of honour. They would not steal a penny, they will not even accept what I offer to pay. Though he would tear to pieces an enemy of his country, the Turk would stand between me and danger, for he knows I am a friend. At last we are out of the tunnel, stretching our legs with relief in the open air. Suddenly a strange sound breaks on our ears from the mountains. As we stop to listen, we hear someone calling upon us to “Halt! You must go no further!” I remember—this day, they had told me, there would be “war”! A strange figure seems to be hopping down the mountains, about 800 metres in height, which proves to be the _Commandant de la Place_. He had arrived at our tent very late the night before, and left me a “message of welcome.” Is he now bringing the terrible news the war has begun? No. Only offering us hospitality. He had not expected us to start so early, and apologised for “calling in his nightgown”—the only alternative to letting us pass his “inhospitable doors.” I begged that I might take a photograph, and, leaving all our belongings upon the wayside, we readily set out to climb the mountain, while he shouted the news of our approach to hasten the preparations of his wife. As a matter of fact, the difficulties of the ascent were quite sufficient to give her ample time; and when we reached the house at last, the pure, fresh air (that struck cold in spite of the brilliant sunshine) inspired a hearty welcome to “rest” after so stiff a climb! The commandant (who is richly bronzed by outdoor life in the sun) seemed quite content with his two-roomed cabin among the hills, though one could sense the tragic experiences he would never obtrude. Three of his children had perished from cold and hardship, and I caught anxious glances towards the two remaining, fine, sturdy-looking little creatures as they were. His mother-in-law, busily intent on grinding the corn, bore further witness to their hidden struggles.