I was not, however, altogether surprised to learn that this “impression” of Constantine was, most probably, quite true. All kinds of similar stories were in circulation about the dead monarch, but the Turkish officers were of opinion that, though as commander-in-chief he certainly appeared to live underground, there was little he could be expected to achieve with the army at his command. To be _fearless_ is a commandant’s first duty, and for that quality they were as ready to praise the fallen Djémal and Enver as M. Kemal Pasha himself. With all his faults and mistakes, none could accuse Enver of fear. My “lady’s maid” on this occasion proved to be a picturesque young woman, dressed in very bright colours, wearing her hair in two long plaits enclosed in a gay scarf. With the pleasant zeal of her race, she squandered the whole contents of a beautiful Eastern water-jug in “pouring them over my hands,” a process which used up all the water long before I felt clean! And not even grease and eau-de-Cologne would drive off half the effects of these terrible days from my face. It was a case for Turkish baths. And Nazafer, my little maid, proved so timid and gentle a hairdresser that I had to use some English “force” in this direction when she had left me for the night. Yet words cannot express the delight of this welcome change to all the luxuries of civilisation. A blazing wood fire, a hot bottle, and the generous supply of white satin cushions worked in a lovely iris design on my vast, picturesque bed! If the dogs outside could only accept their grievances with the silent dignity of the East! As I peep through my lattice windows over the half-ruined city, now bathed in the silver light of the new moon, I can only marvel again that we hear scarcely a murmur from these suffering people in their terrible distress. What do we want with this mutilated country for which they are ready to die? Here is the tale of a patriot that outstrips the wildest imagination to have conceived. A certain woman, so poor that she had but one miserable garment to protect her starving babe, catches sight of some “munitions” that are lying near her, _exposed_ to the cold! She does not hesitate a moment, but lifting her poor child’s only covering, carefully wraps it round the “instruments of war.” Maybe the good God will send me another child,” she whispered; “at all costs, my country must be saved!” How dare we attempt to hamper these people’s freedom, bought at so dear a price? Surely the future is _theirs_ to shape as they will. When the morning is well advanced, and the sun is streaming upon me through scarlet lace curtains, I am at last awakened from dreams of burning cities to the alarms of war. Downstairs, sad and bewildered faces almost convince me that actual hostilities have begun. But I am now fully awake, and still refuse to believe. “It is absolute nonsense,” I insist on telling them. “_My_ country is _your_ friend.”