Proceedings generally opened in a long low room. The local magnate sat at a desk, on which were set a saucer containing an inky sponge, a dish of sand, and some reed-pens. A scribe stood beside the _kaimakam_ and handed him documents, which he scrutinised as if they were works of art, holding them delicately in his left hand as a connoisseur might consider his porcelain. Then with a reed-pen he would scratch the document, still holding it in the palm of his hand, and after sprinkling it carefully with sand would return it to the scribe. All this was incidental to his conversation with us or with other members of the audience. There were never less than ten people in any of the rooms in which we were interviewed, and as they all made fragmentary remarks, one quoting a text from the Koran, another a French _bon mot_, and a third introducing some question of local politics, and as the governor asked us questions and signed papers and kept up a running commentary with his friends, one felt exactly like Alice at the Hatter's tea party. "A Turk does not listen to what you are saying," I have since been told, "he merely watches your expression." That this is true of the uneducated I have no doubt, and if correct about the educated Turk I daresay it is not to his discredit. Demeanour in Oriental countries counts for much. But at Samarra our demeanour was sorely tried. We had been travelling about three days in the desert, when we arrived at this desolate and dishevelled spot. I longed to lie down and shut my eyes, and forget about captivity for a bit, but no!--there came a summons to attend the ghastly social function I had already learned to loathe. The Governor of that place was a _tout a fait civilise_ Young Turk, sedentary, Semitic, and very disagreeable. "Is it true that you dropped bombs on the Mosque at Baghdad?" he asked. And-- "Do you know that the population of Baghdad nearly killed you?" And-- "Do you know that in another month the English will be driven into the Persian Gulf?" . . . and so on. We denied these soft impeachments, and then his method became more direct. "Some of your friends have been killed and captured," he said--"the commandant of your flying corps, for instance." Seeing us incredulous, he accurately described the Major's appearance. "And there is someone else," the _kaimakam_ continued in slow tones that iced my blood. "Someone who may be a friend of yours. A young pilot in a fur coat." My heart stood still. "He was killed by an Arab," the _kaimakam_ added. . . . Here I will skip a page or two of mental history. The defeat of my country, the death of my friend, the crumbling of my hopes: little indeed was left. . . . . . Let five dots supply the ugly blank. There is sorrow and failure enough in the world without speculating on tragedies that never happened. Baghdad was taken later, my friend proved to be captured, not killed, and I write this by Thames-side, not the Tigris.