This conversation took place in French, a language of which the commandant was quite ignorant, and I saw that here was an ideal opportunity for bringing the plight of our prisoners to light. But the Consul, I gathered, wanted to keep on friendly terms with the Turks. Some of the things I told him, however, made him open his eyes, and may have made his kultured flesh creep. "I will come again to-morrow," he said hurriedly--"you can tell me more then." After this he spoke in Turkish at some length to the commandant, while the latter interjected that wonderful word _yok_ at intervals. _Yok_, I must explain, signifies "No" in its every variation, and is probably the most popular word in Turkish. It is crystallised inhibition, the negation of all energy and enthusiasm, the motto of the Ottoman Dilly and Dallys. Its only rival in the vocabulary is _yarin_, which means "to-morrow." "Yok, yok, yok," said the commandant, and I gathered that he was displeased. That night I made my plans, and when summoned to the office next day I was armed with three documents. The first was a private letter of thanks to Baron Mumm for his generous and kindly loan. The second was a suggestion that the International Red Cross should immediately send out a commission to look after our prisoners at Mosul. And the third was a detailed list of articles required by our men, with appropriate comments. Items such as this figured on the list: Soap, for two hundred men, as they had been unable to wash for months. Kerosene tins, to hold drinking-water, which was denied to our prisoners. Blankets, as over 50 per cent. had no covering at all. These screeds startled the company greatly. The Consul stared and the commandant glared, for the one hated fuss and the other hated me. I was delightfully unpopular, but when an Ambassador telegraphs in Turkey, the provinces lend a respectful ear. My voice, crying in the wilderness, must needs be heard. Summoning an interpreter, the commandant demanded whether I had any cause for complaint; whereupon the following curious three-cornered conversation took place--so far as I could understand the Turkish part: "The men must be moved to better quarters," said I. "Until this is arranged nothing can be done." "He says nothing can be done," echoed the interpreter. "Then of what does he complain?" asked the commandant. "The very beasts in my country are better cared for," I said. "Our men are dying of hunger and cold." "He says the men are dying of cold," said the interpreter, shivering at his temerity in mentioning the matter. "The weather is not my fault," grumbled the commandant, "perhaps it will be better to-morrow. Yes, _yarin_." And so on. Talk was hopeless, but before leaving I gave the German Consul to understand that he now shared with Abdul Ghani Bey the responsibility for our treatment. To his credit, be it said, the commandant was removed shortly after our departure.