“As to the name,” I said, “the English law recognises only surnames; if you are a native of Mosul, are you not called a Mosulli wherever you go? are you not known among strangers as ‘the Mosulli’? so I am described as of ‘Elisun,’ which is my native place. As to Haji’s assertion that I am Persian, why, that is right enough, are there not thousands of Persians born British subjects? and God knows why the Kafir, the heathen Armenian clerk of the passport department in Constantinople, called me Protestant, except that seeing I was an English subject, imagined that, as the English nation is Protestant, I must be also of that schism.” The chief policeman thought it all strange, but I received unexpected assistance from his lieutenant, who had apparently been to Constantinople, and, to air the fact, asserted that he knew well the English habits and laws, and that what I said was quite possible. My now almost silenced assailants had yet one more kick left, and it was obviously quite his trump card. “Then if you are English by subjectivity,” he regularly shouted, “produce your English passport.” I did so, amid the silence that such a curious and formidable-looking document produced, and it saved me. Without a word the Turkish “tezkere” was handed back to me, and feeling now doubly triumphant, for I had proved the disguise of language, manners I had adopted, almost too perfect, and had, at the same time, demonstrated to a crowd of unattached roughs and Turks, that bullying could not extort from me the money which was the sole object of the policeman. Half an hour later, Haji and the Arab merchant came back, cursing the Turks. The old man had a passport which had been handed him when he left the army thirty-five years before, in the days of Sultan Abdul Aziz, and had been forced to pay a mejidie because it was so old. The Arab had a similar document, and paid a similar sum. With a feeling of great relief, that even the presence of our eight soldiers could hardly quell, we cast off and commenced our journey to Mosul.