vidual British
officers with an unstinted admiration and affection for the Russians, you
find little on the French side but cold politeness or contempt.

An interesting figure is Col. Treloar, ex-Captain in the Coldstream
Guards, a soldier of fortune, now serving in Wrangel's army from pure
devotion to the Russians. Appalled at the tragedy of the Russians, here
is a man who does not mind speaking out. He was with Denikin before
Wrangel, and explained that General's downfall by the scoundrels and
incapables by whom he was surrounded, and a curious type of English
soldier in the rear capable of selling vast quantities of supplies.
Wrangel fell because the enemy was infinitely better equipped. The
barrage in the Crimea was more like that of a grand attack in France than
anything previously encountered in the Russian fighting. In Treloar's
opinion, Wrangel's army still remained an army, and should be granted an
"honourable return to Russia," i.e., be put down somewhere on the Black
Sea shore with arms and ammunition, and left to make what terms they
could with their enemies.

At Gallipoli thirty thousand troops with fifteen hundred women and five
hundred children were put down. Some of these are housed in the town,
but most are in tents on the hills outside. The American Red Cross does
very remarkable work ministering to the sick and to the women and
children. In general one has learned to distrust huge charitable
organizations, but they do upon occasion give opportunity to extremely
kind and simple-hearted men and women to give their life and energy to
suffering humanity. Such a case is that of Major Davidson at Gallipoli,
and another that of Capt. MacNab at Lemnos, where men are working not
merely for a salary but for sheer love of their fellow-men.

Davidson belonged to the Middle West and had probably seldom been out of
it before. He breathed American and was as pure a type as you could
find. Nothing of the cynicism of Europe about him, for he was that
old-fashioned and extra-lovable product, the God-fearing man. He was
kind to every one, and had the natural religion of being kind. His
door-keeper and sub-clerk at the main hut was an old Russian aristocrat
with a face that reminded one of Alexander III. "Well, Count?" Davidson
would query when he saw him, and smile cheeringly; "anything fresh?" The
Count had a rather characterless and cruel lower lip like a bit of
rubber. He was capable of a great deal,