f water for a parched throat. There were nights when I
should have given all I possessed, not for the folding-bed long since
abandoned, but for a blanket in which to wrap myself as I slept in a
trench. Within a week it was hard for me to believe that I had not
spent all my life in the wake of an advancing army. London, New
York--they were of another age. Home to me was a tent pitched by the
Thessalian roadside, with my shaggy horses picketed about and my
shaggier attendants chattering their strange jargon. This was luxury
to one who had slept the night before in the rain, or worse, perhaps,
in some shamble in a filthy Greek village. This was hardship, but I
came to love it for the action and the forgetfulness. In the brief
weeks of an opera-bouffe war I had my first taste of great adventure,
and once knowing the joy of it I forgot for a time my academic ideas on
the absurdity of international quarrels, and was happy only when I rode
with the marching columns.

I came even to love the Turks, and I rode almost a Turk at heart over
the plain of Thessaly. For they were strong men, these sturdy brown
fellows who slouched as they marched, but always went forward, never
faltering when the bullets snapped around them and the red fezzes of
their comrades were dropping in the dust. It angered me to see my
fellow-Christians shoot them down and then run toward Athens and the
protecting skirts of the powers, for I knew that the powers would
render their battles futile and their conquests empty and send them
back with ranks depleted to their distant hills. They fought, most of
them, hardly knowing why, save that in some mysterious way it was for
their faith. They were dirty and ragged, but they were patient and
brave. Ill-fed and ill-clothed, they could march all day in the
scorching sun, uncomplaining, shiver all night in chilling winds, and
then shamble on in the face of death.

The Greeks fought a little and ran. They would stand and fight a
little again--then run. I thought that we should chase them to Athens.
I had visions of riding into the city in the wake of Edhem Pasha and
pitching my ragged camp by the Acropolis. But I never passed Pharsala.

It was there that I met the Professor again.

He lay at the foot of a roadside shrine which had been wrecked by a
shell and hardly cast a shadow. But he had been dragged out of the
noonday heat into that bit of shadow by some kindly enemy and there
left to die. The