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Nevertheless, in the Western mind these wide stretches of waste land among the beautiful mountains, beneath a cloudless sky, cannot fail to rouse a longing to break the silence by a “little emptying of our crowded towns.” The women and old men are digging, sowing, and cultivating, with but slight return for their heavy labour; now that the young are all “wanted” for defence.

“One day we shall have peace,” said I to our carriers, and they murmured “Inch Allah!” Turning my wish to prayer, I could only repeat, “We shall have peace.”

As often as I can persuade them to rest, I seize the chance of telling them about England. When I mention our great Moslem King George they naturally confuse him with Lloyd George. And, later, “if your King loves his Moslem subjects, as you say he does, why does he permit his Minister to remain?” I assure them that he will not, and their faces brighten as they cry: “There will be peace, then.”

As we plunge into the tunnel, about a kilometre long, our men raise strange howls which echo around us with the most weird effect; but we are in darkness that can be felt, and anyone coming unwarned in an opposite direction, which is downhill, could scarcely avoid a crash. As it happens, there is an engineer on the line. Our men lift off his wagonette and replace it, further down, than ours.