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Alas! I am not, after all, a true Eastern. My philosophy will not bring sleep. Never since the days when the awful stream of gassed men were being carried into the hospital, have I listened to such a terrible chorus of coughs. There is little enough “quiet in sleep” on these saturated clay mounds, although I no longer hear the Nationalist Anthem and other patriotic strains, to the accompaniment of a piping flute, which had been rising about me in the evening air.

Probably the cold that seemed almost beyond endurance, did not really master me for long, as all these numbing horrors were lost in unconsciousness before the dawn.

I am awakened at last by the officer who ventures to “shake the sleeper,” being seriously alarmed, he tells me, by my pale looks. There is a most welcome glass of hot tea, and a fire! A mingling of German and Turkish assail my ears, while from the distance I hear a silver voice calling the “faithful” to prayer. Here is a free translation from the cheik, of the muezzin’s words: “Get up, you lazy fellows, rise, make your ablutions, and praise God for His goodness.”