"Look," said Doe, a little dreamily; "now we shall see what we shall see."
We lay down on the cliff-edge in the attitude of the sphinx, and brought our powerful field-glasses into play. And through them we saw, in the far-off haze, things that accelerated the beating of our hearts.
There, right away across forty miles of blue Ægean, was a vague, grey line of land. It was broken in the middle as if it opened a channel to let the sea through. The grey land, west of the break, was the end of Europe, the sinister Peninsula of Gallipoli. The break itself, bathed in a gentle mist, was the deadly opening to the Dardanelles. Presumably, one of those hill-tops, just visible, was old Achi Baba, which had defeated the invaders of Helles; and another, Sari Bair, beneath which lay the invaders of Suvla, wondering if they, too, had been beaten by a paltry hill.
The entrancing sight was bound to work upon Doe's nature. Still looking through his glasses, he asked:
"I say, Roop, what's the most appealing name that the War has given to the history of Britain—Mons, or Ypres, or Coronel, or what?"
"Gallipoli," I replied, knowing this was the answer he wanted.
"Just so. And shall I tell you why?"
"Yes, thanks. If you'll be so obliging."
"Well, it's because the strongest appeal that can be addressed to the emotional qualities of humanity is made by the power called Pathos—"
"Good heavens!" I began.