“Like all British gentlemen,” I interposed, to his amusement.
GENERAL REFET PASHA AND COLONEL MOUGIN IN CONSTANTINOPLE.
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“Enemies, or not enemies,” he said, “in spite of all the terrible things your compatriots have done, they are fine and intelligent men. I ventured to say to them: ‘Perhaps, by bringing every man you can obtain from the four corners of the earth, you may crush our forces, but never our spirit. And remember, in crushing us you will mutilate yourselves for ever!’ General Harington knows that. He perfectly understands.”
The General spoke of his twenty-eight years’ service: the terrible hardship of these last years, when they had to fight, not only the enemy without, but those Turks who had thrown in their lot with the Allies.
“They say,” he went on, “soldiers love war. It is not true. They hate it, because they know what it means. Politicians want war and make war; we only have to obey.”
He has a very high opinion of the present Khalif, whom I myself met ten years ago, in the days of Mahmoud II.
“Everybody has the greatest respect for him,” he went on, “and rightly; a fine gentleman and a great artist.”
“How does he like not being a Sultan?”
“He is the Khalif,” he replied. “In his place, however, I might prefer the lesser honour and the smaller responsibilities.”