THAT UNBLESSED LAND, MESOPOTAMIA
We were encamped in the khan, the native inn, at Severek, a dismal town in the dismal wilds of Mesopotamia; the weather and the depth of mud made it impossible for us to pitch our tent outside, and the dirty, windowless sheds round the courtyard, which afforded the only sleeping accommodation, were not inviting, so we had fixed our tent in a covered passage by tying the ropes to the pillars supporting the roof. The Zaptiehs deputed to guard us for the night hung about the door, plying Hassan and Arten with questions as to our sanity. Why should two foreign ladies choose the depth of winter to travel between Urfa and Diarbekr along the caravan route which had been long deserted owing to the raids of the Hamidieh Kurds? I had often asked myself the same question during the last few days, but had not yet thought of an answer.
A pale, dishevelled young man in semi-European clothes slouched into the courtyard and joined the group. The Zaptiehs spoke roughly to him and he gave a cringing reply. He forced his way past them up to me.
"Moi parle Français," he said, with an accent corresponding to his grammar.
"So it seems," I answered, in the same language.
"To-morrow I travel with you," he went on.
"Indeed!" I answered, with more of interrogation than cordiality.
"Yes, you and my mother and sisters will go in an araba, and I and my brother will ride your horses."
I made a closer inspection of the individual, but could detect no signs of insanity to harmonise with his utterances.
"Who are you?" I said.