"But surely," I said, "you still have friends—the Bulgarians."
The Sultan's little black eyes flashed with anger as he withdrew his pipe for a moment from his mouth.
"The low scoundrels!" he said between his teeth. "The traitors!"
"Why, they're your Allies!"
"Yes, Allah destroy them! They are. They've come over to our side. After centuries of fighting they refuse to play fair any longer. They're on our side! Who ever heard of such a thing? Bah! But, of course," he added more quietly, "we shall massacre them just the same. We shall insist, in the terms of peace, on retaining our rights of massacre. But then, no doubt, all the nations will."
"But you have the Germans—" I began.
"Hush, hush," said Abdul, laying his hand on my arm. "Some one might hear."
"You have the Germans," I repeated.
"The Germans," said Abdul, and his voice sounded in a queer sing-song like that of a child repeating a lesson, "are my noble friends, the Germans are my powerful allies, the Kaiser is my good brother, the Reichstag is my foster-sister. I love the Germans. I hate the English. I love the Kaiser. The Kaiser loves me—"
"Stop, stop, Abdul," I said, "who taught you all that?"