The snow threatened in the mountains had not materialized, and the
weather had changed to pure perfection. About an hour after we started
the khan emptied itself behind us in a long string, jingling and
clanging with horse and camel bells. But they turned northward to
pass through the famed Circassian Gates, whereas we followed the
plain that paralleled the mountain range--our mules' feet hidden
by eight inches of primordial ooze.

"Wish it were only worse!" said Monty. "Snow or rain might postpone
massacre. Delay might mean cancellation."

But there was no prospect whatever of rain. The Asia Minor spring,
perfumed and amazing sweet, breathed all about us, spattered with
little diamond-bursts of tune as the larks skyrocketed to let the
wide world know how glad they were. Whatever dark fate might be
brooding over a nation, it was humanly impossible for us to feel
low-spirited.

Our Zeitoonli Armenians trudged through the mud behind us at a splendid
pace--mountain-men with faces toward their hills. The Turks--owners
of the animals another man had hired to us--rode perched on top of
the loads in stoic silence, changing from mule to mule as the hours
passed and watching very carefully that no mule should be overtaxed
or chilled. In fact, the first attempt
they made to enter into conversation with us was when we dallied
to admire a view of Taurus Mountain, and one of them closed up to
tell us the mules were catching cold in the wind. (If they had been
our animals it might have been another story.)

Their contempt for the Zeitoonli was perfectly illustrated by the