"Oh, don't you know?"

"I'm asking."

The German shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll tell you one thing. This will illustrate. I had an Armenian
clerk. He worked all day in my tent. A week ago I found him reading
among my private papers. That proves you can't trust an Armenian."

"Ample evidence!" said Monty without a smile, but Fred laughed as
we rode away, and the German stared after us with a new set of emotions
pictured on his heavy face.

Late in the afternoon we passed through a village in which about
two hundred Armenian men and women were holding a gathering in a
church large enough to hold three times the number. One of them
saw us coming, and they all trooped out to meet us, imagining we
were officials of some kind.

"Effendi," said their pastor with a trembling hand on Monty's saddle,
"the Turks in this village have been washing their white garments!"

We had heard in Tarsus what that ceremony meant.

"It means, effendi, they believe their purpose holy! What shall
we do--what shall we do?"

"Why not go into Tarsus and claim protection at the British consulate?"