Poets in especial (for the Nationalists, like all well-equipped founders of romantic movements, had their bards) found themselves in sore straits owing to the limited vocabulary; and we read of one, Mehmed Emin Bey, who was forced to publish his odes in small provincial papers, since no well-established journal would admit so scrannel an expression of views however exalted.

I know just what you are going to say, MEHMED.

You heard, WILHELM? MEHMED agrees with us.

You see he hasn't had much luck in the War, have you, MEHMED? The Sultan.

MEHMED (reading despatch from the All-Highest).

MEHMED: "I'm afraid I am!"] I like to think it did not fall to earth, A wounded bird that trails a broken wing, But to the heavenly blue that gave it birth, Faded in silence, a mysterious thing, Cleaving its radiant course where honour lies Like a winged victory mounting to the skies.

[ILLUSTRATION: A GREAT INCENTIVE MEHMED (reading dispatch from the All-Highest): "Defend Jerusalem at all costs for my sake.

While Wilhelm is laboriously struggling to get nearer the sea, Mehmed is getting farther and farther away from it.