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 of Crete. When not fighting, he was back in Turkey, in his home, where he thought, studied, and sometimes wrote inflammatory articles for the Greek reviews.

At times he had tremendous physical suffering, mementoes of his many battles. On those days I did not see him. He possessed that noble and rare quality of being ashamed of his bodily ailments. But after my fifth birthday I was present on many days when mental anguish possessed him. On such days he would stride up and down his vast gloomy rooms, talking of the Greek race and of the yoke under which so large a part of it was living.

He would stand by the window and tell me about Crete, pointing, as if the island were visible from where he stood—and I believe that in spite of the distance, he actually saw it, for it was ever present in his mind, and he knew every corner of it.

"There it lies," he would say, "lapped by the waves of the Mediterranean; but were the mighty sea to pass over it, it could not wash away the noble Cretan blood which drenches it. It is soaked with it, and it will be blood-soaked until the Mussulman yoke has been wrenched from it—or till there is no more Cretan blood to shed."

Or he would cry out: "Don't you hear the shrieks of the Cretan women as they leap into the foaming sea, holding fast to their hearts their