There were drawings, too—sketches of cannon, of rifles, of swords; drawings of soldiers in various gay uniforms, all carefully coloured by hand. There were pictures of ships, from the sterns of which the crescent flag floated lazily; sketches of great, ugly-looking objects which her father explained were Turkish ironclads. The name “ironclad” always sounded menacing and formidable to the child, and the forbidding pictures fascinated her.

Then there were scores and scores of scrolls made out of slippery white linen, on which had been drawn all sorts of most amazing geometrical designs in ink.

“Plans,” her father explained vaguely. And, when pressed by reiterated questions: “Plans for military works, I believe—forts, docks, barracks, fortified cuts and bridges. You are not yet quite old enough to understand, Ruhannah.”

“Who did draw them, daddy?”

“A German friend of mine, Herr Conrad Wilner.”

“What for?”

“I think his master sent him to Turkey to make those pictures.”

“For the Sultan?”

“No; for his Emperor.”

“Why?”

“I don’t exactly know, Rue.”

At this stage of the conversation her father usually laid aside his book and composed himself for the inevitable narrative soon to be demanded of him. 5

5

Then, although having heard the story many times from her crippled father’s lips, but never weary of the repetition, the child’s eyes would grow round and very solemn in preparation for her next and inevitable question:

“And did Herr Wilner die, daddy?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Tell me!”

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