Page:Alien Souls by Achmed Abdullah (1922).djvu/123

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Prussian brevet-major was sharing the contents of his brandy flask with the Turkish staff officer.

As he passed, a few words drifted through the tent flap, flew out on the pinions of Fate, buffeted against the stolid mind of Mehmet el-Touati with almost physical impact—caused him to tremble a little, then to drop to the ground, to creep close, to listen, tensely, with breath sucked in, lungs beating like trip hammers.

"Russia is smashed!" the Prussian was saying in his halting, guttural Turkish. "The Russians have signed a peace treaty with us, with Austria, with Bulgaria, with your country—Turkey. There'll be a little desultory border fighting—but all danger is past. The Russian is out of the running."

"You are sure of that?" asked the other.

"Absolutely. Remember the despatches I received this morning?"

"Yes."

"They were from headquarters. The peace treaty at Brest-Litovsk had been signed. Russia is out of the running—as harmless as a bear with his teeth and claws drawn. And now—"

"And now?" breathed the staff officer.

"And now?" came the silent echo in Mehmet el-Touati's heart, as he glued his ear against the tent.

"And now you Turks are going to see some real fighting. Of course I am only guessing. But I lay you long odds that your crack troops—like this regiment, the Seventeenth—are going to be sent to the Western front, brigaded with Prussians—and used against the French and British. Or perhaps they'll be sent to Albania to fight with the Austrians against the Italians, or to Macedonia to stiffen the Bulgarians a little."

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