“They used to treat me so differently,” Abdul went on, and his sobbing ceased as he continued, “They used to call me the Bully Boy of the Bosphorus.  They said I was the Guardian of the Golden Gate.  They used to let me kill all the Armenians I liked and nobody was allowed to collect debts from me, and every now and then they used to send me the nicest ultimatums—­Oh, you don’t know,” he broke off, “how nice it used to be here in the Yildiz in the old days!  We used all to sit round here, in this very hall, me and the diplomats, and play games, such as ‘Ultimatum, ultimatum, who’s got the ultimatum.’  Oh, say, it was so nice and peaceful!  And we used to have big dinners and conferences, especially after the military manoeuvres and the autumn massacres—­me and the diplomats, all with stars and orders, and me in my white fez with a copper tassel—­and hold discussions about how to reform Macedonia.”

“But you spoilt it all, Abdul,” I protested.

“I didn’t, I didn’t!” he exclaimed almost angrily.  “I’d have gone on for ever.  It was all so nice.  They used to present me—­the diplomats did—­with what they called their Minimum, and then we (I mean Codfish Pasha and me) had to draft in return our Maximum—­see?—­and then we all had to get together again and frame a status quo.”

“But that couldn’t go on for ever,” I urged.

“Why not?” said Abdul.  “It was a great system.  We invented it, but everybody was beginning to copy it.  In fact, we were leading the world, before all this trouble came.  Didn’t you have anything of our system in your country —­what do you call it—­in Canada?”

“Yes,” I admitted.  “Now that I come to think of it, we were getting into it.  But the war has changed it all—­”

“Exactly,” said Abdul.  “There you are!  All changed!  The good old days gone for ever!”

“But surely,” I said, “you still have friends—­the Bulgarians.”

The Sultan’s little black eyes flashed with anger as he withdrew his pipe for a moment from his mouth.

“The low scoundrels!” he said between his teeth.  “The traitors!”

“Why, they’re your Allies!”

“Yes, Allah destroy them!  They are.  They’ve come over to our side.  After centuries of fighting they refuse to play fair any longer.  They’re on our side!  Who ever heard of such a thing?  Bah!  But, of course,” he added more quietly, “we shall massacre them just the same.  We shall insist, in the terms of peace, on retaining our rights of massacre.  But then, no doubt, all the nations will.”

“But you have the Germans—­” I began.

“Hush, hush,” said Abdul, laying his hand on my arm.  “Some one might hear.”

“You have the Germans,” I repeated.

“The Germans,” said Abdul, and his voice sounded in a queer sing-song like that of a child repeating a lesson, “are my noble friends, the Germans are my powerful allies, the Kaiser is my good brother, the Reichstag is my foster-sister.  I love the Germans.  I hate the English.  I love the Kaiser.  The Kaiser loves me—­”