path, although it was becoming more and more stony. A little before midnight we found ourselves in a dilemma, for, after leading us to the edge of a deep valley which ran at right angles to our course, the track new branched right and left. The problem was which path to follow. If we had stopped to think we might have realised that, in mountainous country, even the most friendly road cannot always take you by a direct route, and that the longest way round is often the shortest way home. However, on this occasion we made an error of judgment and went straight ahead. The slope, at first comparatively grassy and gradual, became rapidly more rooky and precipitous, until at about 1.30 A.M., after descending close upon 1500 feet, we found ourselves on the edge of a yawning gorge, at the bottom of which feamed a raging mountain torrent. We were not as glad to see this water as usual, for we had crossed a rivulet on our way down at this we had already quenched our thirst, although at the time dogs had been barking at us from some shepherds' huts on the valley slope. The difficulty now was to find a practicable path up the farther bank. The torrent itself was passable easily enough, for natural stepping - stones abounded in its rook-strewn bed; and in fact we did cross and re-oross it several times in a painful endeavour to make our way a little farther to the west.

Everywhere, however, beyond a rough and narrow ledge of rook by the side of the stream, the far bank rose up sheer above us. In the moonlight the scene was wenderful, and we could not help thinking how perfect a place this would have been for a day's halt. But we could not afford to lose precious time, and for the present our whole aim was to leave it as soon as possible. At one spot, having seen a light burning not far from the water's edge, we proceeded very cautiously. It proved to proceed from the stump of a tree which some one had probably set on fire to warm himself and had left burning: happily no one was there now. After a two hours' struggle we had to own that we were defeated, and were compelled to climb back out of the gorge and still on the wrong side. Moving along its edge at a higher level, for another two hours we searched in vain for

more likely crossing-place, and were almost in despair when we suddenly heard the voices of men and women below us. Looking down, we saw in the moonlight a party of Turks or Armenians in the act of crossing a fine old bridge which spanned the gorge between two absolutely vertical banks in a single semicircular aroh of stone. Even now it was some little time before we could pick up the path leading down to it, but when we did so we were agreeably surprised to find that the bridge was not guarded. In the last five hours

we had progressed but one mile in the right direction.

When at last we crossed the gorge it was barely an hour to dawn, and so we had not followed the mountain road leading up the farther side for long before we had to be on the lookout for a hiding-place. There was little cover higher up the hill; we therefore turned righthanded and dropped down once more towards the gorge, hoping that after all it would do us the good turn of providing us with water and shade for the day. On the way down, however, we saw a cave hollowed out in the rocky hillside, and as the bank below was very steep, we decided we would not give ourselves a single foot of unnecessary climbing when we started off again next evening. We therefore entered the cave; but Cochrane and Peroe, after ridding themselves of their packs, valiantly climbed down again to the water and came back with the two chargals full. So much had all the fruitless clambering taken out of us that we were more tired on this day than after double the distance on the night previous, and, except for taking turns to cook, every one lay like a log in the cave. The latter faced west, and was roofed by two elliptical semi-domes side by side beneath a larger arch in the rook, but being shallow in width compared to the height of the roof, allowed the sun to stream in upon us in the latter part of the afternoon.

On leaving the cave at about 7 P.M., as rugged country still

lay ahead, we thought it best to work our way obliquely up the hill and regain the track which had led us up from the bridge over the ravine. To this we clung for the greater part of the night which followed, although it involved passing through several villages. We found ourselves in the first almost before we realised that a village existed there at all: it seemed, however, a city of the dead, for not a dog barked at our approach, and the narrow crooked streets appeared deserted, until suddenly the white-elad figure of a woman flitted across our path. Fortunately she did not pause to find out who were these strange nocturnal visitors.

Not long afterwards we saw lights ahead, and as we drew nearer found that our road branched to right and left, the latter branch leading towards the lights which seemed to proceed from a village. After the previous night's experience we had no intention of attempting any oross-country going if we could possibly avoid it. Here, indeed, to go on direct would have necessitated crossing first a valley of unknown depth, and then an enormous ridge which reared up its black bulk against the clear starry sky. It was fairly obvious that the two roads went round either end of this ridge; after that it was a toss-up which was the more likely to lead us towards the sea. In view of the village and of the noisy clatter on the the stony track of the booted members of the party,

Cochrane elected to take the right-hand branch, and this we followed for over a mile. It was leading us due west, and seemed likely to continue to do so for several miles more before the ridge was rounded. The coast opposite our position ran, we knew, rather from N.E. to S.W., and so every mile we marched west added another to our distance from the coast. At the next halt we reconsidered the question of roads, and decided we must go back and risk the village. But it was essential to make less noise, and so, as we once more approached the crossroads, those who were not wearing "chariqs" padded their boots with old socks, bits of shirt, and pieces of felt. It gives some idea of the absolute weariness of body which now was ours, when it is stated that it was only after much forcible persuasion from Nobby that those who would have the trouble of tying on the padding could be induced to take this precaution. But in the end wise counsels prevailed, and we succeeded in passing through the villageand it was a large one-without causing any apparent alarm. Looney, however, lost one of his mufti hats with which he had padded one of his boots.

The track now increased in width to as much as ten feet, being roughly levelled out of the solid rook, and running along a ledge above a precipitous ravine. Below us we heard the roar of a mountain stream, and as at one point a

rough path had been out down to water-level, Cochrane descended it and fetched up a chargal full of water. It was to prove a serious mistake that we did not fill all our receptacles here. On resuming our way, we were taken by our road over another striking bridge which orossed the ravine little higher up. This time the arch was 8 pointed one. Once more we found the defile unguarded. We were probably in magnificent mountain scenery, but could see little of it, as the moon had not yet risen. Even though after crossing bridge we waited in the warmth of a little cave till after the time of moonrise, the moon itself did not become visible until two hours later, so steep were the slopes on every side of us. We could see, however, that we were going round the eastern shoulder of the ridge which had blocked our direct route, and this ridge rose sheer from the very edge of the ravine. Without a road to follow, therefore, we should have fared badly indeed. Even with it, the climb from the bridge had been severe, but on proseeding we soon came to the top of the rise and found ourselves walking on a carpet of pine-needles through a beautiful open forest. This was a wonderful contrast to the arid wastes or rugged ridges across which had been so many of our long and weary marches. Even here, however, the country was soon to resume its more normal aspect. We found our

IN pre-war days Berlin's famous avenue, known as Unter den Linden, always impressed me as being symbolical of modern Germany. There the flaunting parvenu hotels of William II.'s Industriestaat stood cheek by jowl with the unpretentious Ministerial buildings of the Waterloo era; there great shops, tricked out with a lavish display of bronze and marble and plate-glass, were flanked by the meanest of Old Berlin drinking kens. There was always plenty of traffic in the street and on the pavements; yet, just as the shabbylooking little horse-cabs contrasted strangely with the splendid limousines of Berlin's merchant princes, so the shoddy dress and boorish manners of the crowd seemed to accord ill with the heavy magnificence of hotels, cafés, and shops. In fact, with its violent contrasts, its vulgarity, its haste, and its general incoherence of tendency, Unter den Linden used to be a fairly accurate symbol of that olay-footed colossus, modern Germany.

One day in the early spring of 1913 I walked down Unter den Linden with a well-known French statesman. The German Government had just introduced its measures for increasing the army, proposing to raise the money for this purpose by means of a levy on

capital. As we strolled along my companion and I discussed these proposals and other aspects of German finance. With a characteristic gesture which took in the whole façade of the busy street, the shrewd old Frenchman said

"Si la guerre éclate, jeune homme, vous verrez, tout ça s'écroulera !"

That was a true prophecy, though its fulfilment may have been delayed. The whole façade of modern Germany, as represented by the great hotels and kolossal night cafés of Unter den Linden, has fallen with a crash. The fabric of the Empire has been shaken to its very foundations, if not wholly destroyed. The collapse of Germany is a stupendous thing. It is its suddenness, its swiftness, its completeness which are se staggering, which make it an occurrence unique in the history of the world. The epoch-making events which have accompanied it, the defeat of the German armies, the occupation of Rhineland and Alsace-Lorraine by the Allies, and the surrender of the German Fleet, have deflected public attention from the study no less absorbing, scarcely less thrilling-of the origins and symptoms of this mighty fall.

For fifty months Germany was a closed book to the world