Not only were the Greeks in the cities arming themselves for the approaching conflict, but the goatherds and swineherds poured down from the classic mountains, rifles in hand --Parnassus, Helikon, Pelion, Ossa -- and the shepherds of old Thermopylæ abandoned their flocks on the rough hillsides and marched over the graves of heroes in the ancient pass where Leonidas died, shrieking defiance to Islam and the concert of the powers. And the railway trains that rattled over the plains of Thessaly, where Persephone gathered flowers, were assembling an army at Larissa in sight of the snowy summits of Olympus and the rocky Vale of Tempe.

What a strange commingling of bloods was in that sudden flaming of national passion; old Greeks, new Greeks, Slavs, and Albanians blended together by ages of intermarriage. In the midst of it all, King George, the Dane, commanded to peace by the great nations which placed the crown upon his head, and urged to war by the mighty Pan-Hellenic society, whose secret organizations controlled the army and public sentiment.

It was only when I talked to the King that I fully understood the heartlessness and brutality of the concerted powers -- that august council of the most powerful military states which determines the destinies of Europe and Asia; that Christless, conscienceless power which fired on the Greek flag in Crete and allowed a Mohammedan army to ravage Thessaly.

There was something that made the blood run cold in the sight of that silent Turkish host in Macedonia, supported by the Christian nations of Europe, waiting for their officers to give the signal for an advance; while on the other side of the mountain range that divided the two armies, the Greek herdsmen marched down the mountain sides in their goat-hair cloaks, chanting ancient war songs, and dancing the pyrrhic, as they advanced over the blooming Thessalian fields to fight for Greece and Christianity.

It is the fashion of modern writers to assume that the international policy of the world has reached a high plane of sentiment, and that the old dominion of brute force has given place to a generous chivalry based upon moral feeling. But the year 1897 discredits this theory. The King of Greece intervened to prevent Turkey from landing an army of extermination in Crete. The situation in the island was appalling. Driven into insurrection by the murderous cruelty of the Turkish soldiery, the Cretans had almost won their independence, and the Mohammedan troops were confined practically to four coast towns. Twenty thousand Greek subjects were involved in this struggle. More than three-quarters of the population of Crete were Christians, related by blood, language, religion, and habit to the Greek nation. Even the great powers were forced to take notice of the infamies perpetrated in the island by Turkish officials, and had threatened the Sultan, who gave combined Europe permission to establish such reforms in Crete as they might think necessary. But the great powers did nothing. The egoism of international control having been flattered by the submission of the Sultan, the dominant statesmen of Europe congratulated each other upon the diplomatic victory, and allowed the awful conflict in Crete to go on.

For nine months more Turk and Cretan continued to burn and slay. Gradually the little army of liberty drove the Turks before it. The independence of Crete was in sight. Then the Sultan ordered a new army to sail to the island and annihilate the Christian forces. The great powers had the right to prevent the threatened massacre, but refused to act. The King of Greece begged the governments of Europe to use their influence and authority, but in vain. It was not convenient. The concert of the powers -- which had witnessed unmoved the wholesale massacre of Christians in Armenia -- was not to have its tranquillity disturbed because a few thousand Christians were to be slaughtered in Crete.

It was then that King George of Greece sent a torpedo flotilla, in command of his son Prince George, -- the hero of the nation, -- to prevent any Turkish force from landing in Crete, and at the same time he despatched a small army, under the command of Colonel Vassos, to occupy the island in the name of Greece. There is not a more gallant incident in history.

Instantly the statesmanship of the great powers was wide awake. The German Emperor stormed. The Czar raved. London and Paris roared with anger. Rome and Vienna joined in the outburst of indignation. The concert of the powers had been insulted. Greece had dared to go to the rescue of the Christian army in Crete without the permission of Europe.

There was no languor now. An international fleet of warships surrounded Crete, and Colonel Vassos was informed that his army would be starved out unless he surrendered. All the mighty forces of the nations which had refused to be aroused by the death-cries of Christianity in Crete were put into action to punish the contumacious Greeks, for liberty and justice must ever wait on the convenience of the European ministries. The spirit of the threatened Greek commander in Crete was illustrated by his refusal to yield even to combined Europe, unless his king should order him to do so, and by this cabled message, which he sent to a New York newspaper: --

"Americans well know the Holy Alliance of old which attempted to enslave the republics of America. A modern Holy Alliance is attempting to enslave Cretans under a government beyond the pale of modern civilization. I am sure the sympathy of Americans will be with the efforts of Greece to rescue her own people.

VASSOS."

Meanwhile the pickets of the Turkish army in Macedonia and the Greek army in Thessaly stood in the Mylouna Pass within three hundred feet of each other. A single shot would have produced war at any hour of the day or night.

There was much to see in that old country of the Greeks. The dapper little military dandies in the cafés blew dainty wreaths of cigarette smoke, and talked about the conquest of Constantinople. The students of the university made speeches on the steps of the palace, menacing the leagued nations of Europe with the righteous anger of the Greek race. The leaders of each political party denounced the leaders of all other parties as liars and scoundrels, but all agreed that Greece was capable of vanquishing the Turks even in the teeth of hostile Europe. Featherheads! They bore the great traditions of their past as a dilettante of the Paris boulevards might stagger under the armor of Charlemagne.

It was not among the people of the cities that the substantial patriotism of Greece was to be seen. Other nations have had this experience, but the Greeks in their mightiest days were a people of independent and militant cities. I heard the multitudes of Athens scream for war and sweep through the streets half-crazed behind their garlanded flags. But in the country districts I saw the Greeks of Marathon and Thermopylæ, the men who made Greece the mistress of the world -- sturdy shepherds, willing to fight in their goatskins and content with a crust of bread and a cup of water; pure lovers of the soil for its own sake, uncouth, innocent of politics, and full of faith in their king.

"Ah, there is no people like the Greeks!" said King George, when I interviewed him in the palace. "They have come from the remotest parts of the earth to serve their country. The old blood is in their veins."

The slender, graceful Dane stood in the middle of a vast chamber, dressed in a modest blue uniform.

There was a look of sadness in the pale face of the unhappy monarch. His nephew, the Emperor of Russia, had turned against him. His brother-in-law, the future king of England, had refused to say a word in his favor. The guns of the nations which had placed the sceptre in his hands menaced his army in Crete. The Turkish forces which threatened the frontier of Thessaly had behind them the moral support of every powerful Christian state. Yet the Greeks threatened to rise against a king who dared to yield to the powers.

"There is nothing more cruel or insensible to humane sentiment than the European concert," he said. "I talk to the newspapers now in the hope of moving the hearts of civilized peoples, because the combined governments are deaf to the voice of justice. The world has never before witnessed such a spectacle as six powerful nations, acting in the name of Christian civilization, surrounding an island with their warships, and starving a noble Christian people, whose only offence is that they have fought for liberty. While doing this, these nations are feeding and upholding the savage Turkish oppressors."

The lines in the King's face grew hard, his big brown eyes flashed, the veins stood out with painful distinctness on his temples, his lip trembled, and his voice shook with emotion.

"But the Greeks are unafraid. They are prepared to make any sacrifice, and no loss can be too great for them. They will fight barefooted, they will fight without food, they will fight even without hope; and if this conflict with Turkey begins, they will not cease until they have achieved victory, or the last fighting man has fallen."

How the infuriate crowds pressed around the plain little modern palace, with its guard of mountain warriors in starched white kilts! How the young orators were held up on the shoulders of their friends to shriek grandiose speeches against the great powers and dizzily rant about the past glories of Greece! How Greek priests in black hoods waved flags on the palace steps before the eyes of the frenzied patriots! And Greeks returned from France and Italy and America, and every land under the sun joined in that bewildering clamor for war. Even while a dead Greek prelate was borne through the streets uncoffined -- after the laws of Solon -- the cry for blood was in the air.

Yet who could help loving that warm-hearted, childlike people, and pitying them as they swarmed in the very shadows of the Acropolis? -- for the Greeks of old cast their spears into the sky only to have them return covered with blood. But there were no gods now to warn them of impending fate. The heart of ancient Greece was there in that rabble, if not her conquering strength. It was hard to think that these little men in modern clothes were the descendants of the heroes who made the Greek name feared throughout the world, that this was the Athens which inspired Byron. And it was all the more impressive to a writer fresh from vigorous young America, rising into world-wide power, to hear the passionate cries of an impotent but proud people on the very ground where their ancestors won unperishable renown, in sight of the supreme monuments of their departed greatness. Here Phidias reared the matchless statue of Athena, of which not a fragment remained. Here art and literature flourished, and the mind and soul of man burst into blossom. Here Solon lived, and Perikles and Socrates and Plato and Demosthenes. Every foot of the ground had been trampled by the feet of generations of conquerors. To this triumphant seat of learning and valor thousands of pilgrims came to study art and philosophy and war. Here were laid the enduring foundations of civilization.

The old blood was working in those shrill crowds, the old passion was there, but the old power was gone. Athens was the joke of European courts and the sorrow of all true lovers of the Greeks.

In the beautiful Bay of Eubœa lay the torpedo squadron commanded by Prince George, the idol of the Greek people. I boarded his flagship, the Canaris, with Mr. Horton, the American consul at Athens. The prince was a blond, blue-eyed giant.

"We will fight the whole world, if we must," he said; "but we will never make a cowardly surrender to a Mohammedan power. As for me, I am a sailor. I have nothing to do with politics. I obey the King. The King's word is my only law."

Little did I think then that I was looking upon the man who was to be chosen by Europe as the reigning Prince of Crete. As we sailed away on the troop-ship into the Gulf of Atlanta we could see the sailor prince towering above his crew like a young war god, and as he tossed his cap in the air there burst from the squadron a fierce roar of farewell that could be heard on the distant shore, beyond which loomed the august white summit of Mount Parnassus.

After landing at Volo we travelled by train over the plain of Thessaly to Larissa, where twenty thousand Greek soldiers were massed. It was a scene of excitement. Here officers were drilling the rough shepherds and goatherds, there Prince Nicholas was exercising his battery of artillery; smart troops marched and countermarched in every direction; groups of conspirators from Macedonia and Epirus noisily discussed the approaching war in the streets; jaunty officers in new uniforms drank wine in the restaurants, and loudly boasted of coming victories; the kilted mountain soldiers danced the pyrrhic in their camps -- grim ballet, presaging death.

In the distance could be seen the mountains that separated the two armies, and to the east of them, the majestic white peaks of Olympus, rising beyond the wonderful Vale of Tempe. On the other side of the mountains, not more than twenty miles from Larissa, was assembled the army of Edhem Pasha, the Turkish commander-in-chief in Macedonia.

The gray-haired Greek general who commanded the forces at Larissa assured me that the Turkish army was a mere ragged mob, badly armed and insubordinate. The Turks were deserting in large numbers, and Edhem Pasha was in despair. The moment the Greek army crossed the frontier tens of thousands of armed Christians would rise against the Sultan. The conquest of Macedonia would be a matter of two or three weeks.

Mounted on a half-starved pony, and accompanied by a photographer, I rode into the famous Mylouna Pass, through which the Turkish army entered Thessaly a few weeks later. The pass was guarded by two hundred whiteskirted mountaineers who spent most of their time dancing the pyrrhic and singing war songs. The officer in command, a stalwart, black-bearded Greek, declared that all the Turks in the Ottoman Empire could not force the pass.

"But you have no artillery in here," I said.

"Artillery is not necessary," he said. "The pass is narrow and difficult even for the feet of mountaineers. There are two hundred of us -- all Greeks. My brother was killed by the Turks in the next pass only a few years ago. That is why I am in command here. I will avenge him."

His black eyes glittered with hatred. His nostrils spread as he spoke, and his breast rose.

"You don't know the Greeks," he said. "You are an American. But these hills know them. Stay here with me when the fight begins, and you will see what Greeks are like in battle."

We pushed on through the age-worn and broken paths in the pass until we reached the highest point, which was the frontier. The Turkish and Greek sentries paced slowly before their guard-houses within speaking distance. The moment we crossed the line that divided Greece from Turkey we found ourselves prisoners, with a stout Mohammedan soldier at each bridle rein. In this fashion we descended over the rocks to the Macedonian plain and rode to Elassona. Our escort was very rough, and refused to allow us to speak to the peasants we met.

Once in the camp of the Turkish field-marshal, all was changed. A vast army was spread out on the northern edge of the plain, and white tents dotted the hillside as far as the eye could see. There was a gravity and silence about it all that meant much to a man accustomed to soldiers in the field. The contrast to the Greek camp was startling. There was no singing or dancing, no shouting, no wine-drinking, and no boasting. I never saw finer troops, nor more perfect order in an army.

Edhem Pasha was absent from his headquarters and I was received by the next in command, Memdouh Pasha, the redoubtable soldier who assisted Osman Pasha in the defence of Plevna. He was a short, square-headed little man, with a close-cropped beard and honest eyes. He reminded me strongly of General Grant. When I presented myself, he introduced the Turkish war correspondent of a Constantinople newspaper, who spoke French and acted as our interpreter.

The Turkish general had food set before me -- for hospitality is a law of the Mohammedan church -- and presently, when I had eaten, he curled his legs under him on a rough divan, lit a cigarette, offered one to me, and blew rings of smoke in the air. At that moment I saw my photographer's camera seized by a soldier; but Memdouh, by whose orders the thing was done, looked pleasantly into my eyes.

"How did you leave the Greeks?" he said. "What were they doing when you came away?"

"Singing and dancing and preparing to fight."

Memdouh blew another ring into the air, and watched it ascending to the ceiling. There was a look of deep peace in his eyes.

"To fight?"

"Yes."

"Do you think they can fight?"

"They have given some convincing proofs of their power to fight in the past."

Another ring of smoke. How intently the soldier regarded the trembling circles as they floated upward!

"The past! The Greeks of the past are all dead. The people you have been visiting are light-headed. They are degenerates. If the great powers let us alone, we will settle our difficulties with Greece forever. They will conquer and govern us, or we will conquer and govern them. The Greeks are singing of war, but wait till the first battle opens, and see how they will sing then. We are ready to advance at a moment's notice. The spirit of Islam is in our army, and you know what that means. The newspapers and amateur politicians of Europe speak of Turkey as a sick nation; but you have never heard a soldier who has faced our infantry in battle indulge in that sort of talk."

The general settled himself more cosily on his divan, and rolled another cigarette. There was something very impressive about his quiet, confident manner.

"I am afraid that I would never get my despatches through to my newspaper. Turkey is not benevolently disposed toward the press."

Memdouh laughed and showed his teeth. "You are a close observer," he said. "The Greeks like to be advertised, and therefore they will help you to get your news to your journal. Well, you can stay with them if you prefer, but you will have to describe a defeat."

"I have never been with a defeated army yet."

"Then you are about to enjoy that experience."

A walk through the Turkish camp was convincing. The vast columns of infantry, the wheeling squadrons of Circasian cavalry, the long lines of Krupp field-guns, the immense stores of ammunition and food, the abundance of horses, the splendidly organized signal service, with its field telegraph equipment, and the noiseless order of the place spoke plainly enough. The Turks had little to say. They are a naturally reticent and sober people. They bore themselves like trained soldiers. There was nothing of theatrical sentiment to be seen. All was plain, useful, and businesslike. I asked an artillery officer how the Turkish people felt about the approaching struggle. He read me an extract from a letter written to him by his brother, a schoolboy: --

"I can bear the news of your death on the field better than I can bear the news of a Turkish retreat. If you must choose between death and flight, dear brother, turn your face to Heaven."

The officer showed great emotion as he folded the little sheet of paper and thrust it back into his pocket.

"If Turkish boys can write like that," he said, "you can imagine how Turkish men feel."

The arrival of a London correspondent in Elassona sent a chill down my back. I had been the first correspondent to cross the frontier and enter the Turkish lines. That fact in itself was an important thing for newspaper headlines. But now I was face to face with a rival who would undoubtedly claim the credit unless I reached the telegraph station at Larissa before him. Mounting my tired pony I started back to Greece. The Englishman saw the point, and also made for the frontier. He was mounted on a good cavalry horse and easily distanced me on the plain, but when we reached the Mylouna Pass he was compelled to dismount and lead his horse over the masses of broken rocks while my ragged pony moved over the debris with the skill of a mountain goat. The sun set, but the starlight was brilliant, and I passed my rival at the frontier.

The ride down the other side of the pass at night was a thrilling experience. When the foot of the pass was reached, the pony fell to the ground exhausted.

"Englishman! Ingleskee! Angleskee!" I yelled in despair, making pantomime descriptions of my rival's beard and eyeglasses. They shook their heads and laughed.

The walk to Tyrnavos gave me a new insight into the Greek character. As we moved forward my companions rapturously watched the stars which shone with startling brightness through the clear air. Nowhere in the world do the stars seem as close to the earth as in Greece. The atmosphere is singularly pure. And several times the soldier on my right touched my shoulder and silently pointed to the beautiful Greek sky. I could not understand his hushed sentences, but I knew he was telling me that the stars belonged to Greece.

At Tyrnavos we got a carriage, and I reached Larissa at one o'clock in the morning, splashed with mud from head to foot. My rival had found a telephone at the frontier, and had sent a message for London; but he was not present to plead his cause, and the sight of my travel-stained garments softened the heart of the telegraph superintendent so that the wire, which was conveying messages into King George's sleeping room, was interrupted long enough to send my message to America.

The Turks forced the Mylouna Pass and swept Thessaly clean. Everybody knows the story of that international tragedy. Neither King George nor his generals would believe it possible that Mohammedan soldiery could conquer Christian Greece. The combined powers of Europe gave their countenance to the great crime, trampling justice and sentiment into the dust. And when the bloody deed was done, when Greece was broken and humbled, when the vanity of the powers was satisfied in Greek blood, Europe acknowledged the justice of the Greek cause by making Prince George the reigning Prince of Crete.