The Flying Inn | Page 5

papers and inkstands. At the table were sitting four men,
two in uniform and two in plain black clothes. Aides-de-camps,
equerries and such persons stood in a group in the background; and

behind them a string of two or three silent battle-ships lay along the sea.
For peace was being given to Europe.
There had just come to an end the long agony of one of the many
unsuccessful efforts to break the strength of Turkey and save the small
Christian tribes. There had been many other such meetings in the later
phases of the matter as, one after another, the smaller nations gave up
the struggle, or the greater nations came in to coerce them. But the
interested parties had now dwindled to these four. For the Powers of
Europe being entirely agreed on the necessity for peace on a Turkish
basis, were content to leave the last negotiations to England and
Germany, who could be trusted to enforce it; there was a representative
of the Sultan, of course; and there was a representative of the only
enemy of the Sultan who had not hitherto come to terms.
For one tiny power had alone carried on the war month after month,
and with a tenacity and temporary success that was a new nine-days
marvel every morning. An obscure and scarcely recognized prince
calling himself the King of Ithaca had filled the Eastern Mediterranean
with exploits that were not unworthy of the audacious parallel that the
name of his island suggested. Poets could not help asking if it were
Odysseus come again; patriotic Greeks, even if they themselves had
been forced to lay down their arms, could not help feeling curious as to
what Greek race or name was boasted by the new and heroic royal
house. It was, therefore, with some amusement that the world at last
discovered that the descendant of Ulysses was a cheeky Irish
adventurer named Patrick Dalroy; who had once been in the English
Navy, had got into a quarrel through his Fenian sympathies and
resigned his commission. Since then he had seen many adventures in
many uniforms; and always got himself or some one else into hot water
with an extraordinary mixture of cynicism and quixotry. In his fantastic
little kingdom, of course, he had been his own General, his own
Admiral, his own Foreign Secretary and his own Ambassador; but he
was always careful to follow the wishes of his people in the essentials
of peace and war; and it was at their direction that he had come to lay
down his sword at last. Besides his professional skill, he was chiefly
famous for his enormous bodily strength and stature. It is the custom in

newspapers nowadays to say that mere barbaric muscular power is
valueless in modern military actions, but this view may be as much
exaggerated as its opposite. In such wars as these of the Near East,
where whole populations are slightly armed and personal assault is
common, a leader who can defend his head often has a real advantage;
and it is not true, even in a general way, that strength is of no use. This
was admitted by Lord Ivywood, the English Minister, who was
pointing out in detail to King Patrick the hopeless superiority of the
light pattern of Turkish field gun; and the King of Ithaca, remarking
that he was quite convinced, said he would take it with him, and ran
away with it under his arm. It would be conceded by the greatest of the
Turkish warriors, the terrifying Oman Pasha, equally famous for his
courage in war and his cruelty in peace; but who carried on his brow a
scar from Patrick's sword, taken after three hours mortal combat--and
taken without spite or shame, be it said, for the Turk is always at his
best in that game. Nor would the quality be doubted by Mr. Hart, a
financial friend of the German Minister, whom Patrick Dalroy, after
asking him which of his front windows he would prefer to be thrown
into, threw into his bedroom window on the first floor with so
considerate an exactitude that he alighted on the bed, where he was in a
position to receive any medical attention. But, when all is said, one
muscular Irish gentleman on an island cannot fight all Europe for ever,
and he came, with a kind of gloomy good humour, to offer the terms
now dictated to him by his adopted country. He could not even knock
all the diplomatists down (for which he possessed both the power and
the inclination), for he realised, with the juster part of his mind, that
they were only obeying orders, as he was. So he sat heavily and
sleepily at the little table, in the green and white