Whether he had any right to cherish such hopes, after accepting financial assistance from their enemies, is a very nice ethical point; but a nicer point still is, whether the Allies had any right left to question the ethics of others. M. Skouloudis doubtless could plead in self-justification that his remaining armed was admittedly a boon to them, as much as his remaining neutral was a boon to their enemies; and that both sides should therefore help to defray the cost. He was impartial. However, his hopes were dashed to the ground.
On 5 April the French and British Ministers called on the Premier and informed him that the Servian army at Corfu, having sufficiently rested and recovered, the Entente proposed to transport it to Salonica through Greece, and they had no doubt that Greece would readily consent. M. Skouloudis replied that Greece could not possibly consent. The transport of over 100,000 men across the country would mean interruption of railway traffic and suspension of all economic life for at least two months; it would expose the population to the danger of infection by the epidemic diseases from which the Serbs had been suffering; above all, it would be regarded by the Central Powers as a breach of neutrality and might force Greece into the War against her will. M. Skouloudis urged these reasons with all the firmness, and more than all the plainness, that diplomacy allowed, ending up with an emphatic: "No, gentlemen, such a thing we will not permit. I declare this to you officially."
"Our Governments," retorted the French Minister, "have not instructed us to ask for your permission, but to notify to you their decision."
M. Skouloudis was a proud old man, fiercely jealous of his country's independence and inflexible in his defence of it. Of his iron determination he had already given the Allies ample proof. But hitherto he had kept his gathering indignation under control. He could do so no longer: the Frenchman's speech and, more than the speech, the manner in which it had been delivered, were too much for his feelings.
"And I," he repeated, "declare to you that my Government's decision is not to permit this overland passage--further, I declare to you that, in the contrary event, I shall find myself under the necessity of blowing up the railway,"--then, in a crescendo of rage, he went on: "You have left us nothing sound in this country--neither self-respect, nor dignity, nor liberty, nor the right to live as free men. But do not forget that there is a limit to the most benevolent patience and to the most willing compliance, that one last drop makes the cup overflow. . . ."