The Fool - Chapters 31-35

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Chapter 31

Chapter XXXI

The same night that Vartan, Hairabed and Abo were philosophizing in the prison, and meditating on the unfortunate conditions of their unfortunate fatherland, Thomas Effendi was at the house of Marook, the village priest, and after dining, chatted and jested merrily with the priest.

He was the same priest who had caused Salman so much trouble, but now, hearing of his fall, grieved, not because a prominent laborer would vanish from the defenses, but because the loss of any Armenian was a sorrow to him. The father-confessor was not a bad man and if he had been opposed and had desired to ruin Salman's work, it was because he considered it harmful. He was a common villager in his youth. He had learned to read and write, more or less, at St. John's monastery . He did not succeed in making a living in the village. He grew poorer and went to seek his fortune abroad. He met with no success abroad either. At one time he was a coffee-maker in the city of Van. His affairs went badly. Without having earned a para he returned to his native place.

Finding no other means of making a living here, he became a priest.

That evening, the village school-master, the famous chorister Simon, who was the priest's son-in-law, was also invited to the priest's house. This man had a high opinion of his learning (the villager also had the same) and he was prouder still of the fact that he was the priest's son-in-law.

The subject of conversation was the events which had transpired that day at old Khacho's house, which had terrified the villagers greatly and had disquieted the priest still more.

"The ass is convicted, the horse eats, Father Superior," said the Effendi continuing the interrupted conversation. "This is the universal order of the world and as it always will be. What God has planned, man cannot change. God has created one master, the other slave. One judges, the other eats. The Armenian has learned to work. The Kurd and the Turk have learned to eat. If there were no one to eat, the laborer could not live. The Turks keep us with their sword. We must keep them by our labor. God has given the Turk a sword, but the Armenian a spade. The one cannot take the place of the other."

"That is true," replied the priest crossing himself. "Our Lord Jesus Christ also said thus in the Holy Gospel, that not a leaf falls from the tree without God's will. Without His will, not a hair falls from man's head. All is in His hands."

"That's so, it is true," affirmed Simon, also crossing himself.

They next began to talk about the more severe oppression of the villagers owing to the war. The priest regarding the robbery entirely from the standpoint of his personal gains, complained, saying that the Government taxes had been so much increased that the produce of the villagers was entirely exhausted, and if anything was left, the Kurds would carry it off . For this reason, he was paid very badly, for he often performed baptisms, weddings and funerals without receiving a para. The villagers promise to pay later; but they will either be unable to, or they will deceive him. For this reason the priest has many credits now in the village, and he is determined not to christen, marry or bury hereafter unless he receives his fees in advance, for he also is a man and must live.

"Father confessor," replied the Effendi, speaking in a business-like manner, "you do not know the villager as well as I do. God has given the villager a soul, but he can't take it away, but when the angel of death stands at his head with drawn sword, then he gives up his soul. We cannot follow that example. Unless the villager sees that 'blessed stick' he will not pay. Prepare the list of your dues, hand it to me and I will give it to one of my soldiers. He will collect them. I will not allow you to lose a single para.

"Blessings upon you, God grant you long life," replied the priest. "The account is in readiness."

"Read it. Let me see how much it is."

The priest drew from his bosom a sheet of paper, soiled and yellow with age and nearly worn out. This was his accountbook. On the four pages were written in large characters, forming crooked lines, the father confessor's dues. He held the paper near his eyes, and tried to read it, but could not. He gave the sheet to the teacher, saying, "Take it, Chorister Simon. Read it. My eyes do not see well."

Chorister Simon took the account, coughed a few times and began to read it in a rhetorical voice as though he were reading a will. "I christened Muggo's daughter. 5 piastres due. I married Khubo's son. 10 piastres due. I received 80 bales of hay, value 3 piastres. Paul's wife was sick. I went to her home, read three healing chapters, 3 piastres due. Sako's son fetched the cross out of the water. Parso gave 80 piastres that he might fetch it. I did a favor to Sako and made it 20. Money due me 20 piastres. He said I will give you grain at harvest. I went and demanded it. He didn't give it. The kizir is witness."

And thus, one after another, was the lengthy story. It was not an account, but the man's church business dealings during past years and although depicted in a jumbled fashion, still it was proof of how a village priest is occupied.

"It is a legal account," said the Effendi, interrupting, unable to listen patiently until the chorister should bring his "reading" to a close. "Entrust me with that paper, Father-confessor, and I will have it all collected. The villagers of N.... delayed in presenting their 'fruits' to the monastery. They did not give them on time. The bishop wrote to me and I had them all collected in one day. Then I obtained a paper of blessing from the monastery."

This way of collecting his dues seemed so natural to the priest that he not only agreed to the Effendi's proposition, but he bestowed blessings upon his precious life, and expressed his gratitude repeatedly.

But why did the Effendi undertake to perform this service? He was one of those men who do no kindness to anyone without a purpose, without some personal gain. Now what prompted him to be so kind, and even promise not to take his tithes from these sums, which was customary when any sum was paid by order of a government official?

"May the blessings of Father Abraham descend upon you, and may you increase," said the priest, hearing the Effendi's last promise.

Chorister Simon had a similar list of dues in his bosom. He too had money owing him from his pupils, and he meditated presenting the account to the Effendi. But the priest whispered to him, "Let him collect mine, afterwards yours."

The family of Der Marook was very small. His only son had died, leaving his widow with two small children. The daughter-in-law had not re-married, but remained in the priest's house and cared for the little orphans. The father-confessor had been deprived long since of his wife and led a strictly celibate life.

That evening, the bride (daughter-in-law) after giving her guests their dinner, was occupied with her child who was very sick. Seated near his bed, the pitiable woman looked sadly at the sick child, rubbed his hot palms, and listened to his heavy breathing. In this child she seemed to see again the young man whom she had loved, and in this child the unfortunate mother found comfort after her husband's death. She hardly heard, and paid no attention to the conversation in the house but was absorbed in pity and love and saw nothing but her sick child.

But the priest, rejoicing over the Effendi' promises, wished to have a more perfect time rejoicing, and ordered his daughter-in-law to fill the bottle of raki which was empty.

Although supper was over, the custom of the place demanded that when a special honor was to be given to a priest, the drinking should continue.

The bride was in such distress that the priest repeated his command twice before she was able to understand what he wanted. She found some raki and filled the bottle. There was always a supply of this at the priest's house. But how should she prepare the "maza" - there were no sweets in the house. It would be a disgrace to let it be known. Everything necessary for a guest must always be found in an Armenian home. She thought she would borrow some of a neighbor.

It was very dark outside, and rain fell in torrents. The poor woman went out into the court, crossed the muddy yard, and mounted the terrace to climb over into the neighbor's yard. She heard the neighbor's gate being pounded furiously, and threats were being poured against them by some Turks outside with commands to open. But from within they swore that the ones they sought were not there. But whom did they seek? What Turks were these who sought to enter an Armenian house at this unseasonable hour?

Zoulo, this was the name of the priest's daughter-in-law, hearing the commotion in the street was in great fear, and she could neither go to the neighbor's nor return home from fright, but remained dazed and motionless on the flat roof. At that moment she heard a barely audible whisper. The speakers seemed to her. to be climbing the neighbor's stairs and did not know which way to run.

"Carefully, Stephanie."

"Where shall I go, Sara?"

Zoulo recognized them. Her fright was over. Her heart was filled with courage when she saw these poor creatures were in need of help. She had heard of the sad events which had taken place at old Khacho's that day. She knew that the women of the family were hiding in various houses in the village that night. But now they were seeking them, and why? Zoulo understood why.

Therefore the Turks knocking at the neighbor's gate were none other than some of the soldiers who had imprisoned old Khacho's sons.

Sara and Stephanie now reached the priest's property, and like deer chased by the hunter, surrounded on all sides, they did not know in which direction to turn. The rain poured down on them. The doors of the villagers were closed and they were asleep. It was past midnight.

Just then lightning flashed and it's momentary flash was followed by a fearful clap of thunder. The lightning enabled them to distinguish Zoulo standing on the terrace. Stephanie seeing her indistinctly, thought that one of the Turks had climbed there. She fainted from fright and fell upon Sara's breast. Zoulo came near. "It is I. Do not fear," she said.

"Ah, Zoulo. Is it you?" said Sara trembling. "For the love of God give us a place. They will catch us, they will carry us off."

Zoulo was at her wits' end. Where could she take them? Where could she hide them? These were suspicious guests for them; the priest would object to receiving refugees like these. Nevertheless Zoulo thought she ought to help the wretched creatures. She knew the dishonor which would be theirs if they fell into the hands of the Turks. On the other hand, a heavy responsibility threatened her if she should furnish a hiding place to these criminals whose only crime was that they were women. Zoulo knew all that, but sympathy outweighed the feeling of fear and uncertainty and the imminent danger gave birth to an inspiration for saving them.

"Come," she said, taking Stephanie's hand, and with Sara helping her, they both raised the poor girl who was still unconscious.

They began to descend from the flat roof. Just then a terrible commotion was heard which was drowned immediately by the voice of the storm. It was the sound made by the Turks bursting open the door of the neighbor's gate. A hay-loft was next door to the priest's house. A small door from his yard opened into it. Zoulo led the fugitives there. Sara and Stephanie hid themselves in the hay.

"I will come again, soon," said Zoulo, and locking the door of the hay-loft, she went away.

On account of the noise of the rain, neither the priest nor his guest heard what was happening outside; while Zoulo on her return informed them of nothing. She only went up to the priest and whispered to him that all were asleep at the neighbor's and she had not been able to borrow anything with which to make "maza".

"I'll find something," said the priest, and rising went to the cupboard and began to rummage among the things there.

The Effendi, taking advantage of the priest's absence, turned toward Zoulo and said, "You are 'maza' yourself. What do we want of other 'maza'?"

Chorister Simon had drunk so much that he did not bear, but Zoulo, wounded by the Effendi's remark, replied, "Insolent!"

The Armenian woman endures every trouble and opens not her mouth under provocation, but when her honor is assailed, then she loses her patience. Zoulo much disturbed, went and sat beside her sick child, who had awakened from his sleep. The child was comfortable, and seeing his mother near him, said, "Mother whip Toros, he has taken my knuckle bones." Toros was the sick child's elder brother; probably the boy dreamed that his brother had taken them. His mother quieted him, saying, "See, Light of my eyes, Toros has given them back. Here they are. The mother drew the playthings from under the child's pillow and put them in his hands. The child began to play with them with his feeble hands. The mother looked on and rejoiced. She forgot the Effendi's insult, she forgot everything, because now her child seemed better.

But a new unpleasantness arose to disturb the mind of the poor woman. After hunting a long time in the cupboard the priest did not find the thing he had hidden, and he asked Zoulo what had become of a piece of sugar he had hidden there which was gone. The daughter-in-law replied that she had taken it and had made a sherbet for the sick child a few days before, as he had a high fever and needed a cooling drink.

"He might have drunk it unsweetened - he might have taken it bitter," cried he angrily. "Didn't you know the sugar was for guests? Now what shall we do?"

Zoulo made no reply, but tears began to fall from her sorrowful eyes. The priest, Der Marook, was not really a bad man, he was even good. But goodness in ignorant men often is unintentionally changed to evil. Besides this his office had made him more or less severe. Priests, physicians and executioners who deal frequently with the dying are not very much concerned over life and death. For this reason, the sickness of his grandson did not concern the priest so much as his desire to show hospitality and to gratify a man like the Effendi especially as he had promised to have all the father-confessor's dues collected.

"Mama, why do you cry?" asked the sick child looking at her with sympathy. "Don't cry, I'm well 'now."

The mother forgot all her sorrow and wiped the tears from her eyes. Nothing is so comforting as the loving words of a dear child and its innocent prattle. Now Zoulo began to think about Sara and Stephanie, and wondered what they were doing; whether the Turks would enter suddenly and search and find them. But the unwanted guests still continued their drinking. She was waiting for them to finish and go to sleep so that she might be able to go to Sara and Stephanie.

But she must at least learn how the affair at the neighbor's house had ended. Zoulo was unable to control her impatience longer for that thought disturbed her greatly. Making some excuse, she rose and entered a small room which they called the "secret chamber" which served as a store-room. A narrow slit had been opened from this room directly into the neighbor's house. Openings like this were found in nearly all the village houses and in time of danger served as a secret channel of communication. If anything happened in a neighbor's house, they would call through the opening, and the next neighbor would hear. Between houses of intimate friends these openings were so large that small articles could be passed back and forth. Often they passed a lighted candle through the aperture, when the neighbor had no matches,

Zoulo stood before the opening and could look into the house and hear the following words, "We will kill you if you don't show us; where are they? They told us they were over here. You have hidden them! Be quick, or we will take your women." These threats were made by the Turks.

Neighbor Zako had fallen at their feet, and begged and cried, saying, "God and heaven and earth be my witness that they are not here; don't kill me. Behold my house is before you. Take whatever you please."

This was a repetition of what took place in Sodom when the evil men of the place came to Lot and demanded that he give up his guests to them. The kindhearted patriarch had begged them not to molest his guests and promised to give up his daughters instead. But the God of Israel was hard-hearted and sought revenge, and punished human wickedness by burning the dissolute city with fire and brimstone. And the God of Armenia saw wickedness worse than in Sodom, and left the sinner unpunished.

Zoulo trembled with dread as she looked and listened. She heard a commotion and saw neighbor Zako totter and fall to the ground. They extinguished the light. Zoulo could see nothing more, but only heard confused cries, "Oh, alas, let go - don't kill me, I am dying! Where are you taking me?" These were the cries of neighbor Zako's wife and daughters.

"Be still, you wretch," was the reply to these cries.

Chapter 32

Chapter XXXII

Returning to her place, Zoulo found the guests in the same condition. They were still drinking. The priest was chanting while chorister Simon followed him, and the Effendi hummed an accompaniment. They were enjoying themselves. What matter what happened at the neighbor's house! Zoulo thought of informing them - perhaps they would assist them - and going up to the priest she whispered what she had seen in Zako's house. But she did not tell that she had hidden Sara and Stephanie in their house. An inexplicable instinct sealed Zoulo's lips on that subject.

According to the custom of Armenian women, she did not speak to the guests but whispered to the priest briefly what had happened, and the others heard nothing. But seeing the startled face of the priest, and the uneasiness which the woman's conversation occasioned him, the guests asked to know what had happened.

"Beasts, beasts," cried the priest, raising his bands toward heaven, "May the curses of the twelve apostles and the three hundred and sixty six patriarchs be upon you - cursed roots of evil!"

"What has happened?" repeated the Effendi.

The priest related what Zoulo had told him, and begged the Effendi to help the poor wretches.

There are men who in time of danger, misfortune and trouble, which overtake others, instead of thinking of means of deliverance, instead of quickly reaching out a helping hand, begin to examine the reasons for the misfortune and consider their conscience eased when they find someone was to blame. Of necessity, this judgment is meted according to the understanding of each man. The Effendi not only did not consider the occurrence unjust and immoral, but justified it with his belief that they deserved punishment. With this idea in mind, he inquired, "Tell me Father-confessor, would an innocent man do what landlord Khacho did in keeping such suspicious men in his house who were turning the heads of the villagers, preaching all kinds of foolishness?"

"It is folly, it is great folly," replied the priest, "but how are the poor villagers to blame? Because of a few crazy fellows must the Turks throw them all into the fire? Our neighbor Zako is much to be pitied; he is so timid that he is afraid of his own shadow. Why do they afflict him? Why do they tyrannize over his family? What cruelty they practice!"

"The green wood is burned together with the dry - that is the order of the world, Father-confessor. Who distinguishes the wet from the dry?" replied the Effendi, astonished himself at his wise remarks. "When God sends chastisement to punish men, the innocent child goes to the grave with the old sinner. The evil and the good are mingled together. The vengeance of governments is the same, when it is necessary to punish a community. Harm comes to the villagers, I told you, Father-confessor, to all the villagers,"

The priest found no reply to make. The proofs brought forward by the Effendi were very cogent. In time of cholera and plague when men are punished for their sins, is there any distinction made between the just and the unjust? The dry and the wet are burned together. The priest thought of all this. He even forgot neighbor Zako, and the last words of the Effendi brought something to his mind which lay. close to his heart. He said, "If the houses of all the villagers are plundered as they have robbed old Khacho today, I shall surely lose my dues."

"Be easy about that, Father-confessor," replied the Effendi. "I'll have it all collected soon. But tell me this, Father, isn't Khacho to blame himself for this punishment?"

The attention of the villagers had been centered upon the events in Khacho's house that day, but nevertheless, they all blamed him. "What business has a weapon in the hands of an Armenian?" they had said. "If you give a child fire he will burn his fingers." The opinion of the priest did not differ much from this. 'He replied to the Effendi's query, "I know one thing, my son. When the Jews came with sword and spear to seize our Lord Jesus Christ, the apostle Peter drew his sword, smote the servant of the high priest and cut off his ear. Then our Lord Jesus Christ spoke to Peter saying, Put up thy sword, for he who lives by the sword shall perish by the sword.' We should not forget this counsel if we do not wish to sin against the Christian faith."

"Honor to you, Father-confessor, you have comprehended well," said the Effendi, "but did you read those pamphlets?"

"I read them. One got into the hands of the chorister Simon. He brought it to me and we read it. But we made nothing out of it. I said - blessed men! You have written - write something understandable that will profit soul and body, that man may read and repent of his sins. What is the use of such crooked and twisted things as these? Chorister Simon, didn't I say so? You read them too."

"I did not approve," replied the teacher, having a chance to show his learning. "It was all evil. If they had written the lives of the fathers, the people would read and be profited. But I am glad that Vartan was punished, he is a very proud fellow. Once he stepped into my school, and said, 'What business have you to be teaching - you harm the children, go tend donkeys.' Was that a proper thing to say, as though he had read more than I?"

"The donkey's kick hurts more than the horse's," said the Effendi. "This Vartan has wounded me often, also."

Thus the priest, the chorister teacher and the government official each expressed his opinion about sad events and not one of them paid any attention to what was being done in neighbor Zako's house. Not one of them lamented over the condition of landlord Khacho's family tonight. That man to whose benevolence so many of the villagers were indebted now had become the object of their anger, because of his behavior, which according to their opinion, was reprehensible. Everyone was in the grip of terror and expected a tragic and terrible fate. Only Thomas Effendi, the author of all these villainies, was happy, and with especial fiendish pleasure felt great satisfaction in his heart because the seed he had sowed promised to yield the fruit he longed for.

"I repeat," he replied with the manner of a man of affairs, "that the villagers are harmed seriously. Times are bad, preparations for war are going on everywhere. In such disturbed times such appearances are punished by the Government."

Hearing the word "war", the priest was terrified, not because war threatened the villagers with trouble and misery but because he thought of his dues once more.

"If it begins," he said, "the villagers will have to pay so much taxes that it will be difficult to collect my fees."

"Rest easy, Father-confessor," replied the Effendi, "I will not allow your dues to remain till the war begins."

Then chorister Simon drew near the priest's ear and reminded him again of the dues from his pupils and again received reply to be patient. One talks of the part where the pain lies. The question which interested the priest and the chorister was the collection of their fees.

"Although the ass is good-for-nothing, its hair cleans clothing," said the Effendi. (Author's note. Because Mohammedans consider swine unclean, they use clothes brushes made of donkeys' hair instead of pigs bristles.) "You must know that proverb, father. The villager is like this. Although he is clothed in rags and walks barefoot, the clothes worn by the rich is bought with the price of his sweat. Although he goes hungry and often can't find a bite of bread, he decks out the tables of the rich with all sorts of luxuries. But you Father, do not seem to know how to gain profit from the villagers. If you did you would not have so many dues and you wouldn't have given us whiskey without 'maza'."

The last remark touched the priest and he replied bitterly, "What can I do, Effendi? The hands of the priest are tied. They haven't given us a stick as they have you, with which to beat the villagers. Our weapon is very weak. What can I do? To tell the truth my heart is filled with rage sometimes and I lose my patience, and begin to curse them. But the villagers have become so unbelieving, that they are not afraid of my curses even. What other weapon have we? But they are not to blame, either. What have the Kurds left them that we should be able to demand anything of them. Cursed be those Kurds. If it were not for them I should not have many fees due to me. Now that war is to begin the Kurds will be fiercer and bolder than ever."

"The ass is still an ass, but the mule is worse," replied the Effendi in his usual style. "The Kurds are as bad as mules for they are illegitimate."

The night was nearly over. Zoulo, sitting apart near her sick child, listened in displeasure to the conversation of the guests, which was very tiresome for her. She waited patiently for them to finish, to cease drinking wine, in order that she might be able to go to Sara and Stephanie to see what condition they were in.

But the Effendi did not intend to sleep yet. He had much more to say to the priest and only the presence of Chorister Simon hindered him. For this reason he remarked that he would like to go to sleep for he was obliged to rise early in the morning on account of important business. The chorister, bidding him goodnight, left. After he had gone the priest said, "He knows more than seven bishops, the poor fellow, but alas, he likes to drink too well. Did you see how well he read off the account of my dues?"

"Are you speaking of Chorister Simon?" asked the Effendi. "Yes, he read well."

But the Effendi was not interested either in Chorister Simon or his extensive learning. He was seeking a pretext to speak of a subject for which he had expressly come to the priest's house so eagerly this evening.

Just then the priest took off his half-worn cloak as he had become quite heated both from the wine and from the heat of the room. The sleeve of the cloak was torn accidentally. The Effendi said to him, "Your cloak is much worn, Father, why don't you have a new one made?"

"Bless you, how can I have one made? You know how my fees remain unpaid. And this cloak belonged to the departed Garabed Effendi. He died and they gave me this from the clothes he left. I have been wearing it ever since for seven years. Because of my sins none of the rich has died, so that I might get new clothing."

"I'll have a fine one made for you; you are a good priest," said the Effendi, "wear it and give me your blessing!"

"May the blessing of the three hundred and sixty six patriarchs be upon you, my son," said the priest, beginning to intone a prayer. "But I have another request, Effendi," he added. "You are our crown and glory. We rejoice and praise God every day that he has given us Armenians such magistrates as you; one who has access to mayors, judges, governors and pashas, and can speak freely to them. For the love of our nation and for the love of our holy faith, I beg you not to leave landlord Khacho and his family in the hands of these miscreants. If you are willing you can save them. They are poor and wretched. They are Armenian Christians. Help them. Whatever their crime may be, we ought to conceal it, because they belong to us and are of our blood. I don't approve of what they have done either, but 'who of you have not sinned'?"

Although the priest's words made no great impression upon the Effendi, still they gave him an excuse to impart to him what he bad long sought to say to the priest.

The Effendi replied that he was ready and willing to rescue the landlord's family from their difficulties and he would not allow a hair of his head to fall if the landlord would on his part grant the Effendi's request. And, reminding the priest of the secret imparted to him a year ago about Lila, the Effendi said that he had loved this girl since then and desired to make her his wife. If the landlord would grant this desire of his, he was ready to help him. But, if he refused, he would be obliged to let justice have its lawful course, which would certainly result in the landlord's whole family being destroyed and his property confiscated by the Government. And, thinking that the priest occupied the place of a father in the community, the Effendi begged the priest to undertake to interview old Khacho and speak with him about it, before it was too late, while there was still time to direct the course of affairs and prevent the evils which threatened them.

"May my order be my witness," said the priest with hearty pleasure. "I will go to him tomorrow morning early and arrange everything as you wish. Khacho ought to thank the Lord and offer several lambs in sacrifice to the saints that such a man as you desires to become his son-in-law."

A crafty smile appeared on the face of the Ef-

fendi, and he replied as if in jest, "When you do all this, then your old cloak will be made new."

"But my fees?"

"Don't worry about those."

Chapter 33

Chapter XXXIII

The sad and terrible night was over. In the morning, old Khacho's house resembled such houses of mourning from which several persons are carried to the grave at once. First they brought out Vartan. He was tranquil. His countenance did not betray so much as a hint of agitation. Nothing seemed to have happened to him. Only his lips wore a sarcastic expression, as though he were saying, "What do these fools want to do?" When they seated him upon a horse and wished to fetter his feet and tie them together under the horse's belly, he made no resistance, although it is agony to be obliged to remain motionless in that position.

"That is unnecessary," he remarked, "If I wished to escape, your chains would not prevent me."

The soldiers paid no attention, but fettered him. Not content with this, they tied his arms together, behind his back, and with two soldiers holding the ends of - the ropes, they prepared to set out.

Besides these two soldiers, three gendarmes accompanied him. Although the vulgar crowd is interested in such scenes, none of the villagers appeared to see how they were deporting the man who had labored and worked so hard for them. They all avoided the old man's house as though it were a dwelling afflicted with the plague.

None of the women had remained in the house. All were hidden in various places. Hairabed and Abo were in confinement, their turn would come next. Khacho's other sons who were free did not show themselves. Only the father came out to see Vartan off. After the last misfortunes, the old man was as one dead. The bitter persecution, the tyrannical injustice and brutal cruelty had quite worn him out. He approached and embraced Vartan, but his heart was too full for utterance. A few tears said much more than his tongue.

"Keep a stout heart, old Father," replied Vartan with an even voice. "He who has fallen into the water is not afraid of getting wet. Good-bye."

The soldiers did not understand what was said, and driving Vartan's horse before them, began to move along. The old man watched them for a long time, till they were out of sight.

Plunged in sad reflections, he returned to the house. Why did they take Vartan only? Why did they leave Hairabed and Abo? Why didn't they imprison him, instead of leaving him free, although under surveillance? The old man did not yet know the details of Thomas Effendi's program. He had arranged the affair so that if the old man did not accept his proposition about Lila, then he would pour out the full measure of his vengeance upon the poor man's family. He had caused Vartan to be exiled and had betrayed Salman because he considered them dangerous to the Turkish Government he served. But be had no such suspicion about old Khacho and his sons: he only included them in the charge because by putting them in an exceedingly difficult position, he would have a pretext to play the role of protector and deliverer, and thus make them indebted to him, so that afterwards he might request the hand of Lila, as the reward of his services.

These were the bargaining schemes which moved the Effendi to cause this great injury whose disastrous results he was not able to foresee for all his craftiness. But Thomas Effendi did not appear that morning. The old man wished to see him, wished to hear a final word as to how all this was to end. He still believed the Effendi's promises. He still clung to the statement, "Landlord Khacho, I will not allow a hair of your head to fall."

Instead of the Effendi, Der Marook appeared as his ambassador, for he had promised to go to the landlord in the morning and speak about Lila. In moments of misfortune, although the presence of a priest brings comfort, it made an unpleasant impression upon the old man. He had a peculiar superstition in regard to priests, and he always considered that the sight of their faces presaged disaster. The priest drew him gently aside, telling him he had an important matter to speak about, and that relieved the old man a little. The two sat down together in a remote part of the garden in the shade of the trees.

The introduction to the priest's embassy consisted of a string of comforting phrases, in the form of a sermon, with proofs drawn from the Scriptures. He spoke of the trials of Job and said that God often allows his servants to fall into various kinds of troubles in order to strengthen their faith; it is necessary to have patience, and not to become discouraged, for He will deliver believers from the hands of the ungodly at last, and cause them to inherit everlasting glory, and so on.

Bringing his lecture to an end, the father-confessor approached the real object of his visit, and in the usual manner of intermediaries in negotiations of marriage, he began his propositions with a parable. He said, "Once a prince went out to hunt, and being overtaken by darkness, he was unable to return and remained in the forest in the hut of a shepherd. He was pleased with the shepherd's hospitality, but especially taken with the shepherd's beautiful daughter. The next day the prince returned to his palace and told his father that he wished to marry the shepherd's daughter. The father thought his son was crazy, and was very angry with him. But after holding out against him for a long time, when he saw that it was impossible to persuade his son, he sent one of his chamberlains to negotiate with the shepherd. The chamberlain returned saying that the shepherd was not willing to give his daughter to the prince. The king was astonished and sent another chamberlain of higher rank than the first. He also brought the same reply. The king next sent his prime minister's vizir and he also received a refusal. At last, the king, at the end of his resources, went himself, and returned unsuccessful like the others. The shepherd rejected him also. The king was astonished. He called together his lords and counselors and consulted them. One of them who was a man of experience and very wise, advised the king to send a shepherd. like himself to the shepherd, saying that a shepherd understands the language of a shepherd and he can persuade him. They selected one of the king's shepherds who without fine clothes or preparations Of any kind, took his shepherd's crook and bent his steps towards the shepherd's hut. The father received him kindly; they ate and drank and had a pleasant time together. Finally, the shepherd made known the king's request saying, "Why didn't you want to give your daughter to the king's son?" The father replied, "Blessed one, I am a man myself and have my preferences. When did the king send me a proper man like yourself to ask me to give my daughter to his son?"

Bringing the parable to an end, the priest added, "I also am a shepherd, and you are a shepherd, landlord Khacho, for we both manage people instead of sheep. I am the village priest, and you are the village landlord, and I have come to you with a proposition, as from shepherd to shepherd."

"What proposition," asked the old man, displeased, offended by the inappropriate words of the priest at this hour of grief and anxiety.

The father-confessor, replied that God had been pleased to comfort the old man in his present trouble and to open a door of deliverance before him. Thomas Effendi begged for Lila's hand, and promised to deliver the old man from the troubles which had overtaken his family. He should praise the Lord that a man like the Effendi had reached out a helping hand to him.

Skillfully as the priest had conducted his argument, still he did not meet with the success he expected. Perhaps at another time and under other conditions his words would have met with acceptance, for the old man had himself long ago thought of giving his daughter to the Effendi. But now circumstances wore a different aspect. Now when his two sons were in prison, when he was guarded by soldiers, when the women of his family were unprotected and hidden in the houses of strangers, when his two friends, Vartan and Salman had been delivered into the hands of the Government, when his household possessions had been plundered before his eyes, at such a time they brought him the proposition of a scoundrel, who had himself prepared these misfortunes.

All at once, the eyes of the old man, which had been bound until that moment, were opened. He saw the pit which the wily Effendi had dug with his own hands. He recollected Vartan's words telling that the Effendi had married wives in various places, and had deserted them. Wouldn't he try the same trick on Lila? He had some secret motive, which presented a succession of crafty performances, which were all bent toward the purpose of finding some means of entrapping Lila.

The Effendi was the first to tell him of Salman's imprisonment. Whence did he learn it? When it had occurred secretly in the darkness of night and not one of the villagers in the whole province knew it. The Effendi was the first one to tell him it would be necessary to have his house searched and by feigning to be his friend and boon companion, was able to deceive the old man, was able to obtain possession of Salman's papers, and locking them up in a secret chamber in the old man's house had kept the key himself. With what intention? Couldn't he have taken the papers himself and destroyed them? But he left them in the old man's house in order to open the secret closet, if necessary, and delivering the papers to the officers, say - "Behold the proof of these men's conspiracy!"

The entire past unrolled itself like a panorama before the eyes of the old man.. and he was horrified to realize that he had been tricked. Therefore he replied bitterly to the priest, "Father-confessor, your fable was not very appropriate for the intervention you attempted, but even if Thomas Effendi were really a king, still I would not give my daughter to such a scoundrel. Come what may, I consider it better that my house be ruined and my whole family destroyed, than to obtain freedom at the hands of that scoundrel, who brought all this upon me. I understand now, I understand it all. He tricked me but he can deceive me no longer after this."

The anger and the dark sayings of the landlord seemed incomprehensible to the priest, for he had no knowledge of the facts of the case. And the landlord did not deem it necessary to give him a lengthy explanation especially when he considered that he was Stephanie's godfather and that no other outsider knew that she was a girl; therefore who could have told the Effendi that she was a girl but the priest himself?

He departed from the old man's house quite displeased saying to himself, "God first takes away a man's wits, then his wealth."

The Effendi was waiting impatiently at the priest's house. When the priest returned, he inquired immediately, "What news do you bring?"

"I don't know what to say," replied the priest, abashed. "The man is demented."

"Did he refuse?"

"Yes."

"I expected that." The heavens seemed to fall upon the head of the Effendi and crush him under their stupendous weight. 'His eyes grew dim, he trembled and fell to the ground. He remained there stunned, for a long time. Occasionally he raised his hand to his forehead, beat his head and tore his hair, saying, "Now what shall I do, what shall I do?"

There is nothing in all the world which so humbles a man as love. The most frightful human monsters who have caused the earth to tremble, who have stained the earth with blood, who have kept nations in fear and dread, have been humbled, have bowed their knees before some beloved woman. Only then have they been men and have exhibited all the weaknesses of man.

Thomas Effendi loved Lila now. He loved her with a true and passionate love. All his savage, brutal cruelty melted, and vanished before this love. When the devil loves, he becomes an angel. The Effendi, being in love, began to repent.

He had never loved before in all his life, and now we can explain the dark side of his character where there was nothing sacred for him in life. Learned as he was in worldly affairs, good accountant that he was, and fiendishly cunning in attaining his ends, so harsh and unmerciful in business dealings, now love for Lila inflamed his heart, and dropped there that fierce spark which caused light to shine in a darkened soul. He looked upon his deeds and was horrified. "What have I done?" he muttered, and tore out his hair again.

Until that moment he had not appreciated the enormity of his crimes; until that moment he had considered it legitimate to use every means to attain his purpose. At first he had thought to play a little trick on the old man, and like a child, took a bit of fire in his hand wishing to frighten him with it, to make him do what he demanded. Suddenly a fearful conflagration came from that spark and he was unable to extinguish it.

"Ah, what have I done?" he cried again.

The priest regarded the Effendi's agony with dread and thought he was in his death-throes. And indeed, he did grow weaker, fell in feverish convulsions, and his lips trembled dreadfully. He remained in torment like this for a long time, until finally opening his eyes and turning to the priest, he said, "Whatever old Khacho said is true, Father-confessor. I am unworthy of his daughter. What bond can there be between a criminal like me and an innocent angel. Curse me, father, I am deserving only of curses."

He fell into a stupor once more. The priest thought he had died.

"Oh my fees," he cried, "I have lost my fees!"

Chapter 34

Chapter XXXIV

Let us return to the beginning of our story. Now, I think the reader knows who that young man was who at the time of the siege of the fortress of Bayazid took the letter from the commander Ishdogvitch and, pretending to be crazy, went among the besieging Kurds and passed through the camp of the enemy safely and a few days later delivered the letter to General Lord Lucasoff.

The reader also recollects that the young man, declining the General's offer to keep him and give him the office of bodyguard, left the Russian camp and hastened to save the life of someone. The young man was Vartan. Let us see where he went. Mounting his horse which he bad taken from a Kurd he had killed in a valley, Vartan began to travel toward the province of Alashgerd.

There were the persons dearest to his heart. There was the family of old Khacho, with whom he had passed so many happy hours. There was beautiful Lila to whom he had given his whole heart. There were his beloved companions with whom he had sworn to devote himself in a sacred cause - all were there who were sacred to Vartan, who were devoted to him. But in what condition did Vartan leave all these when he was taken away in chains by the Turkish soldiers to the commanding officer?

Old Khacho and his sons were imprisoned, his family was scattered and each hidden in a different place. Lila's fate depended on her two pursuers, on Thomas Effendi's and the Kurdish Bey's brute-like conflict. Salman was imprisoned. Melik-Mansoor went with his companions to rescue him. Did he succeed or not? Vartan knew nothing about these things.

A month and a half had passed since then and he had no word concerning them. What changes there had been in that month and a half, what events had taken place! The Russians had proclaimed war against the Turks, General Lord Lucasoff's victorious soldiers had conquered Bayazid and the whole province of Alashgerd and approached Erzeroum. The oppressed downtrodden Armenian people, passing under Russian control began to draw breath more freely. Suddenly the fortunes of war changed. General Lord Lucasoff was obliged to leave the places he had taken and return to the Russian frontier. And Bayazid which he had taken April 18th, went back to the Turks June 27th.

Vartan had no information concerning the later events. He did not know what had happened during the time of General Lord Lucasoff's soldiers' occupation. He was ignorant of the wretched migration of the people of Alashgerd, and the sad reason for it.

In that short time great changes had taken place. Two and a half months, ago, Vartan, surrounded by Turkish soldiers, had been taken in chains to the governor. Before they reached there, Vartan's two attendants, Sako and Gegho, overtook them and making a bold attack succeeded in rescuing their master. Vartan was wounded in the fight and was carried across into Russian territory almost in the arms of his attendants to a village in the province of Sourmali. He had only just recovered when he entered the Armenian militia as a volunteer. His two servants, Sako and Gegho, entered the same service. They were both killed in the siege of Bayazid. But we know by what means Vartan left the fortress.

Now sad and lonely, he entered that valley where the village of 0.... is situated. What a view that valley had presented a few weeks before! How fresh and beautiful were the fields, the valleys and the green hills! The entire extent of the valley was covered with fields of ripe grain, which tossed and waved like a sea of gold. On the slopes of the hills, scattered about like ants, grazed the herds of cattle. One heard the sweet and tender melody of the careless shepherd's pipes. Lavish nature and man had hand in hand produced the miracle of earth. But now, everything was changed. Now the entire valley had become a desolate wilderness. A conflagration had burned and devoured all the fields of grain, covering the whole surface of the plain with black ashes. Who had perpetrated this wickedness? Who had annihilated the productivity brought about by the farmer who had expended so much sweat and labor upon it? Vartan was puzzled. He turned his eyes upon the once beautiful and populous villages. They also were each a heap of ashes; here also the fire and conflagration had left their traces of destruction. Life had ceased everywhere. The joyous song of the laborers was no longer heard from the fields. No cattle grazed in the meadows; all was still. Everything was in a state of silent death. It seemed as though the destroying angel had passed over this wretched country annihilating everything which had been created by man's industry. What had happened?

The July sun was scorching hot. It was late in the afternoon when Vartan entered the village of O.... It resembled one of those legendary spots which, being cursed by some witch, has suddenly turned to ruins. The houses in which life once pulsed and where people had lived, had now become their tombs. Everything was buried under mournful, unsightly heaps.

Vartan passed through the familiar streets like one out of his senses. Here and there he saw portions of corpses. Surely a terrible catastrophe had occurred here, a frightful tragedy. He passed by the church. There was nothing to distinguish the house of God from the ruins around it.

He approached old Khacho's fortress. Only the outer walls remained and these were broken down here and there. 'He entered. A sad scene presented itself. The garden was bare of trees, bare of leafy trees under whose shade he had passed such happy hours with lovely Lila. Where was she now? Vartan had come for her. He sought her in these mournful ruins. Did the Kurdish Bey snatch her away, or did she fall into the hands of Turkish officials. Vartan was overcome with horror.

Suddenly a frightful object appeared. The man of iron seemed to crumble beneath a crushing blow. The blood rushed to his head and everything turned black. He saw no more. He felt no more. He mechanically seated himself upon a mound and holding his head in his two hands, remained long in deep confusion of mind. Suddenly a fair vision appeared to him, sad, hopeless and tearful, as he had seen her that last night in the silent garden when with her arms clasped around her lover's neck in entreaty, she cried, "Take me away! Remove me from this land. I am afraid of the Kurds."

Why didn't Vartan take her? Why did Vartan leave her? Vartan was not able to think more. He was bound, held in a state of stupor, his mind ceased to f unction.

What bitter memories these mournful ruins awoke in him? Not long ago, a splendid family lived a peaceful life there. What had occurred? Where was that family? He looked toward the living-room of which only the charred and blackened walls remained. The ceiling had fallen. Here all day long, the old man's numerous daughters-in-law, daughter, and grandchildren chattered, wove, and worked in lively fashion, and were always happy, having no anxiety about a livelihood. Now neither the noise of children, nor the careful mothers' gentle voices were heard.

He turned his glance upon old Khacho's oda which was entirely demolished. He remembered those noisy nights when together with Salman, the landlord and his sons had disputed in warm debate in that room. They had thought and prepared a hundred plans to rescue the wretched people from their present misery and to create for them a more fortunate life. But now he saw that everything was lost; both plans and planners had vanished.

Suddenly some men appeared. Until this moment Vartan had not seen a human creature in the whole region. Men appeared among the ruins. This heartened Vartan. He approached them. A few wretched Kurds, with pickaxes in their hands were digging in the mounds of the ruins. Vartan recognized them. They were old Khacho's shepherds and their families. The men dug while the women hunted for objects. Many things still remained unburnt under the ruins of the house destroyed by fire.

"God give you strength," said Vartan greeting them as laborers are used to being greeted.

"Welcome," they replied.

"What do you seek?"

"You behold it with your good eyes," replied the Kurds, continuing their work.

Vartan, turning to one of the Kurds, asked, "Do you remember me, Khulo?"

"Why shouldn't I recognize you, sir? You were the friend of our landlord Khacho; you often brought goods to sell to this house, and you never failed to give something to your servant Khulo's children. See, this is something you gave her" and he pointed to the red calico dress worn by his wife.

Vartan began to inquire what had happened to their family, why the village had become a ruin and what had become of its inhabitants.

The shepherd dropped his pickaxes wiped the sweat from his forehead and sat down. He seemed to want to take a rest and tell the story.

"May it not happen to our enemies even, what happened to this house," he said with compassion. Really, we don't know it all. We were not here. We had taken the sheep to the mountains to pasture. When night came we drove the flock to the village. My wife had a bad dream that night and I was expecting some evil to happen. Before we reached the village, suddenly a troop of Kurds attacked us and began to seize the flocks. I ran with my companions to the village for help. We saw it was full of Kurds. We hastened toward this house. We saw that it was on fire likewise and it was impossible to enter from any side."

"What became of the people of the house?"

"May it come upon the heads of our children, if anything bad happened to them. Landlord Khacho, Hairabed and Abo were not at home. They had been taken to the judge many days before. They say they are in prison. None of the women were at home either. Only the other sons remained, and what became of them, we do not know. We came and found the house on fire."

"Our master, old Khacho, was a good man," continued the shepherd. "He feared God so much he would not tread even on an ant. They were all good in this house. They didn't even disturb the flies. They cared for us as for their sons. Cursed be those 'erishats' (the wild Kurdish tribes who are as cruel to their own race as to others). They overturned everything. They destroyed everything."

"What became of the villagers?"

"They massacred part of the villagers, some they took slaves. But many fled and escaped."

A drowning man is glad to clutch at a straw. Sad and terrible as was the shepherd's story, still it gave Vartan a ray of hope. They were not all lost, he thought. Vartan understood that old Khacho and his two sons, Hairabed and Abo must have been imprisoned; they may have escaped the barbarity of the Kurds, if they had not been murdered there. He knew that when the examiners took the old man's house under surveillance he sent away all the women from the house who were certainly hidden at their friend's and relatives' houses; and they must certainly have taken Lila with them, and so she would have escaped the disastrous misfortunes which overwhelmed the house. But what might their fate be if the same disaster happened in those houses where they had taken refuge?

There was one comforting point in the shepherd's words. "They massacred some of the villagers, some they took slaves, but many fled and escaped," he said. Perhaps Khacho's family was among those who escaped, thought Vartan. Perhaps Lila was among them. But where did they go? Whither had they escaped? This question tormented Vartan. The shepherds were unable to give a clear explanation.

These events had taken place at night and so suddenly that everything was shrouded in darkness. But Vartan had noticed on his way that in the entire province of Alashgerd no Armenians remained. It was impossible that all had been massacred or taken captive, therefore a general migration must have taken place.

In which direction?. Toward what country?

Chapter 35

Chapter XXXV

Leaving the ruins of old Khacho's house, Vartan didn't know where to go. The information he had received from the shepherds was so indefinite that it was difficult for him to take a decisive step.

It was now evening. The sun sank in the western sky. Vartan saw everywhere the same sad spectacle, ruins, desolate villages, fields lying uncultivated and nothing more.

"Is there not a single Armenian left in all this province?" he asked himself.

Suddenly a human form appeared in the empty expanse. It climbed slowly with uneven steps up the steep mountain side, sometimes stopping, sometimes gazing about him, and sometimes clinging to the rocks to keep from rolling down. Thus he reached the summit of the cliff he sought, which overhung an abyss. The last rays of the setting sun outlined his small body, which stood motionless, like a statue, looking from the summit of the crag down upon the extensive valley, in which within the last few days so much crime had been committed, so much devastation dealt. A long time he gazed and seemed to decide to do something which was exceedingly difficult for him.

Vartan's curiosity was aroused by this sight which presaged a strange sequel. He drew rein and watched from afar. Vartan saw the figure standing on the summit of the crag make despairing gestures, gaze again on the ruins of the extensive valley, then covering his eyes with his hands, throw himself down from the top of the crag into the abyss which yawned below. The small figure rolled over and over like a ball, striking the rocks again and again as it rolled downward.

Vartan urged his horse forward and in a few moments reached the foot of the mountain to give assistance. The body still rolled downward, but did not reach the bottom of the abyss. The brambles growing from the clefts of the rocks, caught him. Vartan was glad. He hoped to be able to save the life of the would be suicide. He looked up, saw that the body had rested some fifty feet above, held fast by the briars. How should he bring it down? This was now the object of his concern.

He dismounted from his horse, and began to examine the surface of the cliff which rose like a fortress wall, seeking for a path by which he might ascend to the bushes. There was no way to make the ascent. The body remained there motionless, giving no sign of life. What could have driven that wretched creature to attempt suicide? Vartan's sad surroundings had taken such a hold upon his feelings that he imagined he read a secret in every trivial object.

He realized that it would be impossible to save the wretched creature without endangering his own life, but he might not be dead; it might still be possible to help him. The feeling of sympathy caused him to forget himself, and he attempted a dangerous undertaking. He saw that by grasping the clumps of bushes or the stones jutting out from the cliff it might be possible to climb up, if they were firm enough to support the weight of his body. Vartan was as supple as a snake and nimble as a cat. He seized the nearest stone which he had selected and began to claw his way up. He had climbed only a few yards above the ground when suddenly the stone he hung from crumbled to bits and he rolled backwards. "It is not feasible from here," he thought, and paid no attention to his hands which had been scratched on the sharp stones and were bleeding.

Vartan's nature was such that difficulties fired his ambition the more, his pride was involved and he was determined to succeed. He must make haste. The sun was setting. Soon it would grow dark and prevent his success. He had an idea. He took the long rope which was tied to his horse's saddle. It was one of his weapons to whose end he had tied a ball of lead. He threw the ball up, and the end of the rope was twisted firmly around the branch of a tree not far from the spot where the man had fallen. Grasping the other end of the rope, he began to ascend as quickly as a spider, and in a few moments reached the spot where the body lay.

He raised the body, and how great was his astonishment when he discovered that the body was that of Thomas Effendi. For a moment passionate feelings of anger, disgust, hatred and revenge arose successively, out of his heart. He was ready to cast that odious creature into the abyss below that his remaining bones might be shattered, and that he might become the food of beasts, reptiles and birds of prey.

But was it possible to treat so cruelly an inanimate body? That was foreign to Vartan's nature. He carefully lowered the body with his rope and descended after it.

Vartan's first care was to discover whether he was dead or alive. He had several broken bones, his, head and face had struck upon the rocks, and were scratched and bleeding; he still breathed, but he lay there inert. This miscreant who had caused Vartan so much sorrow, who had been the cause of the ruin of thousands of homes, and the desolation of an entire province, stirred Vartan's pity in his present condition.

Perhaps, if the Effendi had fallen into his hands under different circumstances, Vartan would have killed him, but now he had before him a battered body which aroused his pity, and demanded his aid. Vartan had had much experience with the wounded, and had often been wounded himself, so he always carried with him the necessary dressings. His first care was to bind up the wounds on the Effendi's head and face, and stop the loss of blood.

Night had overtaken him. The heavens were overcast, and wind, lightning and thunder presaged an approaching storm. Vartan wished to find some shelter. He raised the body, tied it onto the horse, but he did not know which way to turn. Not an Armenian remained in the near-by villages. He recollected that there should be Kurdish villages not far from that place. He directed his steps towards one of them, leading his horse by the bridle.

Now the young man began to comprehend that this man had attempted suicide in order to flee from the pangs of conscience. He had repented of having been the cause of so much grief, bloodshed and ruin.

Vartan's memory had not played him false. He perceived a glimmer of light through the darkness. There must be a village there, but it was still quite distant. Now the rain increased in violence. He took off his cloak and carefully covered the body of the Effendi with it. It was late when he reached the village. The houses, as they usually are in Kurdish villages, were huts dug out of the hillside. Vartan approached the nearest hut and pushed open the door. Behold a fortunate people who have no fear of robbers and sleep without locking their doors, he thought.

No light appeared in the hut. The people of the hut were asleep. Vartan began to knock. In a few moments a woman's voice was heard from within.

"Who are you?"

"The guest of God."

The word guest was sufficient to admit them. The woman immediately lighted a lamp and admitted them. She had undressed and gone to sleep for her only clothing was a red shirt which reached only to her knees. The woman helped Vartan and together they carried the Effendi and laid him upon the divan.

"Is he sick?"

"No, he is wounded."

The young woman immediately brought a case in which there were various dressings and a few surgical instruments neatly arranged.

"I am the doctor in our house," she said opening the case. "When my husband is wounded in a fight, I cure him. Formerly, my mother-in-law was the doctor, now, she is old. I learned from her."

Although Vartan had great confidence in the Kurd's surgical skill, he thanked her, saying that he had a little knowledge in that line 'himself, and had already cared for the wounded man as much as was necessary.

Although this reply offended the young woman a little, as she wished to show her skill, still she did not interfere when she saw that the patient's wounds were bandaged.

"Now I must care for your horse, the poor thing was left outside."

"Do not take the trouble," said the young man. "Only show me where to tie him."

The young woman took the light and conducted the guest to a place in the courtyard. Vartan looked around and saw that the yard was surrounded only by a low fence.

"Is there no danger here?" he asked.

"What fear?" replied the woman with a laugh. "The thief does not steal from a thief."

"Blessed are ye," said Vartan to himself. He looked all about and saw that there was no one in the hut but the young woman and some children who were asleep on the floor. But their footsteps awoke the old mother-in-law who had been out of sight. She raised her head, sat up in her bed, asking, "Saro, is it you? Have you come, my son?"

"It is not Saro," replied the young woman approaching her. "It is a guest."

The old woman on hearing that it was not her son, laid her head on the pillow again, and went to sleep.

"Her eyes do not distinguish anything. She thought that her son, my husband, had returned. "Where is your husband," asked Vartan with interest.

"Near Bayazid. He has gone to fight. There's not a man to be found in our village; they are all there. It is only two days since I returned from there. I went to bring plunder."

"Did you bring much?"

"Not a small amount. We must be content with what God gives, be it much or be it little."

"Free daughter, free people," thought Vartan. "How simple your life. Are you to blame that they have taught you to regard booty as honest gain? If you had been brought up in other conditions, with your gifts you would have been one of the wonders of womankind." Vartan now turned toward the wounded Effendi and felt of his body. He was warm. His breathing was more regular, and he occasionally emitted muffled groans. The Kurdish woman began to beg to look at the patient. Vartan allowed her. He knew that surgery was well known among the Kurds, to whom wounds and blood were common affairs, and their cure is one of the vital necessities for them.

"There is no danger," said the Kurdish woman, finishing her examination. "The wounds are insignificant, but he has some broken bones. It seems that the patient must have fallen from somewhere." Vartan made no reply.

"Now I ought to prepare you something to eat."

The young man only just now realized that he was hungry, for he had not eaten all day. But there are moments, when although a man feels hungry, he has no appetite to eat. He was in this condition. Grief and sorrow had fed him.

"No preparation is necessary," he replied. "Only give me a piece of bread and cheese."

Vartan's modest request wounded the hospitable feelings of the Kurdish woman who wished to prepare a hot meal for him.

"Don't spare us," she said smiling. "We are not as poor as formerly."

"Yes, Bayazid enriched you."

"Besides Bayazid, we had a fine harvest here. Last year sickness destroyed all our cattle, and we were left without a crust of bread, but God has made it up to us this year. All the Armenians of this region emigrated and left most of their riches to the Kurds."

"Where did they go?"

"I don't know, but they went in such haste and their migration was so sudden that they did not have time to take everything with them. They tried to escape quickly lest the Turks massacre them."

"Did they escape?"

"Many who remained were massacred."

The terrible facts were being made clear to Vartan, little by little. There had certainly taken place a general migration of the Armenians from this region. But in which direction, and why? The Kurdish woman was unable to give him any definite explanation. Vartan fell into deep meditation. He quite forgot his hunger, and did not even watch the pretty Kurdish woman who had lighted a fire in the "ojak" and began to prepare some eggs for him.

Some other time, in a happier frame of mind, no young man would be able to look unmoved upon the pretty woman's trim figure, beautiful even in a simple shirt. Having risen from her bed, she did not even wear a veil, and only her heavy brown hair bound about her forehead like a wreath. Such a head with such luxuriant hair! Such a face with such bright eyes belonged only to a mountain sprite who sees her beauty mirrored in the clear streams.