"The look of one that had travailed sore,But whose pangs were ended now."
"The look of one that had travailed sore,But whose pangs were ended now."
"The look of one that had travailed sore,But whose pangs were ended now."
"The look of one that had travailed sore,
But whose pangs were ended now."
His hand was laid tenderly, and with a caressing touch, on the old man's shoulder; for that was all the human sympathy he was able to bear just yet. He motioned Jack to sit on the divan. "You were their friend, you loved them," he said.
"And received from them much kindness," Jack answered in a low voice. After a pause he went on, "She that was dearer to me than my life was as a child in their house. It was they who brought her to the Mission School, where such joy and help were given her."
"Why do I live?" the old man broke out suddenly. "It is wrong! It is horrible! It is against nature! No reaper reaps the green and leaves the ripe. No gardener leaves the dry stick in the ground and uproots the flourishing tree. I am alone—alone—alone! I came back, after all those long months of suffering, thinking, 'now I will rest, now I will end my days in my home with my dearones; my son—my firstborn—shall close my eyes, and my children, and my children's children, shall lay me in the grave.' And I find all gone—sons and sons' sons, with the mothers and the children, and the children's children—even the little babe I had never seen. Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
Then letting his hands fall and looking at the two who stood beside him: "But I do not believe it. It is not possible. Surelyoneat least is left alive. Let us go and see."
The pale-faced young man rose also. "It were best for us to bring him to his own house," he said to Jack. "Perhaps, when he sees it, he will be able to weep."
So Jack went, for the second time, to the house of the Vartonians. The old man, burdened with a weight of sorrow nature seemed scarce able to bear, asked them after a while to leave him in the family living-room, which had been the centre of his home. While he sat there, alone with his memories and his God, the two young men waited together in the court.
Jack found that his companion was a theological student almost ready for the ministry, to which he had been looking forward with eager hope, when one day he was suddenly seized by zaptiehs and flung into a dungeon. Dr. Sandeman—who was to him as a father, young Mardiros Vahanian said withkindling eyes—had done all in his power to help him, or even to find out of what he was accused. At last it was discovered that another person had been arrested, upon whom there was found an English newspaper containing a notice of the massacre at Sassoun. This man, probably under torture, said that he had it from young Vahanian,—and that was all his crime. On one occasion Dr. Sandeman got leave to visit him, though he only saw him in the presence of Turks, and was only allowed to speak to him in Turkish. As they parted, he ventured to whisper in English just this, "Do not give up hope"—and terrible things had the poor lad suffered afterwards on account of this one word. Not then, and not at any time from his own lips, did Jack hear the true story of that prison year, heaped with agonies, with tortures, and with outrages to us happily inconceivable.
During a short time, towards the end, he had shared the cell of Baron Vartonian, who also had been imprisoned on some futile charge. A strong friendship had grown up between the young man and the old, thus thrown together; and now, in the old man's utter loneliness and desolation, Vahanian wished to take the place of a son, and to cherish and comfort him.
Jack could not help doubting, when he looked at him, that he would be long left in the world tocomfort any one. But not liking to express his doubt, he asked him how it was that in the end he got out of prison.
"I do not very well know," the young man answered. "Dr. Sandeman never ceased to work for me; and I think that, somehow, he got the British Consul interested in my case, and that he interceded for me, as I know he did for Baron Vartonian, against whom indeed there was no charge that the Turks themselves believed in. It was one of those false accusations that any man can get a Turk to bring against a Christian for a couple of medjids, and the hiring of two false witnesses to back him up; and Christians being disqualified from bearing witness in a court of law, the accused of course has no chance of proving his innocence. However, thanks, I suppose, to the Consul, Baron Vartonian was released, and so was I."
Jack asked him if he thought he was recovering his health.
"Oh yes, I grow stronger every day. If you had seen me when I first came out of prison, you would wonder at the change." So he said; but Jack wondered, instead, what he could possibly have looked like then.
"No doubt," he said, "while you were in prison, you often wished to die."
"I did—sometimes," he answered, his eyes kindling—"not that I might be away from my pain, but that I might be with my Saviour. But for the most part, I felt Him so near me there, that I thought death itself could scarcely bring us any closer."
Jack's look softened. "In spite of all your suffering, I call you blessed," he said in a low voice. "Still, after all, that was knowing Him by faith. In heaven, it will be sight."
"Which will be different, andmustbe better, though it is hard to see how it can. I thought I knew something before of the mystery of communion with Him, but I felt as if I had never tasted it till then. I did not know there could be such peace, such joy."
"Has it stayed with you since you came out?"
"No, and yes. When a child is hurt, the mother takes it in her arms and fondles it; when it is well, she lets it run by her side. But she does not love it the less."
"Perhaps it seems strange to you now to come back to life? Perhaps you would rather not?"
"I would rather die, you think, and go to Him? Not just yet. There are too many in the world that He wants me to help."
"Like these poor people here who have suffered so much?"
"Yes; but there are those more worthy of our pity than even they."
"Moreworthy? Truly on God's earth it seems to me that there are none. But I know what you mean," Jack added in a lower voice. "You are thinking of those, in harems or elsewhere,—for whom we only dare to ask one thing—death"
Vahanian's face grew sad. It was some moments before he spoke again. At last he said, "There are those still more pitiable. No man has compassion—no man cares for the soul of—the Turk."
Jack started, as if he had been shot. "Howcouldwe?" he asked.
"Yet you say every day, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'"
"I never thought of it in that way. And I tell you, if I ever get back to England, I willnotforgive the Turk! I willnotkeep silence about his evil deeds, about the things I have seen and heard of here!"
"Nor should you. To stop them would be to show the very kindness of God even to the Turk himself. But I would it were God's will to stop them, not with His wrath, but with His love."
"How could that be?"
"As he stopped St. Paul's. Do you not believe Christ died for the Turk as well as for the Christian?"
"He died for all," Jack said reverently. "And I know He commands us to forgive. But this thing is not possible—to man. And yet, it is strange, but I remember that when I was led out to die, as I thought, by their hands, I felt no anger against them—indeed I scarcely thought of them at all. Yet afterwards, when I knewallthey had done, I could have torn them limb from limb."
"Friend, you suffered more than I, because you suffered in others. It is only written 'when they revileyou,—persecuteyou.' But am I to think God has no better thing for you than what He gave me? Because I have had a few drops of this wine of His, of which He drank Himself, am I to doubt that He can fill the cup for you, even to the brim? It is for our sorest needs that He keeps His best cordials. And now I will go back again to my friend, Baron Vartonian. I think he has been long enough alone."
He went, and Jack looked after him, wondering,—and learning a new lesson of what Christ can do for His suffering servants.
This is no fiction, it is literal truth. Except, indeed, that these poor words fail to convey the depth and intensity of the pitying love, which Divine grace had kindled in that young heart for those at whose hands he had suffered such things.
"Now with fainting frame,With soul just lingering on the flight begun,To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,I bless thee."
"Now with fainting frame,With soul just lingering on the flight begun,To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,I bless thee."
"Now with fainting frame,With soul just lingering on the flight begun,To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,I bless thee."
"Now with fainting frame,
With soul just lingering on the flight begun,
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,
I bless thee."
Miss Celandine's thoughtful kindness had screened off a little corner in the crowded Church Hospital, where Gabriel's bed was placed, and there was room for Kevork and John Grayson to sit beside him, when they could. Elmas also came often to see him. When Kevork first returned, he had brightened up so wonderfully, that the restored brother hoped they might be left together. But there was no real return of strength, and the temporary excitement ended in a reaction that meant increased weakness and suffering. Yet neither Jack nor Kevork wished to face the truth; they both, especially Kevork, clung to that frail young life—tenaciously, desperately.
One day, not long after the arrival of Dr. Sandeman, Jack drew aside the curtain, and came in. Kevork was there already, and made room for him to sit down.
A smile passed over the sick boy's wasted face, but it was soon succeeded by an anxious, troubled look. "Yon Effendi," he said, "you are grieved to-day. What is it?"
Jack smiled too. "Oh, Gabriel, those fingers of yours!" he said. "There is no escaping them."
It was a saying amongst them that Gabriel, whose hands were useless, had been given "fingers in his heart," instead; for if there was any special sorrow or need, he always knew it by some instinct, and, figuratively speaking, put his finger on the place. For now, on his own account, he had no more grief, no more fear; his heart was all "at leisure from itself" for the griefs of others. He smiled again in answer, and not sadly at all. "My fingers touch a trouble of yours, which yet is not all a trouble," he said. "You have been talking to the American Badvellie."
"Yes, and to Miss Celandine. And they both advise me to go home."
Kevork turned a startled face to him. "But there is no use in thinking of it," he said quickly. "They would not give you a passport, after what you have done."
"That is just whatIsaid. There is no blood upon my conscience, but upon my hand there is blood enough. Were I to apply, as things are now, for a passport, my antecedents would belooked into, and I should never be allowed to leave this land alive."
"They would never kill an Englishman," said Gabriel.
"Not openly in broad daylight, but in one way or another, I should disappear."
"So I think," said Kevork eagerly. "You must run no such risks as that, my brother."
"Dr. Sandeman has a different plan," Jack said. "That fine young fellow, Vahanian, wants to stay here to be with Baron Vartonian, and to help among the wounded. What if I took his passport, and went to Aleppo in his place?"
"You would be found out."
"The doctor thinks not. He almost undertakes to put me safely through. I can dye my hair and stain my face a little. Not much will be needed, so well your suns have browned me."
"Then, Yon Effendi, your mind is to leave us," Kevork said sorrowfully, almost bitterly.
"My mind isnotto leave you," Jack answered. "Only I want to know which thing is right to do." He looked tenderly at Gabriel as he added, "A while ago, I could not have gone. I could not have left you alone, Gabriel—but now you have Kevork. God has given him back to you from the dead."
"God has given Kevork to me," Gabriel said;"but what is He going to give Kevork? For, you know, I cannot stay with him!"
"Don't speak that way," Jack said hastily.
Kevork was more visibly overcome. "I cannot go on alone," he said. "Icannot. Gabriel,—you must not go."
Gabriel was much worse that night; and early in the morning Jack went for Kevork, whose sleeping place was in another part of the crowded Mission premises.
"Come quickly," he said. "I think he is going from us."
Kevork sprang up from his mat, threw a jacket over his zeboun, and, choking down a sob, followed his friend in silence. The sweet morning air, which had the touch and thrill of the springtime in it, fanned their brows as they crossed over to the church, where Gabriel lay.
"Who is with him?" Kevork asked.
"Anna Hanum."
She was kneeling beside the dying boy, and as they entered looked up with her calm, sweet face.
"He is easier now," she said.
"You will try to be glad for me, will you not?" Gabriel whispered; "you know it is best."
"You will soon be with them all—your father and mother, and my Shushan," Jack answered.
"I shall be—with Christ," Gabriel said.
"For whom you have given your life."
"Who gave His life for me."
But his dark, wistful eyes turned away, even from the beloved Yon Effendi, to rest upon his brother's face.
"There is some one else I want to see," he murmured. "Stoop down, Anna Hanum."
He whispered a name into her ear.
She said, "Yes, dear," and glided softly away.
"It is Miss Celandine he wants," both the young men thought. Jack took the place beside him. He lay still, with closed eyes, resting. Only once he opened them, when a moan from the crowded space outside was heard through the curtain.
"Some one is suffering, Yon Effendi," he said. "Please go and help."
Kevork was left with him alone, his tears falling without restraint.
"Don't, Kevork," he whispered; "there is comfort coming, for you."
Jack returned presently. Miss Celandine, who hadnotbeen sent for, came in also, and with her—Elmas Stepanian.
At the sight of the beloved teacher, Gabriel tried to raise himself; but it was more than he could do. He looked at her appealingly. "Thehand—that has saved us all—to my lips—once more," he prayed.
Instead of giving him her hand, she stooped down and kissed him, lip to lip, and motioned to Elmas to do the same. Inherface he looked earnestly, while he gathered all his remaining strength to speak.
"Oriort Elmas, Kevork has loved you ever since he was at school in Aintab. All the rest are gone from him; I am going now. It is too hard for him to stay here alone. Willyoucomfort him, Oriort Elmas?"
"If I can," she answered soothingly, as one speaks to the dying.
"But I want to hear the Promise—on the Book—before I go."
She drew back, her face flushing crimson, and looked at Miss Celandine in perplexity.
Kevork drew a step nearer and spoke. "Oriort Elmas, it is quite true. Though I would not have dared to say itnow, had not he said it for me; for we stand together in the shadow of the grave. But if this dear lady, who is a mother to us all, will allow it, and you will give me your promise, there is nothing man may do"—(his voice quivered and thrilled with suppressed feeling)—"nothing man may do that I will not do for you, and find my joy in it, for I love you more than life."
Elmas Stepanian's character, strong by nature, had been annealed in the furnace of affliction. That furnace had burned away the bonds of those timid conventions that usually held the daughters of her race. In a low but firm voice she answered, "If Miss Celandine approves, I will give it."
Jack was standing beside Miss Celandine. He took out his father's Bible, which he always kept with him, and put it in her hand, with a significant look from her to Kevork. She understood the mute appeal. If she gave the Book to Kevork for the purpose they all knew, it would be her act of sanction to this strange betrothal.
She paused a moment: then she said, "The God of your fathers, and your God, bless you both," and laid the Book in the outstretched hand of Kevork.
Kevork gave it to Elmas. "So I plight my troth to thee, for good days and evil, for health and sickness, for life and death, and for that which is beyond," he said.
"And I also to thee," Elmas answered.
"Now it is all right," Gabriel said, with a look of infinite relief. "I will tell them."
"But you are very tired," Jack interposed, noting a rapid change in his face, and turning to get a cordial he was accustomed to give him.
"Kevork," he whispered, "take Oriort Elmas away. There are too many here."
"No," said Miss Celandine; "I think you had better stay. Mr. Grayson, never mind that cup; he cannot take it."
There followed a few minutes of struggle and suffering; a brief conflict of the spirit with the failing flesh. It was soon over. Once more the look of peace settled down on the wasted face, and now it was for ever. Gabriel looked around, and recognised them all. Then, in that action so common to the dying, he slowly raised his right arm, and waved the bandaged, helpless hand. "With His own right hand, and with His holy arm, hath He gotten Himself the victory," he said with his parting breath.
His brother closed his eyes, and the others mingled their tears with his, until at last Miss Celandine said gently,—
"My children, he needs our care no more; and there are many waiting without who still need it sorely."
"I will go with you and help," Jack answered.
So they went, leaving Kevork and Elmas kneeling together beside their dead.
"Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze."—T. Campbell.
"Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze."—T. Campbell.
"Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze."—T. Campbell.
"Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze."
—T. Campbell.
"Mr. Grayson, you are young yet," said the venerable missionary, Dr. Sandeman to the grey-haired, toil-worn man before him.
"Do Ilookyoung?" John Grayson answered. "No, I am old—old. The last year has done for me the work of other men's three score and ten."
"I know what you have seen and suffered."
"It has not beenallsuffering," Jack said. "I havelived. I have tasted the wine of life as well as the poison. I have loved, and been beloved."
"I know," the missionary said again; and he spoke the truth—he knew. "But there are many years before you yet. For them all, that love will be a memory."
"It cannot be a memory," Jack interrupted, "for it is myself."
It was far from Dr. Sandeman's thought toblaspheme that creed of youth which stamps the signet of eternity upon its love, its joy, its suffering, its despair. Old as he was, his own heart had kept too young for that. He said, "When you return to your own land, you will find waiting for you interests and pursuits, cares and duties also, which will engross your energies, and fill your life."
"Not my life," Jack answered. "When I wedded Shushan, I wedded her race."
"If indeed God calls you to help in drying the tears of this 'Niobe of nations,' I can think of no higher calling," Dr. Sandeman answered with emotion.
"But for that hope," said Jack, "do you think I could leave this place? Do you think I could abandon all these helpless sufferers, and that heroic woman, whose name a thousand times over deserves the 'Saint' before it, if only we Protestants had a calendar of our own, as we ought?"
"But we never could," said the missionary with a smile; "it would need a page for every day. However, Miss Celandine herself is urging your departure."
"And things for the present seem quieter," Jack added. "Safecan nothing be, in this miserable land. I am glad Vahanian is staying; he will be a great help."
"Yes," said the missionary, "and he is glad to work here for the present, though he still keeps the dream and longing of his heart; and he thinks God will fulfil it one day, and allow him to make known the gospel of His grace to the Turks. Miss Celandine is beginning to gather in the orphans, a few of them—poor, destitute, starving little ones! Did you hear that Baron Vartonian has lent his house to give them shelter?"
"No; I am glad to think of the home I knew being used for such a purpose. And it will comfort his own desolate heart."
"But now for yourself, Mr. Grayson. Are you ready for the journey?"
"Yes," returned Jack, with a rather mournful smile. "You see, I have no packing to do."
"Right; the less you carry the better."
"Here is the one treasure I bring back from Armenia; and I have learned here, as perhaps I should never have learned elsewhere, what a treasure it is," Jack said, producing his father's Bible. "By right," he added, "it should belong to Oriort Elmas, for it is the book of her betrothal; but she and Kevork both say I must take it back, on account of its memories. I wish, Doctor, those two could come to England with me."
"With you they cannot come. But I wish they could follow you; for Kevork seems to have takenan active share in resisting the Turks at the time of the first massacre, and such things are not forgotten."
"The Turks forget nothing—except their promises," said Jack. "But, Dr. Sandeman, there is another matter which causes me some embarrassment. I am absolutely without money. The fact is, I have been living upon these poor people, and latterly upon Miss Celandine."
Dr. Sandeman smiled. "I think she would say your services have been worth more than your morsel of bread. And as for your journey, we can take you on without expense as far as Aleppo. I am going there."
"You are very good; and the cost at least I can repay you afterwards, but the kindness—never. But I shall have to get somehow from Aleppo to Alexandretta, and there to take a passage in the first steamer I can find. How can all that be managed?"
"When you come to Aleppo, you shall tell your story to the English Consul. I have little doubt he will provide for your safe conveyance to Alexandretta, and lend you the passage money."
"How shall I get him to believe me? I should not mind so much if he were the same I knew when I passed through Aleppo with my father, five years ago. But this is another man."
"He will believe you," the missionary said quietly. He would not speak of his own influence for a double reason—it would be boastful, and it might be dangerous. "Your story bears all the impress of truth, and you can prove it in a hundred ways."
"Then my course is plain," Jack said. "And the first step," he added with a sigh, "is to say farewell to the dear friends here." He rose to go, but turned back to ask, with a little hesitation, "Dr. Sandeman, have you seen the Cathedral?"
"Yes" said the missionary with a shudder. "After all this time, it is still the most sickening sight I have ever beheld. Not sight alone; every sense is outraged. Do not go near it, Mr. Grayson."
"And yet," Jack answered, "Christ's martyrs went to Him from thence."
John Grayson's journey, in the company of Dr. Sandeman, proved as little eventful as any journey at that time and in those regions could possibly be. One sad episode indeed there was. As usual, they halted at Biridjik. They found the town a wreck and the houses in ruins, many of them burned, others plundered and defaced. The streets were almost impassable with rubbish, broken glass, fragments of furniture, and other far more ghastly memorials of the massacre.
The remaining inhabitants had been forced to become Moslems to save their lives. They kept themselves shut up in their houses, or moved about—pale, attenuated shadows, with fear and horror stamped upon their countenances. No intercourse was permitted between them and the missionary's party; only a few of them dared to look at the travellers with eyes of piteous appeal and recognition, and to make furtively, with rapid fingers, the sign of the cross. Jack longed to give them Gabriel's word of comfort, "Christ will forgive you; only you have lost a grand opportunity." He said this to Dr. Sandeman, who answered, "Youhave a right to say that; so had he; but it seems to me that no man who has not been tried thus can estimate the trial, the opportunity, or the loss."
"But oh, the sadness of it all!" Jack said. And then these two brave, strong men of Anglo-Saxon race did just what the exiles of Israel did so many ages ago, "By the waters of Babylon they sat down and wept."
Before they quitted Biridjik John Grayson went, in the early morning, to visit his father's grave. He was greatly relieved to find it had been left undisturbed, for he knew that horrible outrages had been committed elsewhere upon the graves of the Christians. Kneeling on the hallowed spot,he thanked God for his father's noble life and bright example, and for sustaining and preserving himself through so many perils.
Then the thought came to him, as it had done so many times before, though never perhaps with such poignancy, that other dust, most precious, had no resting-place in sacred ground. Over the grave of Shushan none might ever weep, nor could any find it, until that day when all that are in the graves shall hear the voice of the Son of Man. Bitter it seemed to John Grayson that this solace, the right of the humblest mourner, was denied to him.
But presently he rose from his knees with the thrill of another thought—a new one—in his heart. He looked around him. Not far could his eye reach as he stood there; but the eyes of his mind were ranging over the whole beautiful, sorrow-stricken, desolated land, from Trebizond by the northern sea to the rice plains of Adana in the south. "My Shushan has a royal resting-place," he said. "For me, all Armenia is her grave. And, as holding that sacred dust, I will love, and live for, and cherish that land all my life long, God helping me."
Throughout their whole route the travellers found heart-rending tokens of the ruin of thecountry and the misery of the people. Some sights they saw are absolutely beyond description, and would haunt them both until the end of their days. "How long, O Lord, how long!" was the word oftenest on Dr. Sandeman's lips.
Still, no man molestedthem, or hindered them in any way. Aintab was first reached, then in due time Aleppo, and John Grayson found himself once more amongst Englishmen. He felt as if he had been dead and buried, and brought to life again in a new world, which he had forgotten, and which had forgotten him. He met however at the Consulate, some who remembered his father, and once he came to know these, his past began to revive within him. At once upon his arrival he wrote to his friends in England; but he did not think there would be time for an answer to come before he left.
The Consul, although personally a stranger, was very kind, which did him the more credit since he thought at first there was something curious and unusual about this young Englishman with the grey hair and the sad face. Indeed, he asked Dr. Sandeman privately if Mr. Grayson was entirely in his right mind. Once reassured on this point, he gave him most efficient help. He got him a passport, advanced him the necessary money, and sent a competent and faithfuldragoman, and a couple of kavasses, with him to Alexandretta, with orders not to leave him until they saw him safely on board a vessel going to England.
With a sense of almost bewildering strangeness and wonder, Jack stood at last on the deck of the great steamshipSemaphore, bound for Southampton. He watched the crowds about him—sailors preparing for the start, passengers getting on board with much stir and bustle. They had to come in boats, and there was quite a little fleet of these about the companion ladder, the rowers shouting and screaming as each tried to get his own craft in first. The dragoman had told Jack that all the Franks stopped at this place and went on shore, to visit the spot where a battle was fought long ago by Alexander the Great—the battle of Issus, that was what they called it.
An official stood at the ship's side, examining the passport of every passenger who came on board. Near him stood the captain, a rough, hearty-looking British seaman. There was great hurry, crowding, and confusion, and it was very evident the passport business was not done as thoroughly as it might have been. It was not difficult for a passportless person, or even two or three, to slip in "unbeknownst," as he heard the under-steward, an Irishman, remarking casually toa friend. Jack edged himself out of the crowd, and watched. Presently he saw a boat filled with zaptiehs—well he knew their hateful uniform—put off from the shore, and make for the ships in the bay. It might be theSemaphorethey meant, it might be one of the others. Jack knew his passport was all in order, still he did not like that sight. He could not realize yet that he was out of Turkey, that he stood on the deck of a British ship, and that the glorious flag of old England was waving above his head.
So he went quietly downstairs to the cabin, resolved to stay there until the good shipSemaphoreshould be actually on her way.
Meanwhile, the Turkish boat came on apace, and before it, faster still, flew another little boat. A young man, standing up in it, sprang on the companion ladder just about to be withdrawn, and ran up, leaving a girl and a boy in the boat.
"Too late, my man," said the captain, waving him back.
"Oh, sir, take us!" the young man cried. He was trembling, and his face white with terror. "Take us!—we will pay!"
"I can't. We have no more room."
"We will pay you well—ten pounds a-piece."
"No; our second cabin is full. And we are off now."
"Fifteen pounds a-piece."
"No, not for twenty pounds."
"For pity's sake! We are Armenians, fleeing for our lives."
"You Armenians are all rogues," said the captain. "No is no," and he turned away.
"ForChrist'ssake, then!" cried the young man in an agony.
The captain turned back again.
"Why did you not say that before?" he asked, in an altered voice. "I am a Christian man, and I cannot refusethatplea."
"Thank God!" the young man almost sobbed.—"My sister."
In less than a minute more the boy and girl were helped up the ladder by willing hands, and all three stood together on the deck—safe.
Then the great heart of the ship began to throb, and she was soon steaming merrily out of the harbour.
John Grayson came on deck again, and seeing three Armenians standing by the side of the vessel, drew near, laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and looked him in the face.
"Kaspar Hohanian!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Is it possible this is you?"
Kaspar seemed scarcely able to speak even yet. But he drew a long breath, tried to compose himself, and returned Jack's look of inquiry.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Do you not know me? Do you not remember our awful week together in the prison at Urfa, expecting death. I am John Grayson."
"With that white hair! I thought you were dead."
"So I thought of you, and with more reason. I thought all the band who watched and prayed together through those sad days were gone to God—save me."
For a moment both were silent. Jack did not care, until he knew more, to look again in the face of his friend. He could not but remember there was onlyoneway of escape for any of that devoted group. Kaspar divined his thought, and said,—
"No; I have not denied the faith. Though, if the same trial came again, I dare not answer for myself. Strangely enough, Mr. Grayson, it was through you my life was saved."
"How could that be?"
"I will tell you when I find my sister a place to rest in."
"The young lady is your sister? May I——"
But the captain came up just then, interrupting them.
"Come along," he said to Kaspar, with rough kindliness, "I will find a place to stow you in. Don't be afraid, young lady." Then to the boy,"Run along, my boy, to that ladder you see leading down below."
But the lad stood motionless, his large brown eyes staring vaguely in the direction of the voice.
"He is blind, sir," Kaspar explained. "During the massacre he hid in a dry well. He was there several hours, and came out stone blind from the terror."
"Poor boy! Well, come along with me, all of you. The ladies will make room for your sister among them."
"And, Captain," Jack interposed, "the boy can have my berth. This young man and I, who are old friends, can sleep on the deck together."
The captain agreed. He was heard to remark afterwards that he "thought Armenians were all savages, but these people seemed just like ourselves."
At night, under the stars, Jack and Kaspar resumed their conversation. They were very comfortable; the Irish steward brought them rugs and cushions, and lingered to say he was glad the gentlemen and the young lady had got away from "thim murtherin' brutes of Turks. I was in Constantinople last September," said he, "and, by the Powers, Oliver Cromwell himself was a thrifle to thim!"
"And I wish we had Oliver Cromwell here todeal with them now!" Jack said, with juster views of history.
The great ship was ploughing easily and steadily through calm waters. All around and all about them reigned sleep and rest. It was a good time to talk of past perils and to enjoy present security.
"How could you say your life was saved through me?" John Grayson asked.
"I must tell you first why I was not killed with the rest," answered Kaspar. "That was horrible. All the rest were dead, even Thomassian; but they took me back again to the prison. There they brought me a paper to sign, setting forth that the men who had been executed were convicted of a plot to attack the mosques and murder the Moslems at their Service on Friday. If I signed, they promised me life, and without the condition of renouncing my faith."
"And you?"
"Was I going to take the crown from the heads of the martyrs of God, and fling it down to the dust to be trampled on like that? They urged me, arguing that these men were all dead, so that nothing I could say or sign could do them any harm, whereas, if I refused, they—the Turks—could do me a great deal of harm, which was certainly true."
"And then?"
"Then Iwent down into hell. Do not ask me more. I was praying every hour for death, when, to my amazement, they came to me, not with fresh tortures, but with meat and drink, good clothesà la Frank, and the offer of a bath. I was wondering what strange form of mockery or torture their imaginations had got hold of to which this might be the prelude, when they explained to me that you—the Englishman—had made your escape; and that, just after they discovered this, the Pasha had sent orders for you to be brought to him, and would be very angry, and accuse them of great negligence, when he found you were not forthcoming. They knew I spoke English, and they offered me my pardon if I would personate you for the time; thinking, I suppose, that being rather tall and of fairer complexion than most of us, I would look the part tolerably well. So I was brought into a light, comfortable room, and for three or four days very well treated. It was during that time I heard of the massacre. At last I was set free. How it came about I do not quite understand, and I suppose I never shall. I suspect however that the Pasha never sent for me, having so much else at that time to occupy him, but that, instead, he sent orders that the Englishman was to be quietly setfree without noise or stir. And he may have directed his messenger to see the orders carried out, else might they not have let me go so easily."
"Did you try to go back to your home?"
He bowed his head. "My two elder brothers and my little sister—all dead. Artin hid in the well in our yard, to come out blind, as you see, and to wander about in darkness and misery, escaping death by a miracle. I found him starving, and almost out of his mind."
"And your sister?"
"Markeret? Through the brave kindness of two aged women, friends of our family, she was saved. If any had a chance of escape, it was such old women, who were thought neither worth the killing nor the taking. They spread a rug over her, and actuallysatupon her all through the killing time. The Turks came in often, searched the house, and stole or destroyed what they found. But happily they did no worse. You can imagine the distress of body and the agony of mind of those endless hours. When things seemed a little safer they took her out, half dead, and concealed her in their store-room. But I do not think the look of fear will ever leave her face. It is stamped there."
Jack thought it was on his own as well.
"But to have made your way down here fromUrfa, with those two, was a perfect wonder," he said. "How did you do it?"
"I had help. I told you of the Turk, our acquaintance, who tried to save me before? I went to him with my tale of misery. He promised to help me, and he did. He took into counsel a friend of his, one Osman Effendi, whom you know. Together they managed matters so well for us, that, after many difficulties too long to tell of, we came safely to Alexandretta. There we mingled with the crowds who were making holiday in the plain of Issus, and tried to slip with them on board the steamer. But the zaptiehs were after us."
"Can I help you when we come to England?" Jack asked.
"No doubt, by-and-by; and I shall be thankful. But at first we have friends to go to. A brother of my mother's went long ago to a place they call Man-jester, to trade in Turkish goods. He will receive us, I am sure. The gold coins Markeret has about her will pay our passage, andmayleave something over, to bring us there."
"Come to me for whatever you want," John Grayson said cordially.
Kaspar thanked him, and dropped into silence. His face showed excessive weariness, and all the more plainly because of the reaction from extreme terror. However, he roused himself to say: "Iwant to tell you something rather odd. One day Osman shut me up for safety in his private room. I saw a book lying there, and noticing that the characters were Arabic, I took it up to look. It was a Bible in Turkish. He came in and found me reading it. He said to me, with a kind of carelessness that I think hid some real feeling, 'Yes, I got a loan of that. I wanted to find out the secret of your people's patience under all that has come upon them.' I asked if he had found it. He answered me, 'I think I have. It is the spirit of Hesoos, your Prophet. He was like that.'—Oh, I am very tired!"
"Well, then, my friend, lie down here under the stars, andsleep. Think that now no enemy's hand can touch you, or your brother, or your sister any more. Sleep safe under the flag of England, the dear old 'Union Jack.'"