FOOTNOTES:

"The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear."

But soon reflection came. It could not be. Allat once he threw back his head with a sharp, sudden "No," very startling to the lady, whose nerves were already strung to their utmost tension. "In the first place, everything would come out. I should be known as the Englishman, John Grayson, who married an Armenian in Biridjik, and who afterwards killed Kourds, and fired on Mussulmans with a revolver."

"They would probably be afraid to meddle with you."

"They might. You know their ways much better than I do. But I suspect they would find a way of paying me back my revolver shots in kind—or worse—before I left the country. And even suppose I got safe out, and Shushan too, what would be the fate of the Meneshians? Would not sevenfold vengeance descend on them—which, even ifIcould bear to think of—what of Shushan? There is another thing, though I scarce like to say it," Jack added in a different tone, and with a kind of relapse into boyishness: "all the people here, the Meneshians, the Vartonians and the rest—in some queer way I cannot explain—seem to cling to me. They give me far more credit than I deserve for the repulse of the Turks the other day, and somehow they fancy I can protect them. I suppose it is because I am an Englishman, come of fathers andmothers who have not been afraid—because they had nothing to be afraid of—for generation upon generation. So I want to stay, at all events, till this affair is over."

"John Grayson, you are a brave lad," said Miss Celandine, stretching out her thin, worn hand to him.

Jack took it with all reverence. What deeds of kindness and pity, and heroic beneficence that weak woman's hand had done! Like the people he dwelt amongst, he bowed over it, touching it with his lips and his forehead. Then he said, smiling, "But also I am a man now. If it please you, Miss Celandine, may I see my wife?"

"Certainly. I will go and fetch her."

In a few minutes Shushan entered. She had grown a little pale with the anxieties of the last days, but he thought she looked sweeter than ever. She had much to hear from him about her family, and about her father, of whom he was able to give her a hopeful report.

An hour passed in earnest talk; but what each said to the other, neither told afterwards. When at last the moment of parting came, neither cared to think how long a parting it might be. Lip met lip, heart throbbed against heart. Shushan was the braver now. "You know, Shack," she said,"the cross of Christ was laid on us together. Nothing can keep us parted after that."

"The cross laid on us together," Jack repeated; "indeed, it looks like it. But do not droop, my Lily. With God's help we will win through yet, and have a joyful ending to all our troubles."

But something in his own heart gave the lie to his hopeful words, as he took one last lingering gaze, and sadly turned to go.

"Yertaak paré," said Shushan softly.

"Menaak paré," he responded, and went.

FOOTNOTES:[4]Djanum="my soul." A common exclamation.

[4]Djanum="my soul." A common exclamation.

"Oh, Thou that dwellest in the heavens high,Above yon stars and beyond yon sky,Where the dazzling fields need no other light,Nor the sun by day, nor the moon by night;Though shining millions around Thee stand,For the sake of Him at Thy Right Hand,Think on the souls He died for here,Wandering in darkness, sorrow and fear!The Powers of Darkness are all abroad,They own no Saviour, they fear no God;And we are trembling in dumb dismay—Oh, turn not Thou Thy Face away!"—Cameronian Midnight Hymn.

"Oh, Thou that dwellest in the heavens high,Above yon stars and beyond yon sky,Where the dazzling fields need no other light,Nor the sun by day, nor the moon by night;

"Oh, Thou that dwellest in the heavens high,

Above yon stars and beyond yon sky,

Where the dazzling fields need no other light,

Nor the sun by day, nor the moon by night;

Though shining millions around Thee stand,For the sake of Him at Thy Right Hand,Think on the souls He died for here,Wandering in darkness, sorrow and fear!

Though shining millions around Thee stand,

For the sake of Him at Thy Right Hand,

Think on the souls He died for here,

Wandering in darkness, sorrow and fear!

The Powers of Darkness are all abroad,They own no Saviour, they fear no God;And we are trembling in dumb dismay—Oh, turn not Thou Thy Face away!"—Cameronian Midnight Hymn.

The Powers of Darkness are all abroad,

They own no Saviour, they fear no God;

And we are trembling in dumb dismay—

Oh, turn not Thou Thy Face away!"

—Cameronian Midnight Hymn.

If the Armenians were safe, for the present, in their own Quarter from actual murder, it was the most that could be said. They dared not stir an inch beyond its boundaries; and within it, the Redifs who were quartered upon them, ostensibly as protectors, but really as spies, committed many horrible outrages.

They were continually pressed to surrender firearms, which they did not possess. To satisfy theauthorities, any pieces that could be found by diligent search amongst the few who had dared to conceal them, were given up; and this, much to his regret, was the fate of Jack's revolver. Still the Turks persisted in the assertion that the Armenians had a large number of Martinis, supplied to them by foreigners, and that these must be produced before they could promise them security for their lives and their possessions. Vain were their protestations that these Martinis had no existence—that they had never even heard of them. In the end, the persecuted community actuallypurchasedarms from the Turks themselves, which they then gave back to the Government. This might appear at first a mere trick of the officials, to secure a trifle of dishonest gain. It was much more; it was part of the subtle, skilful, elaborate plan by which a net was drawn around the doomed race, and they were made to appear, in the eyes of those who might have befriended them, as the doers, not the sufferers, of violence. In a European newspaper, English or German, the transaction might have read thus: "At Urfa, a town on the Euphrates (sic), a disturbance was caused by the Armenians, who attacked a party of zaptiehs as they were conveying a prisoner to the guard-house. They overpowered the zaptiehs, and killed the prisoner,against whom they had a grudge. Some rioting ensued; shops were plundered, and several persons, both Mussulmans and Armenians, were killed. But the Armenians having surrendered their fire-arms, and being restricted, for the present, to their own Quarter, order and tranquillity have now been completely restored, through the firmness of the Government." This was the sort of thing John Grayson might have been reading if he had stayed in England. He would probably have dismissed the subject with the careless comment, "People are always fighting and killing each other in those out-of-the-way places," and turned with quickened interest to the great cricket match on the next page.

But now he was himself in the midst of the agony, which made all the difference. He was shuddering and starving with the thousands packed together in those close, unhealthy streets. At first a danger threatened them, almost as terrible as the sword of the Turk. The water of the fountains they used came to them through the great ancient Aqueduct; and this supply the Turks could, and did, cut off. But there were, in their Quarter, some old, unused wells, which they cleaned out and made available, though the water obtained in this way was neither pure nor healthful. Their stores of rice, bulghour, andother kinds of food, which happily they had just laid in for the winter, were husbanded with all possible care.

Jack took an active share in everything that was done. His leisure time he employed in learning Turkish; for he saw how greatly his own and Shushan's dangers, on their journey, had been increased by his want of it. It was not a difficult task; many Turkish words and phrases, which were in common use, he already knew; the Turkish language moreover is very poor and scanty, containing, it is said, not more than seven hundred really indigenous words.

He continued to live with the Vartonians; and indeed the whole Meneshian family contrived to stow itself away in their large and hospitable house, with the exception of the wounded Boghos, now slowly recovering, and his wife, who remained for the present with the Selferians.

It was thought that Thomassian might have received some of the Meneshians, as they were his kinsmen also; but his mind at this time seemed to be wholly absorbed in grief for the destruction of his property. His large, well-stocked shop had been looted; and fresh stores coming to him from Aleppo had been intercepted and seized. Unhinged by these catastrophes, and by the apprehension of worse to come, he fell into a state ofmorbid depression. He used to rouse himself however to take part in the meetings for consultation which were held, with many precautions, by the Armenian "Notables"; and he often gave very good and sensible advice. He was not fond of giving anything else.

"'Tis making a hole in the water to askhimto do anything for you," said the younger Vartonians. "But he might comfort himself, under his losses, with the thought that the Turks are sure to poison themselves with some of his drugs, not knowing the use of them."

Communication with the Mission House had now become very difficult, though the Armenians knew that their friends were still in safety there. It was no longer practicable to hold service in the Protestant church; so Jack's opportunities of seeing Shushan, and Kevork's of seeing Elmas, were no more. Miss Celandine however contrived occasionally, through her zaptiehs, to send news of Shushan to Jack, and to get tidings in return for her, of him and of her family. In this way she informed him also that she had not yet succeeded in obtaining her passport. The Pasha made fair promises; but continually put off the granting of her request on the plea of the disturbed condition of the country.

The Gregorians still assembled, very constantly,for the prayer they so much needed, in their great Cathedral; and it was before or after these services that they used to deliberate together on the state of affairs.

In one of these consultations they were lamenting, as they often did, the impossibility of sending news of their condition to those outside who might help them. Post and telegraph were closed to them; and, as they surmised, to Miss Celandine also. Two or three messengers, with letters concealed about them, had gone forth secretly, and at terrible risk, but they had never been heard of again. The presumption was that they had fallen into the hands of the Turks. What more could the Armenians do?

Then John Grayson rose up in his place, between Kevork and Avedis, and these were the words he said,—

"Friends, I will be your next messenger. Will you trust me?"

A murmur of astonishment ran round the assembly. The personal friends of Jack, and they were many, began to protest against his exposing himself to so great a danger; and indeed every one thought his life too valuable to be lightly risked.

"What would my sister say?" Kevork whispered.

And Jack answered, "She would say, 'Der-ah haadet allà' (The Lord be with you)." Then raising his voice, "It is the best way all round, if you will look at it. You need not endanger me or yourselves by writing anything; for I know all, and can tell it. If I am caught, I have still a good chance of escape; for I will tell the Turks I am an Englishman, and that they touch me at their peril."

"They will not believe you, and you have no proof to offer," said old Hohannes, with a face of much concern, for he loved Yon Effendi as a son.

"Ihaveproof, father. I can speak and write English for their edification, and talk big about Consuls and International Law, and the power of England. Whereas, if I amnottaken, the gain is great. An Englishman who has seen what I have, can say things the English—and the rest of the world—ought to hear, and there is none to tell them."

"Amaan! That is true," several voices said.

"And do not forget, forIdo not," Jack went on, "what I stand to win. Once free, I think I can help myself, and you too, far better than by staying here. If it were to abandon you, I would never go. Here or there, I mean to see this thing through with you. But it seems to me that I can do more, just now, there than here."

"How will you disguise yourself?" some one asked.

"I can wear the Kourdish dress that served me coming here."

"But you do not know the country," another objected.

"As far as Biridjik I know it well. Trust me to find out the rest."

Finally, Jack's proposal was agreed to by all; except indeed by Hohannes, who kept silence, but did not change his mind. The meeting broke up, as soon as the heads of it had arranged for Jack to come to them at a later hour, to receive messages and other instructions for his dangerous mission.

As they went out together, Kevork laid his hand on his shoulder: "Brother," he said, "do you not desire to see Shushan again before you go? I think it might be managed for you, with backsheesh to the zaptiehs."

Jack thought a moment; then he answered with a decided "No. We have had our farewells," he added. "It is best not to alarm her." In his own heart he said, "I had rather keep the last words she spoke to me, 'The cross of Christ has been laid upon us together. Nothing can part us after that!'" But he took his father's note-book, the one precious relic that remained to him, wrote a few tender words in it, wrapped it up carefullyand gave it to Kevork to give her, in case anything happened to him.

At the later consultation it was decided that Jack should not wear the Kourdish dress: it was thought he could not keep up the character sufficiently to disarm suspicion. A proposition that he should go dressedà la Frankwas negatived also, since a person so attired would never be found travelling alone. At last a disguise was found for him,—the dress of an Armenian peasant of the very humblest class, a countryman. It was hoped that the appearance of utter poverty and of ignorance might secure his safety.

It was December now, and the nights were dark, as dark as they ever are in that southern land. There are many places in which the ancient wall of Urfa is much broken down, in some it is only three feet high, with stones and rubbish and broken masonry all about. Stealthily and noiselessly Jack crept towards one of these. There was no difficulty in getting over the wall, but then at the other side there was a natural rock to be descended—almost a precipice. This also however the agile youth accomplished, and stood in safety at the bottom. His next difficulty was to elude the Turkish patrol, which passed frequently during the night. Seeing it at a distance, he laid himself down quite flat amongst the stones, untilthe men had passed, and everything was perfectly quiet. Then he cautiously set out upon his journey, passing through fields and vineyards, and striking into the Roman road where he had ridden with Shushan three months before. Although the weather was now cold, he intended to travel by night, and rest during the day, in order to minimize the dangers of discovery.

Yet, three hours later, the die was cast, and his fate was sealed. A party of Turkish horsemen, who were conveying some prisoners into the town, saw at a distance in the morning light his dark figure thrown out by the white path behind him. He knew they had seen him, but there was no place near where it was possible to conceal himself, so his only chance was to pass on boldly in his assumed character.

The captain of the troop took little heed of him, just flinging him a curse in passing as one beneath his notice. Unhappily, amongst the band of wretched prisoners—all the more wretched for having had to keep up on foot with the riding of the Turks—Jack saw a face he knew, Der Garabed, the priest of Biridjik. No fear of consequences could keep the look of grief and pity out of his eyes. It was observed, as also was the captive's quick glance of recognition, changed though it was immediately into the dull, vacantstare his race have a wonderful power of assuming.

The Captain gave a rapid order, and Jack was surrounded and seized. Asked what his name was, he answered boldly, "John Grayson. I am an Englishman."

This was received with a shout of laughter. "By the Prophet, a likely story!" the Captain said. "English Effendis do not go about the country alone and in rags. More probably a Zeitounli prowling about to stir up rebellion."

"I can prove my words," Jack said. "I am an Englishman. I put on this dress to get down to the coast in safety, as the country is disturbed. I have never been in Zeitoun. I can prove what I am. Those who hurt the English have to pay for it. Those who help them get well paid themselves, in good medjidis."

The last word had rather a softening influence. "Of what religion are you?" the Captain asked.

"Of the religion of the English," Jack answered promptly. The Captain hesitated for a moment.

"Captain," shouted a Turk from his following, "the Giaour is lying. He is no English Effendi, but an Armenian of Urfa. I saw his face that day there was fighting. He had a revolver in his hand, and shot true Believers with it."

"Is that so? Then he goes to the Kadi," saidthe Captain, his momentary hesitation at an end. "Bind him, men, in the Name of Allah, the Merciful. You are an impudent liar, like all your race," he said to Jack, turning away with a curse.

Jack hoped he might be able to speak to the priest; but this boon was denied him. He was placed at the other end of the file of captives. The man to whom he was bound seemed either afraid, or too thoroughly crushed and dejected to speak to him. His own state of mind was not enviable. His first feeling was that he had failed. He meant to do such great things; he had gone forth full of hope and courage, as one who should work a great deliverance in the earth. And now?—and now?—What would they all feel, all the friends who loved and trusted him so? They would be waiting, wondering, speculating about his fate. Their anxiety would change into suspense, their suspense would deepen at last into sad certainty. Yet, most likely, there would be none to tell of his fate. And Shushan? The thought of her sorrow swallowed up all other thoughts, all other regrets. And Shushan? For her dear sake he would not give up hope, he would struggle on even to the end. His English name and his English race might save him yet.

Not likely, after those fatal shots. Meanwhile, at the present moment, where was he? Whitherwas he going? All the stories which, in the last five years, he had heard spoken with bated breath of the horrors of Turkish prisons rushed like a sea of bitter waters over his soul. They brought with them a sensation absolutely new to him—utter, unreasoning, overpoweringfear. Terror and anguish took hold on him; large drops, like the touch of cold fingers, stood upon his forehead; he shivered from head to foot. He had faced death before this, and it had seemed to him but a light thing. "After that, no more that they can do." After that; but how much before—oh, God of mercy, how much before!

All at once Stepanian's voice seemed sounding in his ears. "You must trust God utterly." Wherever they might bring him, whatever they might do with him,God would be there. He could not get out of that Presence, nor could they. A thrill shot through him of hope restored and strength renewed; a vision of conflict over, and victory won at last. As a cry "unto One that hears," his prayer went up: "Oh, God of my fathers, I beseech Thee, suffer me not through any pains of death to fall from Thee. Suffer me not to deny my faith, nor yet to accuse my brethren, in the Name of Christ, my Redeemer!"

While he thought of God he was calm. When he thought of his chances, of what might happento him, of whether any one would believe his story, the dark fears came again. Even of Shushan it did not do to think too much just now—he could only commend her to God. Constitutionally, he was brave and fearless. But to think of a Turkish prison without shuddering requires much more than constitutional bravery,—either nerves of adamant, or faith to remove mountains. Perhaps not either, perhaps not both together could prevent the anguish of anticipation, whatever strength might be given for actual endurance.

Back again in Urfa, and at the Government House where he had seen Melkon witness his brave confession, Jack found that his story would not be listened to for a moment. Some of the captives were taken away, he knew not whither; others, along with himself, were led within the gloomy gates of the prison, and after passing through several dark passages, thrust into a room or cell. As well as he could discern by the light that streamed from a narrow window high up in the wall, this cell was already full—nay, crowded—men standing packed together as those who wait for a door to open and admit them to some grand spectacle. "I suppose," he thought, "they will take us out by-and-by for some sort of trial. But what stifling, fœtid, horrible air! Enough to breed a pestilence!"

It was utterly impossible to sit down, difficult even to raise a hand or move a foot, so dense was the crush. Occasional thrills through the living mass told that some wretch was making a frantic effort to get a little air, and thus increasing the misery of his neighbours. Jack contrived to say to a companion in misfortune, whose ear touched his mouth, "How long will they keep us here?"

At first the only answer was a mournful "Amaan!" followed by piteous groans.

He repeated the question—"How long will they keep us in this horrible place?"

"As long as they can," gasped the man he had addressed;—"until death sets us free.—Why not?—It is the prison."

But another hissed into his ear, "No; it is hell—hell."

"'If I make my bed in hell, behold Thou art there,'" John Grayson thought. With a brave effort to cling to his Faith and his God, he said aloud, "God is here. Let us cry to Him."

"God has forsaken us," said the last speaker; but from two or three others came the feebly murmured prayer, "Jesus, help us!" "Jesus, help us!"

Time passed on. Jack would have given all the wealth he could claim in England, were it here and in his hand, simply for one square yard of the filth-stained ground beneath his feet to rest upon.It was long since every limb had ached with intolerable weariness; now the dull ache was succeeded by shooting, agonizing pains. He was too sick for hunger, but the thirst was terrible, and the sense of suffocation came in spasms that made him want to tear a passage with teeth and nails through the living mass about him. Once the pressure, becoming heavier, made him try to look round. Near him a man had swooned. Was it a swoon, or was it death? He caught a glimpse of the livid face between two others; for there was no room for the fainting, or even for the dead, to fall.

Time passed on. He felt his strength forsaking him. He tried to speak, but his voice sounded hollow and unlike itself. Was he dying? He thought this numbness and faintness might meanthat; but then perhaps the wish was father to the thought. He was young and strong, and such do not quickly die.

Time passed on. Shushan was in his thoughts continually, with the wish—with the prayer often—that she might never know. Thank God—there was something to thank God for even here—she did not know now! Miss Celandine would take care of her,—and sometime, somewhere, when all this agony was over, they would meet again. Wasthisthe cross of Christ?

Time passed on. The numbness in his limbs increased. He began to lose himself a little now and then. He was at Pastor Stepanian's church—in Biridjik—in England even; then he would come suddenly back again, with a thrill of anguish, to the horrible present. Yet he was not dying, he was not fainting even; strange to say, he was only falling asleep. Even upon the cross, men have slept. At last no more light came in through the little grated window. It was night.

Time passed on. A sounder slumber than before came mercifully to steep his senses in oblivion. He was in England, in his old home. In the orchard was one particular tree he used to be very fond of climbing, in spite of his father's warning, "Take care, my boy, you will break your bones some day." He thought now that he had fallen from the highest branch, and was laid on his bed, a mass of fractures and bruises, calling on the surgeons, whose faces he saw distinctly, to give him chloroform—anything to stop the pain, and bring unconsciousness. Was he crying out at the pitch of his voice, and doing shame to his manhood?

He awoke in horror. Shriek after shriek, though not fromhislips, rent the midnight air. To those who only know what the human voice can do by the cries of childish pain or fear, astrong man's shriek of agony is an unimaginable horror.

"Oh, what is it?" Jack cried aloud, his own voice a wail.

"Some one is being tortured in the next cell to this," a weary, indifferent voice made answer.

The shrieks went on, interspersed with short intervals of silence, and with deep, heavy groans. There were words too, heard more or less distinctly, cries for mercy, agonized prayers. Then in a higher key, "I know nothing—nothing. You are killing me." And again, "Kill me, in the name of God. I implore of you to kill me!" Once more, as if flung out with all the remaining strength of dying lips, "No!—No!—No!—No!"

"It is only," said the man who had spoken last, "some one who refuses to accuse his friends."

"God help him!" Jack murmured feebly. For a little while the cries died away; then they began again, culminating in a shriek so appalling that Jack's senses failed him with the horror, and at last unconsciousness took him out of his misery.

A waft of cooler air revived him. When he came to himself, he lay amongst a number of fallen or falling bodies. Then some one was dragging him along, as it seemed, through some passage towards the light. "Where am I?" he asked, trying mechanically to shake off the handthat held him. Then he saw that he was between two zaptiehs, who were laughing at his feeble efforts to get free. He thought it very likely they were going to kill him, and he did not care.

Yet their intentions did not seem at the moment particularly cruel. One of them pointed to a place near the wall, and told him to sit down and rest; the other fetched him a cup of water, incomparably the most delicious draught he had ever tasted. Then they half led, half dragged him into an open court, where many other prisoners were waiting.

He looked on dreamily while several of these were led up to the Kadi, who sat in state on the divan at the end of the room, and after a brief examination, sometimes a few words only, were led away again by the zaptiehs. At last his own turn came. He could manage to stand alone now, though he still felt confused and bewildered.

He was asked his name, and he gave it in full. But here strength and memory seemed to fail him together. He knew there wassomethinghe wanted to say, but he could not remember what it was. He looked around him blankly, helplessly—and the next moment would have fallen to the ground, if one of the zaptiehs had not caught him and held him up.

The next thing he heard was the voice of theKadi addressing him again. "Listen," said the zaptieh; "His Excellency condescends to enquire if you are a true Believer."

"I am," said Jack.

"Are you then of the creed of Islam?"

He stood up straight, and looked the Kadi in the face. "No," he answered.

"Will you become a convert to the creed of Islam?"

"No," he said again.

"Since we are inclined to mercy, we will give you a week to think the matter over. After that, if you refuse again, you must die."

"I had rather you would kill me at once," Jack said.

"It is not the will of Allah," the Kadi replied. "Guards, take the prisoner away."

He was led presently to another dungeon, where at least there was room to stretch his weary, aching limbs at full length on the ground; and where, from utter exhaustion, he almost immediately fell asleep.

"The thousands that, uncheered by praise,Have made one offering of their days;For Truth's, for Heaven's, for Freedom's sake,Resigned the bitter cup to take,And silently, in fearless faith,Bowing their noble souls to death."

"The thousands that, uncheered by praise,

Have made one offering of their days;

For Truth's, for Heaven's, for Freedom's sake,

Resigned the bitter cup to take,

And silently, in fearless faith,

Bowing their noble souls to death."

John Grayson awoke from his long sleep. Though still aching all over, he was much refreshed and strengthened. Nature was putting forth her recuperative powers in his young and vigorous frame. For a while he lay quite still. The light was dim, the ground beneath him foul and muddy; and he could see nothing, not even a mat, in the way of furniture. But he soon became aware that he was not alone. There were several persons in the room, or cell, and they were conversing together in low tones, mingling their words with many a sigh, and many a murmured "Amaan!" or "Jesus, help us!" One spoke of his large family of little children—how hard to leave them destitute! Another of his wife; athird of his aged father, who was blind; a fourth of his brothers and sisters; and in him Jack recognised the voice of a friend of the Vartonians, who had been away at the vineyards when the storm burst upon his people.

He raised his head. "Is that you, Kaspar Hohanian?" he asked.

"Djanum!" cried the young man, coming towards him and looking at him attentively. "Friends, this is Yon Effendi, the Englishman who married Oriort Shushan Meneshian."

Most of the twelve or fifteen prisoners who were shut up there together knew his story, and all gathered round him with sympathy and interest. In the awful strain of their position any momentary distraction was a relief. "How had he come there?" they asked. It happened that they had all been imprisoned before he set out on his desperate errand: some, like Kaspar, had been found outside the Armenian Quarter; others had been arrested by the Redifs, on various pretexts, within it. But Jack, before he told his story, asked if they could give him any food, for he was exhausted with hunger. All they had to offer was a piece of hard black bread, defiled by the mud and filth into which it had been purposely thrown by their jailors; and a draught of water, by no means either clean or fresh. But even for these he wasvery thankful, and ate and drank with eagerness.

Kaspar Hohanian quoted to him a proverb of their race. "'Eat and drink, and talk afterwards,' says the Turk. 'Eat and drink, and talk at the same time,' says the Armenian."

"At all events, while I eat you can talk to me," Jack said, with his mouth full. "Your people thought you were dead, Baron Kaspar."

"The Turks killed all my companions—oh, and so cruelly!" he answered with a shudder. "But an acquaintance I had among them persuaded them, instead of killing me at once, to tie me to one of the tall, upright tombstones in their cemetery outside the gate. Their thought was to leave me there to die of hunger; my friend's, as he whispered, was to come back at night and release me. But, Amaan! the patrol came along before he did, took me, and brought me here. And now I have a week given me to choose between Islam and death. It is hard."

They were all, as it seemed, in like case, only the period of respite varied a little. Meanwhile, it relaxed the intolerable tension of their thoughts, and wiled away a few weary hours, to tell and to hear each other's histories. Jack accordingly gave his, expressing sorrow for the fate of Der Garabed, the priest of Biridjik, and asking if any one present knew anything about him.

No one did; and while they were discussing the matter, the prison door was opened, and another captive led—or rather thrust—in, to join their mournful company. He was a man of middle age, good-looking, and well dressed in European fashion. But his head was bowed down and his fez pulled low over his face, his arms hung helplessly by his side, and his whole manner and bearing showed the most utter dejection.

Jack sprang up and came to him at once, with an exclamation of pity and sorrow. "Baron Muggurditch Thomassian!" he said.

"Don't speak to me!" said Thomassian, turning on him a look of unutterable anguish.

He went to the most distant corner of the prison, the rest making way for him. No one ventured to approach him with enquiries or condolences, though they all knew him by sight, and several were amongst his acquaintances.

He sat down—or rather, lay down—upon the ground, and turned his face towards the wall.

Low, furtive whispers passed among the others.

"So much to lose. What can all his money do now?"

"Better had he shown mercy and given to the poor."

But these were quickly hushed, lest he should overhear. They did not want to hurt the feelingsof the unhappy man, whom indeed they would have gladly comforted, if they had known how. But, as this seemed impossible, they left him to himself; and their talk soon wandered back to their own situation, and the momentous choice that was set before them.

Some were steadfast and comparatively serene. Others wavered, and two or three seemed disposed to give way. All prayed much and often. Most of them could sing, and, led by a few of the braver spirits, they made the gloomy walls resound with Psalms and hymns, especially with that favourite of the Armenians,—

"Jesus, I my cross have taken."

Once John Grayson's voice broke down in singing it, for he heard Shushan saying to him, "The cross of Christ has been laid on us together." Only, if it could be, that he might bear the heaviest end, and that she need never know of all this!

Meanwhile, Thomassian never spoke, and scarcely ever moved from the place where he sat, or lay, his face turned away from the rest. He ate little, and they could not see that he slept. Once or twice they noticed that his tears were falling silently. But not even a groan or sigh told of the anguish of his soul.

The days seemed unending, but still they drew towards an end. Ay, and far too quickly for those who looked forward with unutterable dread to what was to come after! The only breaks in the monotony were the jailor's daily visits with bread and water. Generally he came and went without a word; but on the evening of their last day of grace he broke the silence.

"You Giaours had better be learning your 'La illaha ill Allah' to-night," he said, "for if you have not got it off by to-morrow morning, you die like the dogs you are."

Then he shut the door, and left them to themselves.

There was a long silence, only interrupted by a few sorrowful "Amaans!"

It was broken at last by the youngest in the room, a lad of some eighteen years. "I would not be afraid," he said plaintively, "if I thought they would kill us at once. Were it only a shot or a sword-thrust, that were easy to bear. But to be killed slowly—cut in little pieces—or perhaps like some——"

"Hush, boy!" Kaspar Hohanian interrupted. "Whatever they do to us, it must be over sometime. And then—there is heaven beyond."

"Ay," said an older man, "there is heaven forus, after a brief agony. But, friends, we have notourselves alone to think of; there are our wives and children."

"True," another chimed in; "if we die, they starve."

"If we die, they do worse than starve," the former speaker resumed. "Towhatfate do we leave our women, our girls? You know itall, brothers. Whereas, if we turn Moslems, they will be safe, and under protection."

"You are speaking well," observed a third. "And I cannot think, for my part, that the Lord Jesus will be angry with us when He knows all. Has He not given us our families to take care of? Does not His holy Apostle say in his Letter, 'If any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel'? If wemustdeny the faith, and be infidels, it seems as well to do it one way as another."

"And I have my old father to think of; he will die of grief," a sad voice murmured.

"'He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me; and he that loveth son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me,'" said another voice, unheard till then amongst them. Thomassian rose up in his place, and looked around him on the group. His whole appearance was changed—transfigured; his lookfirm and fearless, his eyes shining as if with some inner light.

"My brothers," he said, "you think I have no right to speak to you, that it ill becomesmeto take upon my lips the words of my Lord and Saviour. And you think that which is true."

"No, no," murmured two or three, unwilling, in that supreme hour, to give pain to a fellow-sufferer.

But Kaspar said more frankly, "To confess the truth, we none of us thought you were a religious man, Baron Thomassian."

"I wasnot. I lived for the things seen, not for the things unseen, which are eternal. Very early I said to myself, 'I am an Armenian, one of an oppressed, down-trodden race. I cannot rise, make a mark in the world, and win its splendid prizes. Yet I have brains. I have the power to will, to plan, to execute. What can I do?' There was but one answer—'I can get wealth, and wealth means safety, enjoyment, influence.' So I tried to get wealth, and I got it by honest industry. At least in the beginning, my hands were clean enough. I prospered; I surrounded myself with comforts, with luxuries. I took to wife a lady, whom—God help me!—I love as truly as any man among you loves his own. But—ah me!—I forgot God."

"So no doubt have we all, some more, some less," said Kaspar Hohanian.

"If there is any one here who feelsthat, let him look up and take comfort," Thomassian went on, "for not one among you has gone from Him so far as I. But, though I forgot Him, He has remembered me. I was led on from one thing to another; until, for the sake of gain, I did some things of which the thought can sting me even now. I was hard upon the poor, and upon my debtors. I did wrong in various ways, and even to some who trusted me. Mr. John Grayson, you are one of those I wronged."

Jack started at the unexpected utterance of his name.

"It is no time now to think of wrongs," he said.

"No, for him who has suffered—yes, for him who has done the wrong. After that time I saw you in Biridjik, I went indeed to Aleppo, but I did not take your letter with me, nor did I speak for you to the Consul. For he and I, just then, were at daggers drawn. I had used his name and influence, and the presence of his dragoman, to pass through the Custom House some prohibited drugs. He was angry, and with reason. I did not dare to face him. I wanted to be rid of your letter, for fear of complications; so I just dropped it into the post office at Tel Bascher, where I have little doubt it lies until this day."

"Then my friends havenotbeen false to me," Jack said, much moved. "And, if my letter had come to them, they might have saved me—and Shushan," his heart added.

Thomassian came over close to him, and stretched out his hand. "Can you forgive me?" he asked.

Jack was silent for just a moment. Then he said slowly, "'Aswe forgive them that trespass against us.' Yes, Baron Thomassian, Idoforgive you, in His name whom we hope so soon to see." "But, oh! how I wish you had spoken!" he could not help thinking, tho' he crushed back the words in time. "Don't think it would have made a difference," he said. "Idoforgive you, with all my heart."

"It might have changed everything, or it might not," Thomassian said mournfully. "I have no power now to undo that wrong, or any of the others I have done. Friends, while I sat in silence yonder, my face turned from you all, the sins of my whole life came upon me. They swept over my head like black waters, they seemed to choke my very life out. The thought of death was terrible. Icouldnot die, and go into God's presence thus. And yet, to give up my faith would only be to add another sin, and one for which there is no pardon."

"Oh, no!" Jack threw in. "That is too hard a saying."

"Surely," Thomassian said, "if you go away from the light, you must remain in darkness; if you go away from the Christ, you must remain unforgiven. That was what I came to in those days of anguish. I thought Icouldnot let Christ go. I know now it was Christ that would not let me go. My brothers, all that time that I lay silent there, not joining in your prayers, your hymns, your counsel-taking, my whole heart has been one desperate cry to Him, 'Oh, Christ, forgive me! Even now, at this eleventh hour, take my spoiled life, and receive me into Thy kingdom!'"

There was a silence.

"Has He heard?" Kaspar asked at last.

Thomassian bowed his head low, and veiled his face with both hands. "I stand among you confounded and ashamed," he said.

"Because God was silent to you?" said the youth Dikran, in a pitying voice.

"Because God wasnotsilent to me," Thomassian answered, removing his hands, and turning on them a face full of awe-struck gladness, "because to me—the last and least of you—to me, who had forgotten Him and sinned against Him so, even to me He has revealed Himself."

"How?" asked two or three, drawing near him with looks of reverence.

"How, I cannot tell you. That may no man tell, or understand, myself least of all. 'I called upon Thy name, oh Lord, out of the low dungeon. Thou drewedst near in the day that I called upon Thee; Thou saidst, Fear not.' After all, though no man may understand it, yet it is a very simple thing. I, the worst among you, have taken God at His word, and claimed His promise of forgiveness for the Lord Christ's sake. I had so much to be forgiven, there was no other way. And He has forgiven. He has done more; He has given peace, such peace as I could never dream of. I amgladto die for Him now. I have no fear of man—not from the fear, but from the love of Him. Not because if I forsake Him He will forsake me, but because I know He never will forsake me, neither in life nor in death, nor in the life beyond."

There was silence when he ended. At last the oldest man amongst them stretched out his hand to him and said, "Baron Thomassian, you have taught us a lesson."

"You are better than the rest of us," another said impulsively.

"Better? No; worse, a thousand times. Not worthy to stand amongst you as one of Christ'smartyrs. But since He has this joy to give to me, the last and least, think what gifts He must have foryou, His true and faithful servants!"

"Certainly He will not forsake us in the hour of death," Kaspar said. "Baron Thomassian, I take this answer of God to your prayer as a token of good for us all."

"My mind is made up," said a quiet, elderly man, who had not spoken hitherto. "Let them do their worst. I stand by the Lord Christ; and I trust the Lord Christ to stand by me."

Then Dikran, the youngest of them all, spoke up too. "I think it is scarce so hard for me as for the rest of you. For I am an orphan, and my only brother was killed in the fighting two months ago. All through, it was not death, it was agony I feared. But now, I know Christ will help me through that."

"And He will care for those we leave after us," another said in a low voice.

"Yon Effendi,youhave not spoken yet," said Kaspar.

John Grayson started, as if from a dream. "There is only one thing to say," he answered firmly, "I stand by Christ."

"So likewise said they all." In prayer, and mutual counsel-taking and encouragement the long night wore on. Amongst them all, there wasonly one who slept. Worn out with his long and bitter conflict, and at rest in the ineffable peace in which it ended, Thomassian fell into a dreamless sleep, with his head pillowed on John Grayson's knee. Jack himself feared to sleep, on account of the waking that must follow. He prayed, thought of his past life, of his father and all his friends; above all, of Shushan. Often his mind would wander for a little amongst unconsidered, half-forgotten trifles, but it always turned back again to the things which made its home.

The morning light stole at last through their narrow grated window. Thomassian stirred, and sat up. He looked round upon them all with a smile; but his eyes grew grave and full of thought as they rested on the face of John Grayson, who, just then, was absorbed in what he thought might be his last prayer for Shushan.

"Yon Effendi," he said, "are you ready to die?"

Jack looked at him steadily for a moment, then bowed his head in silence.

"But you would rather live, if it were the will of God? Is it not so?"

"I do not seem to carenow, not greatly," Jack said. "It seems easy to dienow, with you all. But"—his voice sank low—"but there is Shushan."

"And if I can, in some slight measure, atone forthe harm I have done you, you will be glad, for her sake? But do not build on it—it is but a chance. Rather, since there is no chance really, it will be as God wills."

"Hush!" some one suddenly exclaimed.

The key was grating in the door. In another minute it was thrown open, and the jailor entered. He did not waste words. "Come," he said.

The band of confessors rose to their feet, and looked one another in the face.

"One moment, I pray of you," Kaspar said in Turkish to the jailor. Then in Armenian, "Let us bid each other farewell."

"Not so," Thomassian answered, smiling. "It is not worth while, we shall meet so soon with joy in the presence of our Lord."

As they went forth, John Grayson thought once more of the last words he had heard his father say, "The dark river turns to light."

It was the morning of Christmas Day, 1895.

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