FOOTNOTE:[3]See theAppendix.
[3]See theAppendix.
[3]See theAppendix.
"But he was holy, calm, and high,As one who saw an ecstasyBeyond a foreknown agony."—E. B. Browning.
"But he was holy, calm, and high,As one who saw an ecstasyBeyond a foreknown agony."—E. B. Browning.
"But he was holy, calm, and high,As one who saw an ecstasyBeyond a foreknown agony."—E. B. Browning.
"But he was holy, calm, and high,
As one who saw an ecstasy
Beyond a foreknown agony."
—E. B. Browning.
John Grayson left his young bride, for the present, in the care of Miss Celandine. "She is safe; she is absolutely safe!" he kept saying to himself, that one thought swallowing up all the rest. He went constantly to see her, and was relieved to find that she very soon recovered from the effects of her sprain, which indeed was not serious. Meanwhile he stayed with the Vartonians, and watched anxiously for the coming of the Meneshians to Urfa. Until he saw them settled there, and in some measure safe, he did not think he ought to apply for a passport for himself and Shushan, or, as she would then be called, Lily Grayson.
It was October now. The gloom of a great terror seemed gathering over the town. So accustomed had Jack grown to fears and apprehensionsthat he did not notice it as anything unusual. But he could not fail to notice a most astonishing and unexpected outburst of rejoicing and festivity that came suddenly in the very midst of the gloom. As sometimes in a day of storm, when the great thunderclouds sweep across the sky, the sun looks out for a moment, flashing a shaft of light through the darkness,—so here, when all seemed blackest, a sudden rumour passed from heart to heart, from lip to lip, "The Sultan has granted the Reforms." Not only did the Armenians of Urfa whisper it within closed doors—as they were wont to do with anything bearing, however remotely, upon politics; men said it aloud to each other in the streets and in the shops; and women talked of it as they baked their bread, or drew their water from the fountains. What did these Reforms mean? Did they mean—men said they did—no more plundering Kourds, no more tyrannous zaptiehs, no more dungeons and tortures for innocent men, and, best of all, no more of that wordless, nameless terror that made the life of the Armenian woman one long misery? If indeed they meantthis, ought not the whole community to go mad with joy?
The tidings came officially, by telegraph, and were read aloud in the Gregorian Cathedral. There followed, throughout the Armenian quarter,tearful rejoicings, and many Services and meetings for prayer and thanksgiving to Almighty God.
One day, while these were still going on, Jack was walking in one of the narrow streets, when he met a young girl and a boy about Gabriel's age. The girl was wrapped from head to foot in anezhar, and closely veiled, but the boy he knew well, having often seen him with the Vartonians and with Gabriel—young Vartan Stepanian, the Pastor's eldest son. So he knew the girl must be Oriort Elmas, Shushan's friend, and he saluted both very cordially in passing.
He had not gone on twenty paces when a cry from Vartan brought him back. A tall, powerful Turk had come suddenly through a door in the wall, and being close to Elmas, for the street was scarcely two yards wide, seized her veil to pull it off. Vartan sprang upon him and tried to drag him away, but was not strong enough.
"None of that!" cried Jack in good English. He had no weapon, but he clenched his hand, and putting forth all his strength, dealt the Turk a blow between the eyes that sent him staggering against the opposite wall.
"Allah!" cried the discomfited follower of Mahomet, looking at him with a dazed, astonished air. An Armenian to strike a blow like that! Surely Shaytan had got into him!
"Come—come quickly," Vartan said, hurrying his sister on, for fear of pursuit. "More Dajeeks may come," he explained to Jack, who mounted guard on the other side of Elmas. "Let us go to the church. It is the nearest place where we can be safe."
"The Cathedral?"
"No; that is a long way off. My father's church."
They walked quickly, and were soon there. When in Urfa before, Jack had always attended the cathedral services; he had not entered the beautiful Protestant church since he saw the dead lying there in her peaceful rest, on the morning of his first arrival. Vartan led him through it; then, by the little side door, into his father's study. All around the room there were bookshelves, filled to overflowing, and with books in several languages. The Pastor was seated in a chair, before a little deal table, reading. He was dressedà la Frank, and when, after a few words from Vartan in Armenian, he rose and greeted his visitor in excellent English, Jack thought himself back in his own land again. He almost thought himself back again in the study of the good old clergyman who had been the pastor and teacher of his childhood.
It broke the illusion a little when that stately gentleman touched his own forehead, and stoopeddown to kiss the hand Jack stretched out to him, instead of taking it in a hearty grasp. But this was in especial thanks for the service rendered to his children, and a few earnest words just touched with Eastern grace were added.
The pastor said a word or two to Elmas and Vartan, who left the room. Then he invited Jack to take the one chair, and seated himself on the little divan under the window.
Delighted at hearing his native tongue so perfectly spoken, Jack said impulsively and in English,—
"Pastor, you are more than half an Englishman."
Pastor Stepanian shook his head rather sadly, but did not speak.
Then Jack remembered the nationality of the missionaries, his friends.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I meant—you are more than half an American."
"Neither English nor American," said Hagop Stepanian proudly. "Every drop of my blood, every pulse in my heart, belongs to my own race. But I am very grateful to the Americans, our benefactors."
The blood rushed to the face of John Grayson. "I am afraid," he said, "you have no cause to be grateful tous."
The pastor waved his hand. "I say nothing against the English," he said.—"Pardon me a moment."
He rose, looked carefully round, and opened both doors of the study, ascertaining in this way that there was no one within earshot, either in the churchyard or the church. Then he closed the doors again, sat down, lowered his voice, and began: "Have you been long enough in this country, Mr. Grayson, to have seen a dead horse, with half a dozen hungry dogs snarling round it? Each wants a bit, yet each is so jealous of all the rest, that if one dares touch it the others fall on him, and drive him off. Can you read my parable?"
"Yes; the nations, England and the others, stand thus around Turkey. Would itweredead, Pastor!"
"Take care, my young friend, lest some such word escape you as you walk by the way, or ride among the vineyards, or sit with a friend over your coffee in his private room, where the very hangings may conceal a spy."
"Oh, I am cautious enough. I have been here nearly five years."
"Were you here fifty, you might still have failed to learn your lesson. A word, a whisper, a scrap of paper found upon you,—nay, theassertion of some one else that you have given him a scrap of paper—may consign you any moment to a horrible dungeon, where you will be tortured into saying anything your accusers wish. Nor is that the worst. Men have been flung into prison, and tortured almost to death, without being able to guess the crime laid to their charge. I knew of one who was used in this way, and at last they found they had mistaken him for another of the same name. He was brought half dead before the Kadi, who said to him coolly, 'My son, regard it not. It was an error. Go in peace.'"
"The stupidity of these people would be ridiculous, if the horror were not too great," Jack said.
"Nay, Mr. Grayson, it is not stupidity. It is savagery, and savagery dominating civilization, but that savagery is armed with an ingenuity almost devilish for the bringing about of the designs in view. Allspecialoutrages upon the Christians are cleverly timed for some moment when the eyes of Christian Europe are turned elsewhere. Our people are first entrapped, made to give up their arms if they have any, cajoled with false promises of safety, if possible induced or forced to accuse each other, or themselves, of seditious plans they never even thought of."
"Then, Pastor, are all the rumours of plots and seditions here and there mere fabrications?"
"There are plots, no doubt,outsideArmenia. Bands of desperate exiles, in the great cities of Europe, have committees, hold meetings, make revolutionary plans. And I do not say their emissaries may not find a foothold and gain a hearing in some of our towns, those near the Russian frontier, for instance. ButIknow of none such. And I do know what happened here a short time ago. A young man, with an air of importance, and dressedà la Frank, appeared one day in the Cathedral. The bishop noticed him, sent for him, and asked his business in the town. He said he had come to ask help for the Zeitounlis, and to establish communications between them and the Urfans. The bishop answered him, 'In two hours you will be either outside the city gate, or in the guard-house. You have your choice. It is not that I do not desire the deliverance and the freedom of my people, but they will never gain it in this way. This is only pulling down our house upon our own heads.' So much, and no more, sedition and disloyalty has there been in this city, Mr. Grayson."
"But do you not think the worst for your country is over now? These Reforms——"
The Pastor shook his head. "Only another snare," he said. "At least, I forbode it. The Sultan gives us reforms on paper to lull us intosecurity, and to deceive our European friends, while he sharpens the dagger for our throats."
"You think then that the reforms are worth—"
"The paper they are written on. If the Sultan meant them even—which he does not—who are to carry them out? The Pashas, Valis, Kamaikans? They are our deadliest enemies. They want our lands, our houses, our gold; they want—the dreadful wordmustbe said—our wives and our daughters. And the Zaptiehs, the Redifs, the Hamidiehs, the Kourds and the Turkish rabble of every town want to share the spoil."
"Do they not think too that in killing us they do God service?" Jack said "us" quite naturally now.
"In literal truth. Have you never heard the prayer they recite daily in their mosques? 'I seek refuge with Allah from Shaytan the accuser. In the name of Allah the compassionate, the merciful! O Lord of all creatures! O Allah! destroy the Infidels and Polytheists, thine enemies, the enemies of the Religion! O Allah! make their children orphans, and defile their abodes! Cause their feet to slip, give them and their families, their households and their women, their children and their relations by marriage, their brothers and their friends, their possessions and their race, their wealth and their lands, as booty to the Moslems,O Lord of all creatures!' Rather a contrast this to 'Our Father which art in Heaven!'"
"Is it possible they think God will answer such a prayer?" said Jack.
"Theydothink it. You must remember their God is not the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, nor the Father of mankind. He represents Will and Power apart from love and righteousness. 'The will of Allah' means everything to them, but it is not necessarily a holy or a loving Will."
"Still people are often better than their creed, you know."
"They are. Moreover, the Moslems' creed has in it some grand elements of truth. They acknowledge one God, and they believe in the duty and the efficacy of prayer. Oh yes,—and there are some good and generous Turks, who are as kind to us as they dare to be. I have known such. There was one, a Pasha, who tried to rule according to the avowed intentions of the Sultan,notaccording to his secret instructions. He was deprived of his office, and banished to a distant part of the empire. There a friend of mine, a missionary, visited him not long ago. At first my friend was disappointed, for though the Turk received him with all cordiality, he could not be got to talk. But when he returned the missionary's visit,and in his lodgings felt tolerably safe, he told him that every step he took was dogged, every word he said reported by the Sultan's spies: even in his most private chamber he never knew what safety meant; a spy might lurk behind the tapestry or outside the door. 'I count my life,' he said, 'by days and hours. Soon or late I am sure to be murdered.' If he is, I think He who said, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these,' will have something to say to him."
"Surely in this land," Jack observed, "'he that departeth from evil maketh himself a prey.' But what do you think of the outlook here just now, Pastor?"
"Do you want to hear the truth, Mr. Grayson?"
"Certainly."
"Then I think, in the words of your own poet, it is 'dark, dark, dark, unutterably dark,' and the darkness is over all the land."
"Darker than it has been yet? Is that possible?" Jack queried.
"Yes, what was meant before was oppression. What is meant now is, I fear,extermination."
"But," said Jack, raising his head suddenly, while a new light shone in his eyes, "there is God to be reckoned with. DoesHemean it?"
"'His way is in the sea, His path is in the great waters, and His footsteps are not known.' Didyou notice the name of my boy, whom you helped so kindly just now?"
"Vartan,—in English, 'Easter.'"
"It is a name dear to every Armenian heart, the name of the hero saint of our race. And yet, Saint Vartan died in a lost battle. He fought against the Persians, who summoned the Armenians to submit to them, and to exchange the law of the Christ for the creed of the fire-worshipper. The Persians were strong and many, the Armenians were few and weak; but this was their answer, and Vartan's: 'We are not better than those before us, who laid down upon this testimony their goods and their bodies. Ask us no more, for the covenant of our faith is not with men, but in bonds indissoluble with God, for whom there is no separation or departure, neither now, nor ever, nor for ever—nor for ever and ever.' That is what we said fifteen hundred years ago, that is what we say to-day, when the darkest hour of the darkest night is falling over our land."
A pause followed, broken by Stepanian. "He died in a lost battle. The battle is lost, but the cause triumphs."
Jack had covered his face with his hands; but at these words he looked up again. "Then you see, beyond the darkness, a gleam of light?" he said.
"Mr. Grayson, I will tell you a parable. Lastspring my little son Armenag came with me one day to the vineyard. I showed him two vines. One of them was beautiful, covered with luxuriant leaves and tendrils; the other, a dry, bare stick, with branch and leaf and tendril cut away by a ruthless hand. 'Which of these two will you have for your own, to bear grapes for you by-and-by?' I asked the boy. Of course he chose the beautiful, leafy vine. But the other day, in the ingathering, I brought him there again. Lo! the vine that kept its leaves and branches had only a few poor stunted grapes, while the tree that had been stripped and cut down, was bending beneath the weight of its great clusters of glorious fruit."
"And?" said Jack, his eyes eagerly fixed upon the Pastor, who went on—
"I see some clusters ripening even now. Is it nothing, think you, that men and women, and children even, have been witnessing fearlessly unto death for the Lord they love? In very truth, like the witnesses of old, they have been tortured, not accepting deliverance. Many have already joined the noble army of martyrs. And many more are coming—ay, even from this place. Never of late have I stood up to preach, and looked down on the faces beneath me, without the thought that these, my people, may soon be standing in the presence of Christ. And I too—I shall see Him soon."
"Are you a prophet?" John Grayson asked, looking with amazement at the calm, refined, intellectual face of this gentleman of the nineteenth century, who spoke of his own martyrdom as certainly, as quietly, and as fearlessly, as if he had said, "I am going to France, or to England."
"I am no prophet, Mr. Grayson; but I think I can read the signs of the times. And though it becomes no man to answer for himself, there are things in which we may trust God to answer for us;—and things which He does not ask of us. He does not ask the shepherd to save himself when the sheep are smitten."
"But death is not theworstthing that happens here," Jack said very low, "nor even torture—would to God it were!"
"Don't you think I know that?" said the Pastor hoarsely, as a shade of anguish crossed his face. "Don't you think I thank God every hour for my Dead—my Dead, who died byHisHand?"
Jack remembered what he had seen in the church that day, and held his peace. A great silence fell upon them; then Hagop Stepanian stretched out his hand to Jack, and looked straight into his eyes. "Mr. John Grayson," he said, "do you trust God?"
Jack's frank blue eyes fell beneath the gaze of those dark, searching eyes, that seemed to have looked down into unfathomed depths of anguishand come back from them into peace. "I trust in God," he said very low.
"I am sure of it. But here, where we stand now, we want more. To overcome in this warfare, a man must have laid, wholly and without reserve, his own soul and body, and the souls and bodies that are dearer than his own, in the hands of his faithful Creator and Redeemer."
"Do you mean we must be willing, not only to suffer, but to see them suffer?" Jack asked in a broken voice. "That's against nature—impossible."
"Therefore God does not ask it of us. All He asks is that we should be willing for His will."
"NotHis will—oh,notHis will!" Jack said almost with a cry. "The will of wicked men—of devils!"
"Even so;—but He is stronger than they, and will prevail. Mr. Grayson, will you take my counsel?"
"Except it be to leave this place and save myself, which at present I cannot do."
"I know it: you have others, you haveanotherto think of,—No; you share our peril, and unless you share also our strong consolation you will be as those that go down into the pit, and your heart will die within you. Remember, you must trust God, and trust Him utterly. In all the generationsHe has never yet broken faith with one man who trusted Him so. He will bring you up out of the depths again, and you shall behold His righteousness, and one day you shall see His face with joy, and know wherefore He let these things come upon us."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Vartan and a younger boy, bringing coffee and sweetmeats. The Pastor drew the little one towards him, saying in Armenian, "Tell the English Effendi, Armenag, what our fathers in St. Vartan's day said to the Persians, when they bade them deny the Lord Jesus."
The child answered steadily, and as if he meant every word: "Ask us no more, for the covenant of our faith is not with man, but with God, for whom there is no separation or departure, neither now, nor ever, nor for ever, nor for ever and ever."
"And what has God said to them, and to us?"
The boy's young voice rang clear and high as he repeated his well-remembered lesson. "'The mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed, but My kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of My peace be removed, saith the Lord that hath mercy on thee. O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires. And I will make thywindows of agates, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones.'"
"I teach my children words like these," the Pastor said, reverting to English, "that they may know we are watchers for the morning. Which assuredly our eyes shall see, here or elsewhere," he added with a bright glance upwards.
Jack sat in silence for a space. Then, rising to take his leave, he grasped and wrung the Pastor's hand in true English fashion. "I will remember what you said about trusting God," he murmured.
"God, who is not only above you in heaven, but underneath you in the depths," the Pastor said. "There is no abyss you can sink into, where you cannot sink down on Him. And yet," he added with a smile, "I have good hopes of your safe return at last to your native land, along with your sweet bride Shushan, the daughter of our people. For you are an Englishman, and such are always protected here. And, when God gives you deliverance, think then of this Church of His, which is afflicted, tossed with tempests, and not comforted. May yours be the hand He uses to comfort her." Then, once more in Armenian, "Vartan, do you go with Mr. Grayson to his home; you can take him by the shortest way."
"Yes, father, but I want to tell you"—the boy lowered his voice—"Osman has just been here, tolet us know privately we should not try to hold a meeting for thanksgiving to-night. The Zaptiehs will disperse it by force."
"I will see what ought to be done.—So much for the Reforms, Mr. Grayson. But do not speak of this. Osman is a young Turk who bears us good will, as I have told you some do; and an incautious word might bring him into trouble. Once more, farewell; God bless you."
"In yon strait path a thousandMay well be stopped by three;Now who will stand on either hand,And keep the (way) with me?"—T. B. Macaulay.
"In yon strait path a thousandMay well be stopped by three;Now who will stand on either hand,And keep the (way) with me?"—T. B. Macaulay.
"In yon strait path a thousandMay well be stopped by three;Now who will stand on either hand,And keep the (way) with me?"—T. B. Macaulay.
"In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three;
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the (way) with me?"
—T. B. Macaulay.
Jack often went after this to the Protestant church to hear Pastor Stepanian preach. He had been much impressed by his words, and still more by his remarkable personality; and there was the added pleasure of worshipping with Shushan, who sat demurely by Miss Celandine on the women's side of the church. Oriort Elmas was there too—a noble-looking girl, a good deal taller than Shushan, and far less regularly beautiful, but with a face full of intelligence. He heard much of her courage and charity in ministering to the poor and sick, as well as of her loving care of her young brothers and sister. He met her once or twice at the Vartonians, with whom she was very intimate; and he thought Kevork a fortunate man; with the mental reservation that he was much more fortunatehimself—a reflection which makes it easy to "rejoice with them that do rejoice."
Jack heard from Shushan, when he visited her, many lamentations over the departure of her beloved young teacher, Miss Fairchild. Many stories lingered in Urfa, and were told him by the Vartonians, of those loving ministrations to the poor, and especially to the Sassoun refugees, which had nearly cost the young missionary her life; and also of the gratitude and affection with which they were repaid. Once during her illness, when her life was almost despaired of, a poor man, a seller of antiquities, heard that she had asked for fish. This seemed impossible to procure, for it was summer, and the Euphrates, from which fish was brought in winter, was two days' journey off. But, in the midst of the city is the beautiful Pool of Abraham, where are kept the sacred fish, which every one feeds, and which the Moslems esteem so highly, it is death to touch one of them. The poor Armenian watched by the pool until the darkest and most silent hour of the night; then, at the peril of his life, he caught some of the fish, and brought them to the Mission House. David's Three Mighty Men, who brought the water from the well of Bethlehem, did no more.
Very touching also was the story of the service held in the Cathedral to pray for her recovery. TheGregorian Bishop, and all the priests in the city took part in it, and the great building was thronged from end to end. "Godmustgive her back to us," the Armenians said.
On Sunday, the 27th of October, Jack attended Pastor Stepanian's church. After the service he went to meet his friends, who had most of them gone to the Cathedral. He saw, before he reached it, that something unusual was going on. All the Armenians he met seemed to be in a curious state of excitement; most of them were hurrying somewhere in hot haste. Whatever possessed them this time however, it was certainly not fear. The scraps of conversation that reached his ear savoured of hope, and of confident appeal to Law. "Have him up,"—"Go to Government House,"—"See what they will do," and words like these.
"Oh, Gabriel, is that you?" he cried, seeing the boy come towards him. "You will tell me, what is all this about?" Gabriel, who had been at the Cathedral, explained: "There was a crowd of us standing about in the churchyard after service, when a Turk came in. He looked from one to another, no one caring to say anything to him—though of course he had no business there—till at last he lighted upon poor Baghas, the money-changer. He began to curse him by the Prophet, and to give him all sorts of foul language. How had he, a dog of aGiaour, dared to come tohishouse, and ask him for money? Baghas stood his ground, with a courage that astonished us all. He told the Turk plainly it was all his own fault. What business had he to buy gold coins of him, if he could not pay for them? Let him give him the money he owed him, and make an end, that was all he wanted. There came to be a crowd round the two of them; yet was no man quick enough to stop the Turk when he flashed out his scimitar, and stabbed poor Baghas to the heart. 'Take that for payment, Giaour,' saith he. But he said no more; for our people closed upon him with a cry of rage. I heard them saying, 'Now we shall see the good of the Reforms!' 'Now we shall have justice!' 'Djanum[4]! are our men to be killed like dogs?' and more of that kind."
"Heaven send they have not harmed the Turk," Jack said; "the bill for that would be too heavy."
"I don't think they have. They got him in the midst of them, and they are taking him to the Government House, to lodge a complaint against him there."
"I remember once, in England, seeing a sparrow fly at a cat, in defence of her young. It reminds me of that," said Jack. "Gabriel, I want to seethis thing through, but I don't wantyouto come. There may be rough work."
"Oh, I shouldliketo come. I am not afraid."
"But, if you were hurt, Shushan would not like that; we must think of her."
"Yes," said Gabriel slowly. "Yon Effendi, I will go home."
With a self-denial Jack scarcely appreciated at its full value, he turned away and ran quickly down a side street. Jack went on his way, and he had no difficulty in finding it, for cries and shouts, and the trampling of many feet directed him to a market place, some distance off. Here, at first, he could not see the wood for the trees. All the place seemed full of Turks and Armenians mixed together, shouting, struggling, swaying, and pushing, now this way, now that. It seemed to be a free fight, but what they were all fighting about was not clear to an onlooker. Still, not to be left out when good things were going, Jack took his share by snatching a knife from the hand of a Turk who was threatening an Armenian with it.
Presently half a dozen Turkish horse—Regulars, with a splendid-looking officer at their head, came dashing into the square, and sending both Turks and Christians running in all directions. But one Turk did not run, for he lay dying on the ground. It was the murderer of Baghas. The soldiers tookup the wounded man and set him on a horse. And then the Turks began to return; a number of them gathered round the group, with a few Christians also. Jack heard them cry out that the man was dying.
"How did you get here, Yon Effendi?" said the voice of Barkev Vartonian beside him.
"I met Gabriel, and came. What are they going to do?"
"Going to take the man to the Government House, I suppose. They will never get him there alive."
"Barkev, who killed him?"
"The zaptiehs, of course, when they could not get him from us. Isawone of them stab him with a bayonet."
"I thought one of our people might have done it, seeing they wanted to take him from us."
"How, save with sticks or stones? We have nothing else, as you know. But the Turks will try to put it on us, no doubt. Come along to the Government House, and let us see what happens."
As they reached the place, Barkev exclaimed, "Djanum! there is Dr. Melkon, of all men, in the hands of the zaptiehs. What canhehave done?"
"Not arrested as a criminal, I hope, but called in as a doctor," said Jack, as they came up.
If so, the wounded Turk was beyond his skill.They heard those around him saying he was dead. At the same time Melkon's voice reached their ears. He could do no good now, he pleaded, entreating the Turks to let him go about his business, which was urgent. He had a serious case to attend to—a Mussulman Effendi.
No; he must stay, and certify to the cause of death. Barkev and Jack followed the crowd, which streamed into the Government House—an open court, where they could see all that passed.
They saw the body laid on a divan, and they saw Melkon approach to examine it. The Turkish officer stood beside him, a drawn sword in his hand.
"This man has been killed by the blows of sticks or bludgeons," he said, in a loud voice. Melkon stooped over the body; the officer stooped also, and whispered something in his ear.
Almost instantly Melkon stood up, his face pale as that of the dead man who lay before them. For once the noisy, chattering Eastern crowd kept a profound silence. Melkon's low, firm voice reached every ear,—
"This man has died of wounds inflicted by the bayonet."
"No case against us," Barkev said.
But Melkon had sealed his own death warrant, and he knew it. For one moment he faced the crowd—
"I can die, but I cannot lie," he said.
His voice was drowned in a howl of execration, and a dozen furious hands laid hold on him at once.
"To the rescue!" cried Jack and Barkev together, dashing in amongst the throng.
"Keep quiet!" muttered a voice beside them, and a Turk they knew laid his hand on Barkev's shoulder. "Keep quiet and go home," he went on in a whisper; "my brothers have got the doctor, and will hide him in our house. He has attended us; we like him, and we will not let him be killed."
Somewhat comforted, the young men went home. As they passed through the streets, the Moslems greeted them with threats and insults.
"We will soon make an end of you, dogs of Giaours," they cried. Boys threw stones at them, and women screamed curses—foul and hideous Turkish curses—at the top of their shrill voices.
"I do not like the look of things at all," said Barkev, when they got into their own quarter.
"Nor I," Jack answered. "I think it would be no harm for some of us to keep watch to-night. I volunteer, for one." And he went apart to clean his precious revolver, and to load the two serviceable barrels. He had not dared to get it set in order; that would have been far too dangerous.
The night, so far as they knew, passed quietly away. Many Armenians had shops or booths, or other business to attend to outside their own Quarter, and this was the case with some members of the Vartonian family. On Monday morning the women prayed of them to stay at home, and, indeed, the greater number did so. But others thought it the part of wisdom, as well as of manly courage, to go about as usual. Barkev Vartonian was amongst these, and Jack went with him for company.
They had not gone far beyond the limits of their own Quarter when a boy ran against them, screaming with terror, and caught Jack by the zeboun.
"What is it? What is the matter, poor child?" he asked; then looking more closely cried out, "Hagop! Hagop Meneshian! How is this? Have you all come? Where are you?"
"We came in at the gate," Hagop gasped out. "Then the Dajeeks set on us with sticks and stones and knives. Oh, they are going to kill us! What shall we do?"
"Don't be afraid; we will protect you. Where are the rest?"
"Down there—in the Market Place—the corner, by the dead wall. Kevork and the others are defending the women and children as well as theycan. I slipped through somehow, and ran on to tell you."
"Don't come back with us. Run along that narrow street, keep to the right, and once in our Quarter you will be safe. Ask any one for Baron Vartonian's house. You can send us any men you find to help."
Barkev and Jack hurried on to the rescue of their friends. They were met on their way by a hideous rabble of Turkish men and boys, the very scum of the city, who were dragging along at the end of a rope, with shouts and ribald laughter—something. Was that a human form, so horribly torn and mutilated? Was that a human face? Was it the face they saw, not four and twenty hours ago, white and set, yet calm in its brave resolve?
"It is Melkon," Jack whispered in horror; "they have killed him. Oh, God, what things are done here!"
"Come on! come on! Don't look," said Barkev. "We have my cousins to save from a like fate."
They found the Meneshians in a corner of the Market Place, still keeping the foe at bay. They had the advantage of being, most of them, on horses or on mules; but the density of the hostile crowd, and the number of women and children they had with them, had kept them from breakingthrough, while they made all the better mark for stones and mud.
However, their tormentors were getting tired of a kind of sport which yielded no profit. Rather a pity, when their brethren were looting the well-stocked Armenian shops in the Bazaar! So the crowd soon gave way sufficiently to enable Jack and Barkev to extricate their friends, and they led the terrified party towards the Armenian Quarter. Some were bleeding from the stones that had been thrown at them; all had their clothing torn and disfigured with mud. The children were crying, and two or three of the women were ready to faint.
Meanwhile, there was a roar behind them like the roar of many waters, breaking on a rock-bound shore. The mob—the savage mob of an Eastern city—was "up." "Death to the Giaours!" was the cry that rose and surged, surged and rose again. The luckless Armenians who had ventured into the Turkish town were fleeing before the storm,—fleeing for their lives, many of them streaming with blood.
Would that mob pour on, like sea waves in a storm, into the narrow streets of the Armenian Quarter? Would they slay utterly young and old, men and maidens and little children? No, the weak should not die, if the strong could protect them.Barkev, Kevork, Jack, and other young men sent the rest on before them, and took their stand in a narrow street at the entrance of their Quarter. It bade fair to be a little modern Thermopylæ. Surely neither Greek nor Roman ever fought in a holier cause, or for dearer issues; nor against greater odds, nor with more determined courage.
Gabriel, just back from school, came with the rest. Jack sent him for his revolver. "You know where to get it," he said. The others armed themselves, as they could, with sticks and stones. Not another firearm was seen, save this revolver.
The Turks had plenty of firearms. With the rabble were mingled regular soldiers, Zaptiehs, Redifs, Hamidiehs, Kourds, all fully armed, all thirsting for blood and plunder. The Armenians could scarcely have held their own had they not had good allies on the flat roofs of their houses. These had all parapets of loose stones, treasuries of effective weapons for the men, the women, and the boys, who flung them down on the heads of the Moslems.
Jack's two barrels were soon emptied, as two of the Turks knew to their cost. But he could not reload, so a friend behind him snatched the weapon out of his hand, and thrust into it a stout bludgeon. With this he played the man, his whole soul in the blows he dealt. He wasfighting for dear life—for dearer lives than his own. Was it minutes, hours, years that he stood there, struggling in that desperatemêlée? Were the Moslems giving ground at last? What did it mean? There certainly was a space growing before the defenders; they had room now to breathe. Two or three Turks lay in the street dead or dying, others were well bruised with bludgeons or cut with stones. A panic began among them. And presently—for an Eastern crowd does nothing by halves—the street was cleared with a rush. It was a regular stampede.
The Christians drew breath, and looked one another in the face. "Safe at last!" Jack said.
"For the present," said Kevork, wiping his brow. But the next moment he cried in horror, "My father! he is dying!"
The Christians, of course, had suffered in the fray. Several lay dead, others were sorely wounded. One of these was Boghos, who, though no longer young, had chosen to take part in the defence. Jack and Kevork, in great distress, carried him into a house at hand; the owner, a carpenter named Selferian, cordially inviting them in, and his handsome, intelligent wife, Josephine Hanum by name, bringing linen and cold water, while the eldest boy ran for the nearest doctor. Fortunately, the wound, when examined by him,did not seem to be immediately dangerous, though it was certainly serious.
When the Armenians had time to compare notes, it appeared that all the principal entrances to their Quarter had been defended with the same desperate courage and with equal success. There was considerable loss of life, inevitable when their assailants had firearms and they had none, but at least for the present they were safe, with their wives and children.
That is to say, they were safe within the limits of their own Quarter; outside of it, even at its very entrance, every Armenian was mercilessly slain. At least, to be accurate, the men and the boys were slain. Armenian shops, of which there were many, including the best and richest in the town, were given over to plunder, and Armenian houses shared the same fate.
Still, at first, in the Armenian Quarter, the feeling was one of relief. When a naked sword that has been held at your throat is suddenly withdrawn, your first sensation is delightful, whatever the next may be. It took the Armenians some days at least to realize two awful facts: that their friends and relatives outside were hopelessly lost, and that they were themselves straitly shut up and besieged.
Had the Meneshian family been twelve hourslater in entering the town, not one of them, probably, would have been left alive. Their journey from Biridjik to Urfa had been a most perilous one, as every Moslem in the country seemed to be in arms against them. They could scarcely have accomplished it at all but for an expedient of Kevork's. Jack had provided a Kourdish dress for him, as well as for himself and for Shushan, supposing that he would return with them to Urfa. He wore this during the journey, and rode boldly in front of the party, whose guide and protector he was supposed to be. He had changed it, however, before entering the city, as he never dreamed of dangerthere, and imagined it would expose him to ridicule.
Great anxiety was felt about Miss Celandine, and the other inmates of the Mission premises. But this, as far as Jack was concerned, was soon allayed, though in a way that caused his friends a terrible alarm. Two zaptiehs came to the Vartonian house, enquiring for one Grayson Effendi. Every one thought nothing less than that he had been identified in the crowd at the gate as the man who used the revolver, and that this summons meant imprisonment, as bad or worse than death. Great was the relief when it proved to mean only a polite request to visit Miss Celandine. True to his system—and hedoes everything upon system—the Turk would not willingly injure a foreign subject. Miss Celandine therefore was not only left unmolested, but given a guard of zaptiehs to protect her premises from the mob. These zaptiehs did their work faithfully; and it seems that some of them at least were won to regard their charges with respect and liking.
Jack went to the Mission House, as safe in reality as if he had been walking in a London street, though under the escort of men who, at a word from their captain, would have torn him limb from limb with the greatest pleasure in the world. He found the mission premises crowded with persons who had taken refuge there during the late disturbances. Many of them were wounded, and all were destitute. The courtyard was filled with them, as well as most of the rooms of the house. Miss Celandine—who, since the departure of her youthful fellow-worker, had stood completely alone—looked ten years older than when he saw her last. Thinner she could scarcely be, but her eyes had dark circles round them, and her face an abiding look of horror. She led him into the only private room she had left, and made anxious enquiries about the state of the Armenian Quarter, which, although it was at her very gates, it was practically impossible forher to enter. Then she said, "Mr. Grayson, I am sending to the Pasha to ask for a passport."
"It is what any one would do in your place—what any one else would have done long ago," he answered.
"This is why I do it. The danger seems over here. The massacre is stopped. Yet I cannot resume my work amongst the people; that is not permitted to me. Here I am useless; I am only witnessing misery I cannot relieve. But in England or America I could do a great deal. I could tell the truth—the very truth—about what is done here. If England and America knewthat, I think it would change everything. I am persuaded better things of my fellow-Christians than that they would sit still and tolerate the destruction—with every aggravation of refined, diabolical cruelty—of a nation of Christians, only because theyareChristians."
Miss Celandine seldom spoke in this way; but her heart was hot and sore within her, she had just been hearing a recital of horrors such as may not be mentioned here, and was in no mood to guard her words. The hatred of Turks for Armenians is a growth of centuries, rooted in complex causes; but the fact that they are Christians lifts the bridle from the jaws of the oppressor, making every act of cruelty to them a merit—theirextermination a holy war. And since by embracing Islam they would come under the protection of the Prophet, it is because of their firm adherence to their faith that these unhappy ones are given over to the sword,and worse.
"You are right to go," Jack said simply. "And oh!" he added, his eyes kindling and his whole face changing, "you will take Shushan with you? That is what you mean—why you sent for me. God bless you, ten thousand times!"
The smile that lit up the worn face made it very sweet to look upon. "Yes, my dear boy," she said. "I do mean that. But I dare not take her with me, either as Shushan Meneshian, or under the name she has now a right to bear. It would cause too much remark and enquiry. No; she had better pass as one of my servants, a certain number of whom I have the right to take. But this is what I sent for you to ask: Will you also apply for a passport, and come with us?"
Jack was silent. Indeed, he could not speak, for the fierce hope, the passionate longing that arose within him was too strong for words. To leave all this misery, to stand with Shushan on the shores of England—free!