CHAPTER XII

BEFRIENDED

Through a hole in one of the shutters Takvor could see all that was happening without. Scores of the dead were lying in the street. The savage brutes, crazed by the sight of blood, turned this way and that, uncertain what to do next. From around the corner came men with iron bars, to break open the fastenings of the Armenian shops. As soon as the shutters of a shop were pried open, Kurds with clubs in their hands, dragged out the victims and left their bodies in a heap on the sidewalk.

The great Kurd who had shadowed Takvor approached the English store and placed his bar beneath the fastenings of the shutters. The fugitives within, who had believed themselves safe, heard the sound, and rushed behind the counters or to the cellar, to conceal themselves, and only a few clerks and the half-conscious Takvor remained visible. The faithful Turkish porter who was still outside, stepped before the Kurd, and declared on oath that only Englishmen were within. It was the word of one Moslem to another, and the store with all in it was spared.

Takvor was still gazing into the street when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder and heard a voice speaking his name. He raised his eyes and stared inquiringly into the face of his old Greek friend and college mate, Taviloudes.

“Here, Takvor, drink this,” and he held a glass to his motionless lips.

When Takvor had swallowed the draught, the Greek took him by the arm and led him through the store and up the stairs to a little room overlooking the Golden Horn. He made him lie down on the bed, and sat silently at his side until finally the vacant stare began to disappear from the boy’s eyes.

“Do you know where you are, Takvor?”

“Yes, I know now,” came the faint reply; but it was some time before he was able to explain that he had just escaped from the Buyuk Zaptieh.

Taviloudes bathed his hands and face, and placed before him a steaming cup of chocolate and such food as the circumstances would permit him to prepare. And then the afternoon was spent in removing the traces of prison life.

Darkness came, and the Armenians below were persuaded to leave their hiding places and eat the food which the Turkish porter had made ready. With a substantial meal Takvor’s strength and courage returned. At midnight, when the fiends in the streets had become quiet, the porter slowly raised the iron shutters of the door, and listened. Not a sound was heard, and Takvor stepped out into the black night. The shutters were again drawn down and fastened, and he listened again. The street was as silent as the grave, and he slowly groped his way through the darkness.