CHAPTER XIX

FOR THE PADISHAH

The first glance at Armenouhi revealed to the chaoush her remarkable beauty. She was not so plump as most Turks wish their wives to be, yet there was something about her which reminded him of the wealthy Frank ladies and the wives of the Sultan’s harem. She was exceedingly pale; her cheeks were stained with tears; her hair, no longer held together, fell in profusion about her shoulders; and her dress was soiled; yet never had he imagined a dark-eyed houri of paradise half so beautiful. The great, blue eyes, which some called evil eyes, looked into his for just an instant when he lighted the match in the dark cellar; there was no trace of evil in them. Now they seemed to lack that deep expression, and were staring vacantly. What had the young man called her? Was it “Armenouhi?” He wondered if that could be her name. He spoke it aloud, and looked into her eyes to read the answer. Her head was drooping, her face half concealed by the flowing hair, and her eyes gave no response. Moved by pity, he brushed the hair from her forehead with his big rough hand, and while doing so, one of his soldiers made as if he would touch her.

“Leave her alone,” growled the chaoush, striking the uplifted hand.

A coarse grin spread over the faces of the soldiers. Then one of them pinched her arm.

“I tell you to leave her alone; she is mine,” roared the chaoush; and pointing to the one who had pinched her, he commanded him to bring a horse. He lifted Armenouhi to the saddle, sprang up behind, and hitting the horse with the butt of his gun, rode rapidly toward the mountain. Vassinag was left with the four brutal soldiers; her eyes closed, her head fell forward, and she slipped through the arms of her captors to the ground.

The chaoush had abandoned his post, but that mattered little; for in the general excitement he would hardly be missed. Moreover, his mind was too occupied to think of such a trivial matter, for visions of great wealth and royal favor were fast rising before him; and it seemed to him that at last he could restore the old home, and be a pasha, as his father had been. He would place Armenouhi in his house in Brusa, under the care of his mother, and at Beiram, when the Sultan added a wife to his harem, he would present her to him. The Padishah had great wealth, and for such a wife the reward could not be small. It would be well for the girl too, and at the thought a feeling somewhat akin to kindness possessed him. If she but knew that some day she was to be the wife of the great Padishah, how happy she would be! In his newly found hope he had already forgotten the scene of an hour before, and was unable to understand why his captive should lean so lifelessly upon him. He would not harm her, not even touch her, for she was reserved for the Padishah. He would speak comfortingly to her, and then she would be happy and talk to him.

“Armenouhi,” he began, as gently as his guttural voice would allow.

She seemed not to hear.

“Armenouhi,” he repeated, a little louder.

Still there was no response; and thinking that perhaps it was not her name, he again looked into her face.

“The little Armenian!” he mumbled half aloud. “No other name could suit her better,” and that he decided it should be.

“Armenouhi,” he repeated, “you are safe. Nobody shall harm you. You shall be the wife of the great Padishah, and live at Yildiz. You shall have silk dresses and diamonds; and slaves and carriages; and go to Selamlik; and some day perhaps you may be the Valide Sultana. You should be happy now, Armenouhi, for never again shall you live at Ak Hissar with dirty Armenians. I will take you to Yildiz, to the Padishah.”

For just an instant Armenouhi piteously raised her eyes to the soldier’s face; her lips moved as if she would speak, but no sound came. The horrors she had witnessed that day had robbed her of her speech. The chaoush could not understand her silence; for what Circassian or Albanian would not leap with joy at such a proposal? Disappointed, yet not discouraged, he redoubled his efforts to win her confidence, and stopping his horse by the wayside, he broke a leafy branch from an overhanging tree that he might protect her head from the scorching rays of the sun.

It was a journey of twenty-two hours from Ak Hissar to Brusa; but with two on the horse the chaoush did not hope to accomplish it in less than three days. It was late in the afternoon before they reached the spring on the summit of the mountain. He dismounted and looked into the valley from which they had ascended. A thin column of smoke was still curling up from the dying embers of the church. Before him, by the lake on the other side of the mountain, lay the little town of Isnik, two hours away. Not wishing to reach the village before dark, he led his horse into the shade of a large tree, beneath which was a spring bubbling up through the sand and rocks, and lifted Armenouhi from the saddle. She sank to the ground, burying her face in her hands. He stood for a moment looking at her, and then going to the spring, washed the old gourd which the shepherds used for a drinking cup, filled it with water, and carried it to her.

“Drink, Armenouhi; it will do you good.”

She remained silent and motionless. Again he offered her the gourd, but there was no response.

“Don’t be afraid, child; I would not harm you; and Yallah! if anybody so much as puts a finger on you, he shall take a short road to paradise.”

At this suggestion of kindness Armenouhi slightly raised her head, but immediately hid it as before. Encouraged by the movement, he drew a handkerchief from his belt, moistened it, and in his clumsy way bathed her forehead. Then for the first time he noticed how big and red were the stains on her white dress. He refilled the gourd and tried to wash them away. When his efforts only increased their size and ugliness, he ceased, and stood wondering where he could take her for the night. If they remained in the fields, they could probably escape observation, but the brigands who infested the region might steal her from him; besides, she was not a rough soldier like himself, who could sleep in the open. If he should seek protection in Isnik, he feared what the people might say of her helpless condition and of the traces of blood. Pulling off his coat, he wrapped it about her, but it scarcely concealed the half of her skirt. He recalled an old shepherd hut down on the slope of the mountain, where he might find something to cover her. With this new hope he again bathed her forehead, and lifting her to the saddle, started down the mountain.

“My sister has met with an accident,” he mumbled to the old woman he found spinning before the hut, “and I have nothing to protect her; can you not let me have something to wrap about her?”

She had lived too long among brigands to express any astonishment at Armenouhi’s appearance. At the same time she would have refused his request if he had not been a chaoush. Groaning of her poverty, she hobbled into the hut and presently returned with a long black cloak, which she put about the girl. Without even a word of thanks, the chaoush rode on, leaving her staring after him, indignant at his ingratitude.

It was dark when the chaoush, with Armenouhi on the saddle before him, passed through the ancient, crumbling gateway of Isnik, and stopped before the door of the inn. To the innkeeper he explained that he was carrying a sick girl home to her mother in Brusa; and the one vacant chamber was placed at his disposal. He lifted Armenouhi from the horse, carried her upstairs, and laid her on the bed. He went and prepared hot milk and rice, and took them to her. Before he left her for the night, he removed the long black cloak, and again bathed her face. He then went out and closed the door, spread his coat for a bed in front of it, lay down, and was soon fast asleep.

At dawn he stood at the door and listened. No sound came from within. He knocked; but there was no answer. He opened the door and entered. Armenouhi was lying on the bed as he had left her the night before, and the food at her side was untasted. He spoke, but her half-opened eyes betrayed no consciousness of his presence.

“Why doesn’t she speak to me?” he mused, as he removed the untasted food and placed fresh coffee at her side.

Though she seemed unconscious, he urged her to drink, for soon they must continue their journey. Half an hour later, again finding her in the same position, he placed the coffee to her lips; she only raised her sad eyes, and left it untasted. Wrapping the cloak about her, he lifted her and carried her to the horse waiting below.

They passed the second night at an inn at Yeni Shehir; but Armenouhi took no food. It was only toward the evening of the third day, when she was cooling her head with water from a spring near Brusa, that she ate two of the grapes he had picked from a vineyard by the roadside. It was the first food she had tasted for sixty hours.

“That is right, Armenouhi,” he said kindly. “Eat more; for we have had a long ride to-day.”

Not yet had the chaoush heard his captive speak. Not one of his many questions had she answered; and only occasionally, when he brought her water or fruit, did she turn her eyes to him. The stories which he told her brought no smile, nor had she shed a tear since they left Ak Hissar.

Again it was dark when they climbed the narrow street in Brusa. Stopping before a large wooden house with latticed windows, he dismounted and knocked. The door was opened by a tall black eunuch, who lifted Armenouhi from the saddle and carried her within; the chaoush followed leading his horse.