CHAPTER XXXI

DRIVEN ON

The next morning, while Takvor and the innkeeper were sitting in the room with Dicran discussing the probable outcome of the “question,” as the massacre was called, the girls were standing in the doorway, looking toward the village square, where they saw the mollah with a few of the Faithful peering into the well. The labor of bringing water from a distant spring had at last driven the Turks to remove the dead. The girls shuddered, for the group of men vividly recalled the horrible scene which they sought to efface from their minds. Suddenly the heavy tread of the approaching patrol caught their attention. Armenouhi turned and saw the chaoush, rifle in hand, rapidly approaching. With a scream she darted into the house.

“The chaoush! the chaoush!” she gasped. “Don’t let him take me away.”

The men within, hearing the cry, rushed to the hall, while the chaoush, who had already entered, sulkily stopped at the appearance of the unexpected encounter.

“I’ll have you yet,” he muttered, as he slowly returned to his soldiers.

It had occurred neither to Takvor nor to Armenouhi that there could still be danger in Ak Hissar. It seemed to them that when once they had reached home, everything would continue about as it had before the massacre; the Armenians might still be closely watched, or their freedom be somewhat restricted, yet life, they thought, would be safe. The chaoush had made little effort to recapture Armenouhi in Brusa; he reasoned rightly that she would return to her people and that if he were ever to retake her, it would be at Ak Hissar. Moreover, should he not find her, the post which he had deserted, if still vacant, would afford him a livelihood; and leaving his family to shift for themselves, he set out on foot, passed the two dervishes, and reached Ak Hissar a day before them. His absence had not yet been reported; his soldiers were still awaiting his return; and he continued his work as if it had not been interrupted.

The three men in Dicran’s house watched the chaoush until he joined the group of men at the well, and then returned to the room where Armenouhi, trembling with fear, was sitting on the divan. From the window they could see her enemy loitering as if to witness the raising of the bodies from the well, but the frequent glances he cast in their direction disclosed his real intention of watching for the girl. There was little to prevent his seizing her. Even to the government no appeal could be made. Indeed, the very person who should have aided her was he from whom she sought to be protected. Should the chaoush succeed in his attempt, there would be no redress; no court or judge would condemn a Turkish soldier in a case against a Christian. If Armenouhi would be saved, she must be taken away, and at once. While the three men stood at the window silently watching the chaoush, each was trying to think of some plan for her escape. The priest’s work at the well was progressing, and by noonday the last load of the dead was driven away to the final resting place outside the village; but the chaoush remained sitting in the shade of the plane tree, with his eyes fixed on Dicran’s house.

“My child,” began the old man, after having spent half the day in trying to come to a decision, “you must again disguise yourself as a dervish and go to Constantinople. You will be safer with Aunt Vartouhi than here.”

The plan commended itself better than any other, and the remainder of the day was spent in restoring to the faces and hands of Takvor and Armenouhi the stain they had been trying so hard to remove. By dark they were again in their dervish costumes, ready for their journey, while the chaoush was still sitting before the inn. Whether it was his purpose to attack the house during the hours of darkness, or merely to see that Armenouhi did not again escape him, was uncertain. Though the lights in Dicran’s house were extinguished as if all within had retired for the night, the soldier remained at his post. It was midnight when the watchers at the window saw him enter the inn. The time for the dervishes to start on their journey had come. It was a sad parting. The old man embraced Armenouhi, and fondly kissed her as if he were never to see her again.

“Take this for her, and if you need it, for yourself,” he whispered to Takvor, handing him a small bag of gold liras. “It is nearly all that Hassan has left me. I need not ask you to protect her,” he continued, “nor bid you care for her when I am gone; she has always been yours more than mine.”

As if to express her full approval of her grandfather’s words, Armenouhi placed her hand within Takvor’s and together they silently passed through the open door into the darkness without. Only the stars lighted their way as they noiselessly left the village by the road to Ismid.

At daybreak the next morning, when the innkeeper went to the stable to hitch his horse to the carriage, the chaoush, satisfied that Armenouhi could not escape him, was already at his post, patiently watching the house. He seemed to regard the innkeeper as one of Armenouhi’s protectors; for he watched all his movements and was rejoiced to see him leave the village by the road that led to Brusa. Had he continued his watching, he could have seen him cross the fields to the west of the village, and hasten on toward Ismid. If at midday, his vision, instead of being confined to the house before him, could have reached fifteen miles or more westward, he would have seen two tired, hungry dervishes, sitting by the roadside waiting for an approaching carriage. Could his ears have caught sounds so remote, he would have heard the Greek’s hearty laugh, and two deep sighs of relief as the dervishes hastily climbed into the carriage to increase the distance that separated them from Ak Hissar.

After a difficult journey of two days, the innkeeper and his two dervish passengers reached Haidar Pasha in time to catch the last boat across the Bosphorus. Mingling with the crowds on the Galata bridge, they passed unnoticed. At Stamboul the innkeeper motioned to a Greek driver, and hurrying the dervishes into the closed carriage, climbed to the seat beside him. A few minutes later they stopped before Vartouhi’s house in Kum Kapu. The house seemed deserted. The shades were closely drawn, and no light was visible. The innkeeper alighted, and struck the iron knocker. No answer but the resounding echo. Again he struck, louder than before, and waited. Presently the corner of a window shade moved slightly as if somebody were stealthily peeking out. Once more he struck, and a woman’s voice faintly inquired who was there.

“Aunt Vartouhi!” called Armenouhi, from the carriage; “Takvor and I have come.”

The key turned, the bolt slid back, and the door slowly opened. Takvor and Armenouhi entered, followed by the innkeeper. Aunt Vartouhi, refastening the door, led the way through the dark hall to a dimly lighted room in the rear of the basement. Here for the first time she noticed the strange appearance of her unexpected guests.

“Mashallah! What is the meaning of all this?” was her anxious inquiry.

“Don’t be alarmed, auntie. We have had so much trouble, and poor father is gone, but we are here safe and sound,” and Armenouhi went on to relate the awful experiences that had befallen them.

The aunt was deeply affected by hearing of the death of her brother Vartan, and in reply to Armenouhi’s inquiry concerning uncle Varhan, Vartouhi’s husband, she gave way to tears. For three long weeks he had been absent, ever since the morning of the massacre, and though she sometimes feared he too had been lost, she was still waiting and hoping to hear his familiar knock at the door. As the long weary days passed, she grew more timid and lonely, and now she seldom ventured from the little basement room. She was glad to have Armenouhi with her, to help wear away the dreary hours while waiting for the husband who was never to return.

In the morning the innkeeper took his leave of his friends to return to Brusa.

Sometimes in the lowest walks of life, among people who are strangers to culture and humanizing influences, a great, kind soul is found. Such was this Greek. Rough and uncultured, his neighbors called him unchristian, and the parish priest had often told him that his soul, never purified by prayers and by offerings to the church, was in constant danger. This was the man who neglected his business, spent his money, and ran the risk of arrest, imprisonment, and death, to assist a helpless girl of another race. It was in vain that Takvor tried to recompense him for his kindness.

“Some other time,” was his only reply.

Takvor pressed the hand of his great-hearted friend, and watched him till he was out of sight, tears of gratitude filling his eyes.