CHAPTER XXXVII

DARKNESS

Papasian, the priest, found little difficulty in procuring a passport for Armenouhi to return to Ak Hissar; it is only when an Armenian would travel from the interior to the capital that the government raises its inexplicable objections. Early the second morning after Vartouhi’s funeral, when for a moment the pasha’s spy seemed to be absent from his place of duty, Armenouhi left the priest’s house and started for her old home. Frequently she glanced about to see if she was being followed. Observing nothing to arouse her suspicion, she thought she had at last made her escape from Hassan. But to leave no clew by which he might trace her to her destination, she purchased a ticket to Eski Shehir, a junction far beyond Ak Hissar, where travelers to the distant interior pass the night.

It was shortly after noon when the train stopped at Ak Hissar, and she alighted and passed through the gate to the village. Even here five years had wrought changes. Adobe houses for the railroad employees had sprung up near the station, and the ruins of the old white castle, long used as a quarry, had entirely disappeared. The well still provided the village with water, but the big plane tree which formerly shaded it was no more. On the sacred spot where the little church once stood was a larger building, its lofty minaret towering above the roof with an air of mocking triumph. Only the old narrow street was familiar, though the faces were strange. Stranger still seemed her grandfather’s shop; for it was closed and securely fastened with iron bars. She approached the old home that had filled her thoughts and dreams during all the years of her absence, and it too had a strange appearance of dilapidation. With beating heart, she entered the half open doorway and was asked by an aged female servant, a stranger to her, what she wished.

“Is Dicran here?” she asked almost in a whisper.

The old servant merely pointed to a door.

The silence was oppressive. Armenouhi hesitated and then slowly pushed the door open. There on the bed, just where she had left him five years before, lay her grandfather, but how changed! His great strong body had wasted away until only its frame remained; his long white beard was unkempt and scraggy; his once rugged cheeks were hollow; and his glassy eyes stared vacantly toward her.

“Don’t you know me, Dede?” and her voice choked as she bent over him.

Slightly raising himself that he might see better, a sign of recognition came to his eyes.

“Armenouhi!” he said in a husky, almost inaudible voice.

She bent down and tenderly kissed his forehead, and sitting by the bedside, caressed his hand. He was too weak to talk much, but a strange new light of joy, shining in his eyes, gave expression to his thoughts.

“Why did you come?”

“Just to see you, Dede,” was her answer, for she was unwilling to grieve him with the truth. “Where is Vassinag?” she asked, hoping to turn his thoughts from the questions she feared he might ask.

Closing his eyes as if unable to answer, the old man remained silent. Armenouhi rested her hand on his forehead. Presently his eyes opened.

“She has gone. She is with her mother.”

Armenouhi understood; poor Vassinag was dead.

Little life remained in the old man, too, and that little was rapidly ebbing away. Armenouhi watched over him day and night to make his last moments comfortable. How glad she was that she had come in time to see him once more! and in her great love for him she forgot her own troubles. Now and then the simple village physician came, but Dicran was already beyond the aid even of the most skillful. He grew rapidly weaker, and ten days after Armenouhi’s arrival his body was laid to rest in the little cemetery behind the village.

Armenouhi stood at the open grave weeping as if her heart would break. Her Dede was gone, and she was comfortless. The priest was performing the last rites, annointing the body with oil, and sprinkling earth upon it, to consign it to the dust from which it came. Unable longer to look at the silent form, Armenouhi raised her tear-filled eyes. Directly before her, on the opposite side of the grave, and steadily watching her with a mocking look of triumph, stood the spy. Her heart seemed to stop beating. She took one long last look at the half covered body of the dead, and then seizing the arm of the old servant, hastened home. From the doorway of the now vacant house she looked back. The spy was following. With her last strength, she hurriedly closed the door and fastened it with the heavy iron bolt, and then half threw herself, half fell, on her grandfather’s empty bed.

How dark and dreary the world seemed! Dede, her protector, was no more; her aunt was dead; Vassinag was dead; Takvor was beyond her reach; the spy from whom she had escaped had again found her, and now, alone and unprotected, she would soon be dragged away. Why could she not die and end it all? Nobody would mourn her, except Takvor; and after these five long years perhaps he would no longer miss her. Darkness came; and still longing for the end, she remained motionless on the bed; at midnight relief seemed no nearer, and she was still awake and thinking. Must she not attempt to escape by flight before the morrow, when the spy would come with soldiers to carry her away? Yet where could she go? Even had she a place of shelter, or a friend to protect her, she would soon be found and forced into Hassan’s harem. She was glad that Dicran was dead, for now he could never know her sorrow. How her heart ached! If the long line of proud Armenian kings of whom Dede had often spoken could but now behold her, their last descendant! but they could not; they were dead; their country was dead; their people were dying; and if only she too might die! When it was nearly daylight, sleep came mercifully to her.

At midday she awoke with a start, and bewildered, sat staring vacantly about her. Suddenly the agonizing thoughts of the night returned, and in despair she again fell back on the pillow. Courage usually comes with rest and food, and so it was with Armenouhi. After drinking the coffee which the servant had brought her, she arose with the determination of forming some plan of action. Presently her eyes fell on the stone in the middle of the floor, beneath which Dicran used to conceal his papers and money. She pried it up and opened the iron box. It was empty. Lifting the box from the hole, she opened the one beneath. It contained a few worthless papers and three gold liras wrapped in a faded cloth, all that remained of a fortune acquired in a lifetime of strenuous work and careful saving. Three liras stood between her and starvation, and she shuddered to think what would become of her when they were gone. But such thoughts were useless, for long before that she would be in the pasha’s harem.

The whistle of the approaching train from Constantinople startled her, for the pasha himself might be coming. While timidly crouching in a corner of the room, she heard a rapid step approaching the house, and a hurried knock at the door. A thrill of terror shook her weakened body. She heard the ancient servant slowly shuffle across the hall and open the door, and then caught the words, “She is in that room.” Now the steps were in the hall by her door. How she trembled! She covered her face with her hands, giving no answer to the repeated knocking. The latch was raised, and the door was pushed open.