CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE REAL HAKIM

“Armenouhi,” called a deep, rich voice.

On the threshold, with uncovered head, stood a tall, straight young man, in fashionable European dress. A beard concealed his chin, but his face, perhaps a trifle more mature, was the face that had lived in her thoughts for the last five years.

“Oh, Takvor!” and she sprang to his arms. The dream of her life was realized; the real hakim had come.

Aware that any delay in taking Armenouhi to a place of safety might be disastrous, Takvor urged her to gather at once whatever souvenirs she cared to retain of the home of her childhood, while he went to the government building to have his passport viséed for Constantinople.

“I can not visé this passport,” said the official, curtly, after scanning the document as if searching for hidden instructions.

“Why not?”

“I have orders from Constantinople not to do so.”

“I am a British citizen, and I demand that you visé it.”

“Olmas! impossible!” exclaimed the official, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together to express that money would cancel all superior orders.

Takvor took a lira from his pocket. The official clucked with his tongue, and threw up his head in disgust at the smallness of the bribe. Takvor took out a second, a third, and then a fourth lira. The official seemed to be yielding.

“It is a great deal of money,” remarked Takvor, adding a fifth gold piece to the others.

“Let me see the passport again,” said the Turk, hesitating.

He examined it closely, and then with a knife carefully scratched away a seemingly insignificant mark beneath the initial letter of Takvor’s name. To satisfy himself that the erasure could not be detected, he held the paper to the light, and then, as Takvor directed, added the words, “and wife,” to the name already on the passport.

All difficulties in the way of leaving Ak Hissar being thus removed, and Armenouhi’s few valueless mementos hurriedly packed together, they took the next day’s train for Constantinople. Alighting at the Pera Palace, they saw the pasha’s spy waiting as if to welcome them.

“His game will soon be up,” muttered Takvor, sharply returning the spy’s bold stare.

Leaving Armenouhi secure in an upper parlor, Takvor hurried away in search of the priest Papasian and the British consul. Soon he returned with them, and there, in the consul’s presence, as the law required, he and Armenouhi were married. If at that moment Hassan could have seen the radiantly beautiful bride, clinging to the arm of her husband, his evil heart might have been persuaded to pursue her no farther. And Hassan did see her; for the door suddenly opened, and the big, pompous pasha, entered unannounced, with his spy and a policeman.

“There is the girl,” he began, pointing to Armenouhi.

“What do you want with her?” asked Takvor, stepping before him.

“Out of the way, boy! She is mine.”

“Effendim, you are mistaken; she is my wife, and a British subject. And this gentleman is the British consul.”

For the briefest instant Hassan paused in amazement; his eyes bulged, but he was not baffled, and again he moved toward Armenouhi.

“I am too old to believe such tales,” he sneered. “She is an Armenian girl, and a Turkish subject. Out of the way, you fool!”

Takvor seized him by the throat and pushed him backwards through the doorway, crowding the astonished spy and policeman out before him, and then sent him sprawling. The ponderous pasha’s fall fairly shook the building, while audible amid his grunts and the rattling of his sword was the titter of the pompous hotel porter, who for the moment had forgotten himself. Well aware that laughing at a pasha’s discomfort might prove expensive, he helped him to rise, and sympathetically escorted him to his carriage.

It was Armenouhi’s wish that before leaving the country she might take some of her belongings from the home of her aunt in Kum Kapu. On the afternoon of the day of their marriage they drove to the house, only to be received by a Turkish policeman, with Hassan at his heels.

“What do you want here?” demanded the pasha, in a tone that indicated he had not forgotten his recent lesson.

“This house is mine; it was left me by my aunt.”

“It is no longer yours,” the policeman assured her; “it has been confiscated by the government.”

Hassan was still pursuing Armenouhi. As a boy he had marred the innocent games of her childhood, and later drove her from home. He ruined her village by extortionary taxation, murdered her father by torture, and caused the death of her sister. He robbed her grandfather of wealth accumulated by years of industry, and brought to his last days almost abject poverty. He poisoned her aunt, and set on the girl’s track a spy to pursue her as hounds would slaves, to bring her against her will into his harem. And now, since his purpose was thwarted, he robbed her of her home and all that was in it.

“Yes,” added Hassan, with a sneer, peering over the policeman’s shoulder; “it is the law that no foreign subject may inherit property in Turkey.”

“It is true,” murmured Armenouhi, staring vacantly before her. “It is all gone.”

She turned her eyes to Takvor. He took her hand and drew her toward the carriage.