CHAPTER I

SCISSORS

_A NOVEL OF YOUTH_

BY

CECIL ROBERTS

NEW YORK

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

MCMXXIII

Copyright, 1923, by

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

All Rights Reserved

Published, March 29, 1923

Second Printing, April 14, 1923

Third Printing, June 29, 1923

Printed in the United States of America

VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK

TO

H. C. BRODIE

CONTENTS

BOOK I

EAST

BOOK II

WEST

BOOK III

GROWTH

BOOK IV

LIFE

BOOK V

THE NEW WORLD

BOOK VI

EAST AGAIN

BOOK I

EAST

SCISSORS

CHAPTER I

A cold spray blew over the deck of the steamer as it left the calm

waters of the Bosphorus, making for the open and wind-swept expanse

of the Black Sea. Although it was springtime, and the promise of

summer had made Constantinople a city of warmth and cheerfulness, the

wind cut through the shivering crowd on the deck of the

Austrian-Lloyd boat. A north-easterly gale was blowing from the

Russian Steppes, and at intervals, through mists and clouds closing

and parting, the passengers caught glimpses of the Anatolian coast

with its long mountainous barricade rising from the surf-beaten strip

of shore. In lee of the deck-houses there was also a nurse, a

fresh-complexioned English girl, in charge of a boy of seven,

evidently the son of the Englishman and his wife. The Captain of the

steamer, an Austrian, regarded the strange party from time to time,

for it was rarely that Englishmen came to this part of the world, and

seldom were they accompanied by their women folk. Impelled by his

curiosity, he approached the tall stranger who had now risen and was

surveying his fellow passengers with amused interest.

"You make to Trebizond, sir?" he asked, in broken English.

"No, for Samsoon."

"Ah--then you are of those who make the harbour there. It is a good

scheme. The English have much wisdom, but it is a terrible land," he

continued, and swept his hand expressively toward the grey coastland.

"Barbarians there--Turks, Armenians, Greeks, Syrians, Circassians,

Kurds, and some Americans, they go everywhere, like the English. Ah,

a terrible land." He shuddered and drew his fingers across his

throat, and then rolled his eyes as if the country transcended all

words at his command.

"Do you know Asia Minor?" asked the stranger. "I am going to Amasia."

"That is inland--a place of the wolves, the bandits--no, I would

never tread that soil. It is enough to sail the sea. The Black

Sea--ough!" And once more he shuddered. "The lady--is it that she

goes there, and the child?"

"Yes, I have business in Amasia."

"That is the illness of the English,--business, for this they come to

these lands. They are great fools, and brave fools, sir! The sea is

more safe. I hope soon never more to see this coast. I will live in

Vienna. Ah! one can live in Vienna, but there!--" He gave a short

laugh and then went about his work.

But as Charles Dean leaned over the taffrail and watched the flowing

coastline dimly streaming into distance, it was not without a

stirring of deep interest. This was the classic land of great

adventure; they were near the coast of Phoenicia; behind that range

was Sidon, looking towards Palestine. This sea had seen Jason and

his Argonauts searching the coast of Colchis for the Golden Fleece.

All the ancient world of the Greeks was here, and the tides of

barbaric splendour had swept over that land; Greek, Roman, Byzantine

and Ottoman rulers had shaped its destiny. It was the great

battlefield of the world; the Greeks sailing for Troy, the Ten

Thousand, had all known that shore and the mountains still slept by

the thundering seas as in the days of Alexander and of Caesar. Peak

after peak of those mountains with their historic names arose and

looked inland, the mountains of Ionia, Ida and Casia, of Bithynia,

Pontus and Paphlogonia; violet and blue and amethyst, they stretched

like sleeping animals in the March sunlight, clothed with a forest

growth and fringed with pine trees.

So all day long the little steamer went along its pathway of foam;

during those hours, Charles Dean and his wife were sustained by the

excitement of their entry into a new world. The last four years of

their lives had been spent in journeying from city to city, from

country to country. Amsterdam, Berlin and Bordeaux had held them for

a short time. Eastwards then Charles Dean received a call from the

trading company employing him, this time to Constantinople. That had

been the pleasantest of all their sojournings in foreign lands. The

city of mosques and minarets, with its beautiful gardens and golden

sea, had seemed like a dream from one of the Arabian Nights'

Entertainments. And now the gradual extension eastwards of business,

was carrying them to Amasia, the city unknown, dwelling inland behind

that great mountain barrier. It was a strange life, yet not without

its fascinations. Mary Dean insisted upon accompanying her husband.

She had the choice of remaining in England, but she swept it aside

unhesitatingly. Devoid of fear and devoted to her husband, she went

with him from land to land. With them also went their young son,

John Narcissus Dean. Narcissus! exclaimed everybody, hearing the

name. "Yes, Narcissus," answered handsome Charles Dean solemnly,

while the light of humour danced in his grey eyes; and then followed

the story of that honeymoon in Naples, when Mary, after seeing the

famous statue of "Narcissus listening to Echo," had pleaded with her

young husband, assisted by a Jew curio shopkeeper, for a copy she

coveted. "But I want a real Narcissus," whispered the young man,

pressing her hand quietly, while the Jew dusted the expensive bronzes

on his counter.

"You shall have one--if I can have this," she answered roguishly. He

nearly kissed her in boyish ecstasy. "Done!" he cried--"and we'll

call him 'Narcissus.'"

Charles Dean was not only a man who kept to his word, but also to his

joke. The announcement of the birth of John Narcissus at the

historic manor of "Fourways" filled old Sir Neville, the grandfather,

with delight and protest; a boy--excellent, Narcissus--preposterous!

But Charles was obstinate, Mary amused, and Sir Neville protested

anew. It was like Charles--independent, obstinate Charles, who had

always been so irrational. It might have been expected of a man who

had thrown up a diplomatic career to breed horses, which he could not

afford to breed, who had married penniless Mary Loughton, his

land-agent's pretty daughter. Charles had always been the fool in

contrast with Henry, his level-headed elder brother. Sir Neville did

not protest long,--he died one month after the coming of the

grandchild with the freak name; and although all babies seem to look

alike, many ladies, calling on the young mother, vowed the child was

a veritable Narcissus--so handsome, so bonnie, so--

The new baronet made one formal protest, but Henry knew well he could

do nothing with his odd-minded brother; still, as uncle, head of the

family, and sixth baronet, he felt he had some right to protest

against "Narcissus," if not for himself, then for his own boys, who

were cousins to this piece of Greek mythology. The young parents

only laughed, and John Narcissus, as if seeing the joke, gurgled

whenever he was shown the statue and told to grow up like it--not

altogether of course, for the statue proved to be cracked over the

left breast, where the dealer had carefully kept his thumb.

Sir Henry, annoyed, kept aloof. When he heard that Charles had

ruined himself and lost "Fourways" in a mad scheme to sink a shaft,

over-persuaded by a gang of company promoters, he declared he was in

no way surprised, shrugged his shoulders, and waited to see what

would happen now. The sale of "Fourways," its contents and its

horses, must have been a hard blow for Charles, but he certainly gave

no sign when he called to say "Goodbye," before taking a position as

continental agent offered him by an old friend.

"And--the boy?" asked Sir Henry, unable to make himself pronounce the

ridiculous name.

"He is going with us."

"What--all over the Continent!" cried the astounded baronet. "You

can't take a boy there--why not send him to school?"

"He's too young--we want him--and I don't believe in preparatory

schools."

"Crank!" exclaimed Sir Henry to her ladyship when his brother had

gone.

Thus came John Narcissus Dean to be swinging his sturdy legs on a box

aboard an Austrian-Lloyd steamer bound for Samsoon. He was a fine

boy, well matured for his seven years, and already he had a manner of

command which made a slave of his devoted nurse Anna, a big

fresh-coloured country girl, one of the small group that had

gathered, seven years before, at the foot of the staircase at

"Fourways." Anna had never intended going to Asia Minor, which she

looked upon with the same horror as she did the South Sea Islands.

Her first excursion, to Amsterdam, had been taken with great daring.

Only love of the child she nursed and the mistress she served, could

have prevailed upon her to leave England, for as all the peasant

class, she had a loathing of foreigners. But from Amsterdam to

Berlin had not seemed so far, and then the change to Bordeaux was

like coming half-way home, so she remained with the family, and, as

the years went by, became more tightly bound by affection to her

young charge. For, however much she admired her mistress, she never

doubted for one moment that, without her, young John Narcissus could

not live. She had nursed him from a baby, was familiar with all his

complaints, and also his moods, which were peculiar and trying.

It was Anna alone who could curb those terrible fits of passion which

so alarmed the fond parents. The child had a way of working himself

into a fanatical frenzy when pleased by anything. At first these

moods had been attributed to infant naughtiness and had been

punished, but without result. An eminent Berlin specialist, whom

they had consulted in distress, had said that the child's brain was

abnormally developed. He was to be humoured and closely watched.

With time and careful guarding he would outgrow those storms of

passion and ecstasy. So Anna immediately took the specialist's words

to heart. Without her the child would not live. When the change to

Constantinople was announced, her first intention was to give notice.

She did not object to France or Holland, but Turkey was a barbarian

country where Christians were crowded together and shot at with bows

and arrows, or cut to a thousand pieces with terrible knives like

those which grocers used for carving hams. But she could not think

of leaving the child; and, after all, she had been to Berlin, which

was almost half-way across Europe. She decided to go to

Constantinople, for the more she considered the matter the firmer

grew her conviction that her master and mistress were mad.

When therefore, one morning, seated on the deck of the steamer as it

entered Samsoon roads, she was told by Mr. Dean that the white path,

climbing past the squalid little houses up the mountain side, winding

in and out like a ribbon, was the way to old Baghdad, the ancient

city of Haroun-al-Raschid and Sinbad the Sailor, she wondered

whatever her people, far away at home, would think when they heard

she was travelling in these fairy-tale lands. The only real things

in her amazing life were John and his father and mother. She looked

at John as he sat swinging his brown legs on the side of a box, and

wondered that such a morsel of life should drag her across the world

into strange and terrible lands.

The passage ashore was made in a small boat, and the adventure was a

somewhat perilous one, for the frail craft was swept by the waters.

They were finally landed on the beach some distance away from the

town. Here a small crowd of customs officials and Turkish luggage

porters met them; then they were driven along the front of the town

in an _arabya_, a native conveyance with curtains for warding off the

sun, drawn by one horse in the control of a Turkish driver.

And now the irresistible glamour which the East throws over the

hearts of all who venture into her domain, entranced the small party

as it was driven for some two miles along the edge of a sandy yellow

beach into the town of Samsoon.

The buildings were low and inelegant; the streets narrow and filled

with that accumulation of smells and filth that are to be found in

all cities under Ottoman rule. But there was, despite these

disadvantages, a definite charm in the little town of forty thousand

souls. Samsoon is the one accessible port lying on the fringe of a

tableland containing the richest cornfields and tobacco country of

the world. The city itself was built at the great gate of the

mountains over which the roads wind through the few low passes along

that impregnable coast. It was the gate of that great historic

highway running through Turkey in Asia, along which all the traffic

had rolled for centuries. It was traffic that had scarcely altered

in any detail since the day of the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid; the

sight which met the eyes of Charles Dean and his family was one that

had greeted the traveller for the last ten hundred years.

As the _arabya_ climbed up the steep road leading to the centre of

the town, it breasted a stream of traffic coming down from the high

pass. Young John shouted with glee as the solemn camels trudged by,

their bells tinkling, their backs loaded with great bales of

merchandise. Wagons, bullock-carts, donkeys, packhorses, _arabyas_

and men carrying great bundles, all seemed destined for one place,

the block of warehouses above the harbour. Here and there a tired

camel knelt for rest in the shade of a wayside tree. The drivers

were vivid figures in their white cloaks, dusty and travel stained,

while beside them moved, talked, and gesticulated such a mixture of

races and colours that the eye was dazzled with the indistinguishable

medley of blue, scarlet, gold, yellow and green gowns and cloaks,

nearly all richly embroidered; and above all, rose the noise of

innumerable bells in all keys, some ringing deep and slow, others

tinkling incessantly as the donkeys wound by, urged on by cries and

blows.

Sounds, colours, smells, all mingled in this small town, along this

crowded highway, and Charles Dean was not slow to notice the

prosperity of the place. Every man and animal was burdened with

merchandise of some kind. Carts rolled by with shrieking axles,

loaded with wheat and barley. The camels were weighed down under

great bales of wool, tobacco, mohair and boxes of fruit and nuts.

Brown-legged boys from the hills drove their flocks down the main

street. They had started for the town at early dawn, and by eleven

were in Samsoon, a distance of twenty miles. They were chiefly

Turks, but occasionally one noticed the sharp features and clear skin

of a Syrian youth, or the dark lean profile of a Circassian, always

mounted and belted with daggers and pistols. The Greeks too were in

evidence, walking about with a superior air of possession, for they

and the Armenians were the chief citizens. They kept the shops and

ran the small hotels and cafés.

That night, Dean and his family slept in Samsoon, but they were early

astir, and after a short call at the local office of his company,

Dean, with his wife, child and nurse, were seated in the curtained

_arabya_ with a Moslem driver urging his two cream ponies along the

high street. They were now travelling on the Baghdad road, and they

had for companions on the way an unending line of betasselled camels,

with great bells clanging as they lurched forwards, caravans winding

slowly up the mountain side, and many _arabyas_ loaded with human

beings or boxes, which once, to Dean's amazement, included American

sewing machines destined for Baghdad. There were also many

picturesque pedestrians or travellers on the humble donkey. For

miles the broad road climbed up the side of the great ravine. Early

in the afternoon they passed through Chakallu, the Place of Jackals,

a village in the deep valley, and twilight found them at their first

halting place. The town of Marsovan lay amid vineyards, orchards,

and walnut groves. Above the flat-topped houses towered the slender

minaret, rose tinted with the flush of waning light. Around the

town, beyond the open plains, stretched the dark mountain ranges

running north and south. As they descended into the town the driver

pointed with his whip to an enormous blue precipice which towered up

on the distant horizon some thirty miles away.

"Amasia," he said briefly, and Charles Dean and his wife looked at

the distant horizon where lay the city in which they were destined to

abide. In Marsovan they were fortunate in finding an American

Medical Settlement where they were hospitably entertained for the

night. It was with regret that they set out next morning for Amasia.

It had been a great delight to live for a space among English

speaking persons, to exchange opinions with the cheerful nurses and

listen to the tales of the resident doctors. There was even an

English garden, a fresh, green, home-like space within the walled

compound, bordered with cherry trees and Easter lilies. Here at

least was a place of refuge when the solitude of Amasia became

unbearable, and as Mary Dean drove out of the courtyard and waved

farewell to the little group of women gathered to speed their guests,

she looked back with a feeling of comfort. She would be but a day's

journey from them, and those who know what the sound of one's native

speech means in an alien land will realise the comfort Mary Dean

derived from the workers of the Mission.

The road to Amasia was a gradual crescendo of delight. The soft blue

mountain ranges towered up above the travellers as they approached

the entrance of the gorge. Here and there a column of smoke wound up

the mountainside from the fires of the charcoal burners, whose little

tents were pitched on the slopes. It was afternoon when they entered

the ravine along which the white road wound into the town. Above

them they saw the Baghdad road, on the opposite side of the ravine,

half obscured by the clouds of dust thrown up by the miscellaneous

traffic of carts, herds, camels and donkeys driving into the town.

Now the plain appeared, and the vision stretched before them was like

a new garden of Eden, a land flowing with colour, and scents from

luxurious gardens. The smooth, quickly flowing river tumbled over

its weirs; they could hear the singing of the water and the creaking

of water mills built along the banks. The great crags stretched

sheer to the sky, blazing with crimson shrubs in the bright, hot

sunlight, and the further they progressed, the richer, the more

varied grew the colours of this wonderful land.

Presently with a sharp turn in the road, they emerged from the rocky

ravine into a tremendous gorge, with Amasia nestling between the

folds of the towering mountains. The town itself was a maze of

little white houses, dotted here and there in the small fertile

valley, and stretching along the two banks of the Yeshil Innak. A

dozen bridges, all of quaint design, some going back to Roman times,

spanned the bright river, and above the banks rose the minarets of

the mosques, khans, colleges and public buildings. The best houses

built along the river each possessed wonderful hanging gardens

blazing with luxuriant growths of semi-tropical plants and fruits,

but the wonder of Amasia lay, not in the gardens or buildings, but in

the immense cliffs that walled in the town from the outer world.

These precipices, scarcely a mile apart, rose up on each side of the

town to heights of three thousand feet on the western and more than a

thousand on the eastern side. They did not rise as mountains, but

seemed to be walls of rocks guarding the town. A castle stood boldly

silhouetted against the bronze sky, perched on a frowning crag

dominating the town. This was indeed an ancient dwelling place, an

old world town of wonder, where history seemed to sleep, for Amasia

was once the capital of Pontus, the home of the great Seljuks, the

birthplace of Mithridates the Great. On the face of the western

precipice there were still the five rock-hewn Tombs of the Kings.

When Strabo wrote of them in B.C. 65, he was telling an ancient

story, yet they remained untouched as when he had seen them.

As Charles Dean and his family drove into the town it was early

afternoon, but already one half of the place was in shadow, the other

half blazed with sunlight streaming over the western precipice. They

were driven through the main street, a well observed party, giving as

much interest as they found. The company employing Dean had a house

for its agent on the outskirts of the town and to that they made

their way. Presently they turned off from the road and went down a

slope which led them through a beautiful garden into a small

courtyard. Here, their home came into view, and as the large, low,

white-faced building rose up among the trees, they all gave a cry of

delight. On one side ran a large pergola built of yellow stone and

black wood, leading to a garden which, even at this early time,

rioted in colour. Beyond the pergola, approached by broad stone

steps, lay the river, bordered with trees beneath which several boats

were moored. One end of the house, raised upon piles, overlooked the

river, with a wonderful view down the gorge towards the dazzling

minarets and towers of the town.

They had scarcely noticed this enchanting vista when the _arabya_

pulled up in front of a large porch, screened with a swinging rush

curtain. Before it, with a smile of welcome on their faces, stood

the bronzed Englishman and his wife, whom Dean had come to relieve.

Greetings exchanged, they were led into a large, yellow room with

French windows opening on to a verandah. Passing through the windows

they were confronted once more with the view down the gorge. Tea was

laid, and the travellers were soon exchanging the news. The agent,

Mr. Price, and his wife had been in Amasia for twelve years. It was

six years since they had had their last holiday in England. Now they

were going there, never to leave it again.

"And to think--in six weeks we shall walk down Piccadilly!" cried

Mrs. Price, the delight of anticipation in her voice. "It is just

the same I suppose--the same crowds, the same lights and hurry?"

They laughed like children. It was so good to think they would be in

England again. It was a little cruel to show their joy in view of

the new exiles. But six years away from England had filled them with

irresistible longing. Their questions too were all of home. The

political crisis--was it over? The new Premier, how long did they

think he would be in power? They had a boy at Winchester--was the

tone there still considered good? He was sixteen--his mother fetched

a photograph from the drawer to show them. He was going into the

consular service.

And then Mrs. Price turned to the little boy standing beside Mrs.

Dean. Until now, his whole attention had been divided between the

novelty of his surroundings and the piece of cake he held in his

hand. They hoped the summer heat would not be too intense for the

child.

"The poor little chap will find it lonely here," said Price, "unless

he makes friends with the Turkish children." Privately he wondered

what insane motive had caused that couple to bring a child to this

extraordinary land.

"John has always been with us," remarked Mrs. Dean, as if reading his

thoughts. "The child seems to be quite happy without playmates,

though of course, I devote most of my time to him."

And then they passed to business matters; the two women discussed

domestic arrangements, the men their own trading affairs. Dinner was

served in the long yellow room that evening. It was only six o'clock

and yet it was quite dark. The light departed rapidly from the

gorge, for the moment the sun had dipped below the precipice, the

valley below was plunged into darkness. But as they sat at dinner,

and looked out westwards over the mountain barrier, they could still

see the daylight lingering in the glowing sky. A few stars glimmered

in the twilight, their brightness and the light blue sky contrasting

vividly with the black gorge and the dark running river.

They were waited upon at dinner by two Armenian boys clad in white

jackets with brass buttons.

"We have practically brought them up in our service," said Price.

"Their parents were killed in the last massacre."

"Massacre!" Mrs. Dean dropped her hand on to the table and looked

across at the speaker--"When did the last occur?"

"Four years ago--it was a bad one too. Some squabble in a bazaar

began it, I believe. The Armenians here are skilful in trade. They

make hard bargains, and the Turks never forget the fact. There was a

dispute in the bazaar; it set a light to smouldering passion, and the

town was ablaze in half an hour. These Moslems are curious people,

they kill deliberately, and though the massacre begins with a

frenzied outbreak, it goes on with a dispassionateness which is

terrible. The Armenians immediately flocked to the bazaar. It's in

a walled compound with strongly barred gates. I had been out in the

country that morning and knew that something was astir. The Turks

looked askance at me and were sulky whenever I spoke to them. On

returning my wife begged me to go down to the bazaar and see what I

could do, for it is wonderful the weight we English have here. The

Turks will listen to an Englishman, for they have never forgotten our

Consuls and their firm, honest treatment of them.

"So I went. In front of the bazaar door, I found a horde of Moslems,

rifles and pistols in hand, waiting for their victims to emerge. The

outbreak had occurred at ten o'clock that morning. It was now four

in the afternoon and they showed no signs of dispersing. I knew they

would wait there five or six days if necessary. It was useless to

argue with them. Moslem blood had been shed. The Armenians would

have to bleed for it. Finally I succeeded in obtaining a concession.

They would allow the women and children to go to their homes. But

not the men, they said. So the door was opened and the terrified

women and children passed out between a sullen crowd of Moslems.

When the last appeared in the gateway there was a rush, and I saw a

helpless woman surrounded by a mob of angry faces. Pushing my way

towards her, I attempted to give her my protection but before I could

reach her, she fell forwards, stabbed in the back, and as she fell, I

saw that the Turks had not broken their word. Under the folds of the

garment covering her was the Armenian pastor who had tried to escape

in disguise. There was a murmur of intense satisfaction at this

slaying of the leader of the hated community. In all these affairs,

the pastor is the first to go; they seek him out as the figurehead,

and these poor leaders of a timid flock know that; you can see

perpetual melancholy in their faces, hear it in their voices. But

they are brave men, and there is never any lack of pastors. These

two boys who wait on us are the sons of that unfortunate man."

There was a long silence; then, fearing he had alarmed his guests,

Price added in a cheerful voice--

"Still, they never touch us you know. European blood is sacred to

them, and I have always found the Turks very docile, but if you are

wise, you will keep in when the drums begin to drone."

"The drums?" asked Dean, eager for information, although he could see

his wife was being unnerved.

"Harry," interposed Mrs. Price, "don't you think this is very trying

for Mrs. Dean--she has only--"

"Oh! please go on!" cried Mrs. Dean, "--there's no safety in

ignorance."

"Well--you can generally surmise that trouble is brewing when you

hear the drums begin to drone. They start at sunset and grow louder

towards midnight. It is an awful sound, weird, oriental. You will

probably hear a few of them to-night, there's always a strolling

drummer entertaining at one of the khans. When trouble is brewing

however, there's not one drum, but hundreds. They sound everywhere.

You hear them in the streets, down the gorge, up the mountain-side.

They sound as if Timur the Terrible was gathering his army again."

He broke off with a laugh, "Really, Dean, I shall give you all the

creeps--you are quite safe being English and life is very pleasant

here, but lonely at times. You will find even Constantinople a

change--have you lived there?"

"We have been there two months," answered Dean.

"Two months!--then you will know Therapia--lovely Therapia! We took

a bungalow there for two months each year. I have a cousin at the

Embassy. We had a delightful time--nights on the Bosphorus, gay

little parties embarking in _caiques_, sunset beyond Therapia, the

house parties at Buyukdereh. Oh, it was enjoyable, but to think

now--Piccadilly, Oxford Circus, Henley week--days in Surrey!--there's

no place like England."

With a boyish gesture of delight, he pinched his wife's arm who

laughed gaily in response.

"We are now going to leave you to talk business," she said, rising.

"I am sure Mrs. Dean is tired and wants to go to bed, and we two will

have a busy day tomorrow." And with that the two women said

good-night. When they were gone, Dean and Price sat smoking for a

time.

"Come on to the verandah," said Price, leading the way. "The moon

will be up soon, and moonrise here is one of the wonders of Asia."

They seated themselves in low wicker chairs. It was so dark that it

was impossible to distinguish anything clearly. There was a sound of

running water, and a muffled roar came back on the wind from the

place where the river leapt its weirs down in the gorge. Price's

cigarette glowed red in the darkness with each draw he took. The air

was perfumed and warm. There was something in the atmosphere which

made the senses very acute. It seemed as if one was waiting for

something to happen--the singing of the stream, the wandering breeze,

the perfume and the impenetrable darkness were all a prelude to the

first act of an unknown drama. The silence grew so oppressive that

Dean felt he would have to speak or cry out. He was about to force a

remark to his lips when his host suddenly sat erect, intently

listening, his face turned towards the valley.

"Listen!" he said after a pause. "Can you hear anything?"

Even as he spoke, the other man heard a subdued sound. It was borne

on a wind which died down, but gradually its note was more insistent,

deepening in tone until it seemed to make the darkness tremble. As

Dean listened, he experienced a strange thrill creeping over him.

There was something so weird, so redolent of the strange land in that

music as it was borne along the gorge and gave expression to the

mystery of the night. Such a sound it was as had been heard many

centuries ago when the invading Turkish hordes had swept over the

land. Those drums had heralded the approach of Timur the Terrible on

his devastating march across Asia, leaving a track of blood behind,

his name sending terror in advance of his ruthless army. The drum

now throbbing down the gorge had the same barbaric note, the same

sinister significance, and as Charles Dean listened he knew that this

city of old Asia had never changed from the days when the Seljuk

sultans ruled or Haroun-al-Raschid kept his court in Baghdad.

And then, as if to add to the wonder of the night, the two men became

aware of a slow change in the scene before them. The objects in the

garden grew into vision slowly. Along the gorge they could see the

houses and under them a chill light on the black swirling river. The

dim minarets changed from blue sentinels of the darkness to long

white fingers pointing skywards. And above the black edge of the

precipice it seemed no longer dark, for even as they looked and

wondered, the moon came up over the edge, round and full, with its

white face peering over the great wall shutting in the gorge. The

scene before them was now one of indescribable beauty. The little

white flat houses, the mosques and minarets and gardens, all

glimmered brightly in the serene light flooding the gorge. As the

river ran between the banks, leaping the weirs and rocky

obstructions, it flashed silvery under the rays of the moon, and as

if to keep measure with this revelation, the drum-beats grew louder

and louder, throbbing in the perfumed air until the sound seemed to

be closing in from all sides.

How long they sat spellbound before this magic of the East they knew

not, but their inactivity was broken at last by the noise of a

footfall on the gravel below the verandah. Instantly Price was on

his feet, peering over towards the garden. His companion too had

heard the noise, and jumped up just in time to see a white figure

turn in the path and pass from sight under the darkness of the cherry

trees.

Both men looked at one another for the space of a second.

"I'm sure there's some one moving in the garden," said Dean.

"No one has any right in here."

They listened. The drum droned louder than before and as the sound

died with the veering of the wind, they heard a footfall again, less

distinct. The trespasser was going in the direction of the drum.

Without hesitation, Price vaulted lightly from the verandah to the

path below, his companion following. Quickly they traversed the

downward slope until they reached a grove of cherry trees into which

Price plunged. Behind him, Dean, following silently, heard his guide

give a short cry; peering into the shadow, he saw a small figure some

ten yards ahead, garbed from head to foot in a loose white gown,

which fluttered ghostlike in the moonlight. Price, running now, had

caught the white form; when Dean came up, he turned to him with a

nervous laugh. As the latter stopped, he gave a short cry of

surprise, wondering what trick the enchantment of the night was

playing upon his senses, for there, firmly held by Price, was his own

boy, barefooted, in his white nightgown, looking up with startled

eyes.

"John! what are you doing here?" The father stooped and lifted up

his boy. The child's face wore a half puzzled expression as if he

had suddenly been awakened from sleep and was dazzled by the light.

For a moment or so he gave no answer, but clutched the lapels of his

father's coat, his small frame shaking with fright.

"Daddy, I had to come! Something called me, something--" and as if

unable or afraid to give words to the fear in his heart, he sobbed

violently in his father's arms. It was in vain that Dean tried to

sooth the child; he shook from head to foot and clutched at his

father's hand in wild terror. They carried the sobbing child

indoors, and when they had gained the lamplit drawing-room, calmness

had once more come over the child. He looked about him and blinked

in the brilliant light like one waking from a dream.

Price pinched the boy's ear playfully--

"A nightmare, old son, eh?--you've been having too much cake!"

"How did you get out of bed?" asked the father, looking anxiously at

the boy.

"I don't know, Daddy--I can't remember until you found me." It was

obvious that the child was speaking the truth.

"Well, we can't have you sleep-walking like this, John. You'll

frighten your mother to death."

"Take the boy up to his room, Dean," said Price. "What a good thing

it hasn't roused Mrs. Dean! Come along, I'll show you the way, he's

sleeping next to your room."

They took the boy upstairs and placed him in his bed. The child was

quite calm now and his head sank on the pillow as if heavy with

sleep. For a minute Dean waited in the room and then stooped over

the bed.

"Will you be all right now, John?" But there was no answer for John

was already fast asleep again, his head buried in the pillow. The

two men tip-toed silently out of the room. When they had gained the

verandah Price mixed himself a whiskey and soda.

"Drink?" he asked, with an ill-concealed attempt to be at his ease.

"No thanks."

There was a long silence; the two men were thinking. Price knocked

the ash off his cigarette and watched its end until the glow died

down.

"Is John subject to those--er--to sleep-walking?" he asked at length,

making his enquiry as casual as possible.

"No, he's not. I have never known him to do this before."

"H'm, perhaps the journey's upset him--the excitement; children are

easy victims of nightmare."

"Yes--do you think it was nightmare?" asked Dean. His tone plainly

conveyed the belief that he thought otherwise.

"Of course!--why not?--the child has no reason for going down the

garden."

"Where does the path lead?"

"To the river--there's a footway into the town--it cuts off the bend

in the road."

"To the town?--towards the drum?"

Price started. Dean had noticed then! He gave a short laugh, and

got up and stretched his arms.

"Perhaps you'd like to turn in now?" he asked, and then as if

changing his mind, he sat down suddenly.

"Look here, Dean," he said earnestly, "I'll be quite frank--it is

perhaps better. You've guessed what drew the boy out of his bed?"

"The drum?"

"Precisely--and you're right, I think, though we may be making a

silly mistake. I would never have believed it myself, but it is

certainly curious."

"What?--the sleep-walking?" asked Dean. "Because I'll say plainly

that I'm sure the boy wasn't sleep-walking, he was wide awake."

"You noticed it?"

"Yes, I did--but I can't account for his expression."

"His half-dazed look?"

"Yes--it was uncanny. I've never seen John look like that before.

He seemed almost--" Dean paused as if reluctant to use the word upon

his tongue.

"Hypnotised?" suggested Price. The other nodded, and they both

relapsed into silence.

"I don't want to alarm you," said Price quietly, after a long pause,

"but this thing makes me half inclined to believe what I would never

credit. Now, remember what I am going to tell you is only an old

legend. There's hundreds of silly tales you will be told by the

natives here, if you encourage them to talk. They spend nights

embellishing these yarns in the khans until they believe in their own

imaginations. But it is as well you should know, in case to-night's

event may be repeated. You noticed the boy went in the direction of

the drum? Well, it's said that there are certain souls which can be

allured by the _saz_--that's the name of the drum. They cannot

always be allured, only when the moon is full can the sound attract

the souls of its victims, but when that condition is fulfilled, there

is no power, save intervention by a person not under the influence,

which can break the spell--it's a silly tale of course, these old

khan entertainers always make the flesh creep."

"But the victims--you say they are allured--where?"

"I don't know, these old legend-spinners never say."

"But surely there is some point in this hypnotic influence--why are

they drawn by the sound?"

"It's a mystery--as I've said, there's no sense in the whole story.

What an ass I am to tell you all this. It's late, hadn't we better

turn in?"

The change in the conversation was clumsy, and it did not deceive

Dean.

"You're keeping something back, Price--what is it?"

Price looked steadily at his interrogator. It was evident that Dean

would go to the bottom of the subject.

"Oh,--er, there's not much else to be told, only a silly sort of

nightmare ending, that's all."

"What kind of ending--death?"

"Yes."

"Violent--dreadful?"

"Oh no, in fact, I should think rather sudden, or peaceful, that's

how it seemed to me."

"Then you've seen it? Tell me all about it, Price."

"Really, Dean, you know this sort of thing is very stupid--a

coincidence, that's all, and I may have been mistaken."

"Perhaps so, but I want to hear."

"It happened three years ago, just such a night as this--full moon,

those damned drums droning away--when my _kavass_--the fellow who

takes me about the villages here, came running in. He was in a

fearful state, so excited he could hardly speak. Had I seen Hafiz?

he asked,--that was his son. I told him I hadn't. He said he had

seen him crossing the bottom garden, going towards the river path."

"Towards the drums?"

"Yes, we had heard them at dinner. They were very loud that night.

I told the _kavass_ he was mistaken. Hafiz couldn't have gone that

way, it was full moon and we should have seen him, but the old fellow

wouldn't be denied. It was the drum of Timur, he said--no one could

resist it who heard. I didn't know the story then, but the old

father was so distressed that I offered to go with him along the

path. So taking my revolver, we set out. We had gone about a mile

along the river's edge when we came to an old khan. The drum was

being beaten inside, so we thought, but my _kavass_ said it was

impossible because the khan was roofless and no one lived in it.

Anyhow, we could hear the _saz_ droning away. So we pushed open the

creaking old gateway.

"Inside the courtyard there was a pool, and a fountain that never

flowed. The moon shone down on the pool which was so still that it

reflected the stars. Round the old khan buildings ran the galleries,

in rectangular form. The moon threw a deep blue shadow half across

the courtyard, and as we stood there, peering into the deserted

place, it seemed as if we had entered into a strange world where only

the shadows moved. We stood there, I should think, for quite a

minute, transfixed by the silent beauty of the place, when the old

man suddenly gave a cry. I followed his gaze and saw what he had

seen. There, on the other side of the fountain, lay the naked body

of a youth. At first I thought it was a marble statue, it was so

white and perfect in form, but the old man ran forward and as I came

up to him, I saw the head of the youth was covered with a mass of

loose, black curls. The poor old father flung himself on his knees

and gathered up the body in his arms, sobbing as he did so.

"I never saw such a youth as Hafiz. He was quite naked and the

whiteness of his flesh was intensified by the moonlight bathing his

body, and the head of black hair. He had fallen sideways, with one

hand resting on his thigh, the other clenched and stretched out

towards the basin. There was no sign of any struggle. The face was

composed, just as if he had fallen asleep, and there was nothing on

the ground or anywhere about to suggest violence, but his clothes

were all missing and to me this was conclusive proof that robbery had

been the motive of the crime; no doubt he'd been strangled. The poor

old father who had been speechless with grief for some time, shook

his head when I spoke of strangulation. 'No, effendi,' he said

quietly, with a touch of fatalism in his voice, 'It is the drum of

Timur--look!' His finger pointed to the left breast of the youth,

and I saw what had escaped me in the first hurried examination. Just

over the heart there was a short, red line, not the incision left by

a dagger, but such as a penknife might make.

"There was hardly any blood, a little stream had trickled down the

breast and dried. I told the old fellow that his son had been shot,

but he only repeated, 'The drum of Timur,' and that was all he could

be got to say. The _zaptiehs_ searched the khan the next day. They

were stupid fellows, and shared the old man's conviction. The fact

that the unfortunate youth's clothes were never found proved

conclusively, in my mind, that robbery had been the motive. You

mustn't believe a tenth of all you hear out here. Anyhow, Dean, when

the moon's full, watch your boy if you really think there's anything

in the tale. I don't. Why should John be attracted by the drum of

Timur, even if there were such a thing?--he's English, born in

England! This is a native spell and only works upon those of Moslem

blood."

The two men talked on for a short time and Price watched his

companion closely; he was greatly relieved when he saw, on retiring,

that Dean had dismissed his strange apprehension.

CHAPTER II

I

On the verandah, under the shade thrown by the blossoming almond

tree, sat a boy who at first sight would seem to be some fourteen

years of age. It was a hot day without the suspicion of a breeze,

and he stretched himself out in a wicker chair while he fanned

himself with a broad, soft-brimmed white hat. He was dressed,

although it was only early spring, as boys in England dress in the

hottest days of summer, that is when they are holidaying and have

escaped the vigilance of their mothers. A white cricket shirt, open

at the neck, showed a chest and throat tanned to a rich brown by the

suns of Asia Minor. His face had the deep healthy tone of one who

had exposed himself to the fiercest heat of the sun, but the tan

could not hide the pink and red which mantled the clear skin of the

boy's face. His head was covered with a disordered mass of brown

hair that had a tendency to curl. The impression of all who saw

young John Dean, was that of a remarkably handsome English boy. The

mouth was finely shaped, the nose straight, with a curious little

curve in the nostrils which gave at times an expression of disdain to

the face. But the eyes were the arresting feature, they looked out

from beneath long lashes, with a light in them so luminous that they

appeared to be always on the verge of laughter. John was now twelve

years of age, and not thirteen or fourteen as his robust frame

suggested. Dressed in a pair of short white knickers, with a long

length of brown leg showing, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows, he

gave promise of a wonderful manhood. For Charles Dean's whim was

daily growing true. This straight tall boy had a classic mould that

followed the grace of the "Narcissus" which had given him his name.

And to this distinction was added a manner that attracted all. The

boy's voice was clear, his laughter infectious; he had an air of

command which probably was half innate and partly due to being a

European among foreigners. For he ruled his playmates imperiously.

The _arabya_ drivers who gave him many a lift along the roads, the

_zaptiehs_ whose rifles he handled, and whose stories he listened to

breathlessly, down to the Turkish and Armenian boys of his own age,

recognised without question his imperious will. He was "John

effendi" in the eyes of all the inhabitants of Amasia, not only

because he was the son of the Englishman, but also by reason of that

will to rule.

But there was one follower of John effendi who not only respected and

obeyed, but worshipped silently. It was Ali, the son of the

watermill owner. Ali was a Turk and proud of his blood. He was a

year older than John, tall, and in a different way quite as notable

as his friend. He had fair wavy hair, always kept close-cropped.

His whole life had been spent playing on the banks of the Yeshil

Irmak, or the Iris as it was popularly called, and his young body was

lithe and brown as a panther's. When he moved it was with the sleek

grace of that animal. The muscles slid under their satiny sheaths

with a suggestion of cryptic strength. He could run like a hare and

swim like an otter, accomplishments which quickly endeared him to

John who was his rival in all these things. Ali, by his father's

position,--for he was a well-to-do, judged by oriental

standard--though more because of his own spirit and strength, was a

boy who reigned among his companions. Only to one was he known to

give way, to John, whom he followed with an intense, doglike devotion.

It was of Ali that John was thinking this morning as he sat on the

verandah. Where was Ali now? Probably he had gone to the mosque

with his father, for it was nearing noon. He wondered whether Ali

would come round to the house. They had planned a great adventure

for that day. They were to meet by the market drinking-fountain at

eleven o'clock and then to climb the great rock on whose summit stood

the castle. Ali's uncle, the warden, was going to show them all the

dungeons and court rooms. It would have been a wonderful treat, and

now he had been forbidden to leave the gardens because of a silly

suspicion of his father's. Last night they had heard the drums

droning even louder than usual. The sound grew to such a volume that

the whole gorge had reverberated with it, and it had awakened him

although he always slept soundly. At breakfast his father had looked

worried, and it was plain to see from Anna's nervousness that

something was upsetting them. His father had been in the garden soon

after rising, and he heard him tell Anna that Achmed was like a bear

with a sore head. Then Anna did a mean thing. She said, "Do you

think that John should go up to the Castle, sir," and his father

immediately said "No." It was in vain that he pleaded that Ali

expected him. Ali would have to go alone, he was forbidden to leave

the garden.

So John sat on the chair idly swinging one leg over the arm while he

fanned himself. Anna was becoming a nuisance. She had increased her

authority ever since his dear mother had died two years ago now. The

thought of his mother led his mind back to the almond tree he and his

father had planted on the grave in the little cemetery of the

American Mission at Marsovan. He remembered that day clearly,

because he could never forget seeing his father as he bent down,

stamping the soil about the roots of the sapling. His father's

shoulders seemed to be twitching curiously and when John looked at

his face, he saw he was crying. It was strange to see his father

cry, he did not know men could do that, and it hurt him so much, that

he had grasped his strong hand and cried "Don't Daddy!" which did not

improve matters, for his father had gathered him up in his arms and

pressed him to him until he could scarcely breathe. And then John

too cried. He would never forget that day.

If only his mother were living now, thought John; she would not let

Anna be so strict with him, although he knew that his nurse was like

a second mother.

As he sat there with nothing to do on this lovely morning, the spirit

of rebellion was strong within him. Restless, he got up and ran down

the verandah steps towards the courtyard. In front of the stable

door he paused, as if thinking, then swung back the door and entered.

It was but the work of a minute to saddle his pony. There was just

time in which to reach the fountain and tell Ali that he could not go

and then be back for lunch with his father.

A few minutes later John was cantering down the highway into Amasia.

He passed the heavily laden camels trudging along with their

deep-sounding camel bells slowly tolling, a cloud of dust rising

about their pounding feet. Now and then a Turk would greet the boy

with a profound salaam, but he could not help observing that the

greetings were not so cordial or numerous this morning. A few of the

Turks he passed, who knew him well by sight, turned their faces away

as he went by, and John recalled his father's words when he had come

in from the garden before breakfast. Had they all got sore heads, he

wondered.

In the market place he passed little groups that stood talking around

their merchandise spread out on the ground, but he had no time this

morning for sauntering in and out of the motley gathering. When he

reached the fountain, it was exactly eleven o'clock but there was no

sign of Ali. So dismounting, John slung the rein over his arm and

waited. A number of dusty _arabyas_ rattled by, evidently coming in

from Marsovan. Two Circassians, their coloured waist-bands gleaming

with dagger handles, and long breeched revolvers, rode up to the

fountain to water their horses, two superb animals which these wild

men rode as if born in the saddle. With characteristic insolence

they pushed away a Turk who was watering his mule, and the angry old

fellow went off waving his arms and leaving a stream of abuse behind

him.

It was very hot and the increasing heat made John realise that it

must be getting near noon. There was still no sign of Ali, but John

dared not wait any longer, for he knew the penalty he would have to

pay if his escapade were discovered. So mounting his pony, he gave

it a flick with his whip and started off at a sharp canter on the way

home. But he had not gone far before he became aware of a great

commotion in front of him where the street narrowed just at the

entrance to the bazaar. A crowd of loose-cloaked Turks were seething

towards the door, and a frantic yelling broke on the boy's ears as he

approached. Impelled by curiosity he urged his pony forward and soon

reached the fringe of the mob. As he did so a Turk caught hold of

his rein and forced the pony back on its haunches. The frightened

animal immediately wheeled and kicked out, scattering the dense crowd

left and right, and when the boy had managed to rein in his

frightened mount, he saw that he was hemmed in by the crowd, with his

back to the wall.

Even then he was not aware of the danger in which he stood, but at

his side in a heap, huddled against the wall, was a figure. Hastily

looking down John saw it was a man. One glance told him that the

Armenian was dead, and as he stared at the corpse, with its

bloodstained tunic, the yelling broke loose again, and the crowd

surged up towards him. From the bazaar door another Armenian came

out. Before the man saw his peril, his retreat was cut off, and he

flung himself behind the pony and the boy. Mounted on his saddle,

John's head was just above those of the crowd, and as he looked down

upon the scowling angry mob, his heart thumped in his chest.

With set face, the boy backed his pony so as to cover the terrified

Armenian. But the crowd would not be baulked of its prey, it was

determined to set blood flowing. A bullet sang through the air and

hit the wall with a sharp thud, and a fat dirty Turk, drawing a

wicked-looking knife from his belt, tried to get between the Armenian

and his protector. Instantly John raised his hand, the lash of his

whip whistled as it cut through the air, and the man backed with a

howl of rage and pain. John raised his whip again, his eyes blazing

in his tense face.

"If any of you want a thrashing, come and get it!" he cried, his

young voice sounding shrilly above the low muttering of the crowd.

They stared at this young English boy, with his firm set face and

defiant head. Perhaps his courage stirred them, or it may have been

the fury of this child bare-throated and slim, who looked at them

unflinchingly. The crowd backed a little and as it did so John saw

in its midst, Mehmet, the brother of their gardener Achmed.

"Mehmet!" he cried, "if anything happens to this man I shall give

information to the _Zaptiehs_ about you."

The threat had its effect, the English never invoked the authorities

in vain. Seeing his opportunity, the boy turned his pony sideways.

"Keep between me and the wall!" he shouted to the terrified Armenian,

as he urged the animal forwards. Out-man[oe]uvred, the mob made no

attempt to follow, and the Armenian and his protector went their way

down the street. When they were at a safe distance and the clamour

had died away, the boy pulled up his pony to give the man time to get

breath.

"Oh, master!" cried the man, "my poor brother!" John looked down at

the Armenian. He was a man of about fifty, thin, with black

straggling hair and pinched cheeks.

"Was that your brother?" asked John.

The man nodded his head, choked with tears.

"How did it begin?"

"A boy stole a ring from our stall. He fled into the street and my

poor brother ran after him and was beating him when the father came

up--Usef the butcher."

The Armenian shook from head to foot, and John waited while he

gathered his breath, then they moved on again. After going for about

half a mile, the Armenian stopped and clasped the boy's hand.

"Young master, God bless you for this!" he cried, kissing the boy's

hand. "I am safe here, my home is near by. I shall never forget

you, young master," and kissing this time the boy's knee, he turned

and disappeared down a narrow courtway.

On the outskirts of Amasia, John realised how near he had been to

disaster. His courage was sinking rapidly, no longer sustained by

the excitement. Whipping up his pony he cantered up the home drive

and rode with a clatter into the courtyard, and as he did so, he saw

that his thoughtlessness had betrayed him, for his father, hearing

the sound, came out on to the verandah.

John stabled the pony, and then entered through the dining room on to

the verandah where his father sat waiting.

"Well?" was his greeting.

John hung his head a little; he was still quivering with the

excitement of the last half hour, but he tensed his muscles and threw

his head up with a determined look. Bean watching his son closely,

saw the lithe young body stiffen, and he mistook the effort of

self-control for one of defiance.

"You know I forbade you to go out: Have you anything to say?"

"No, father."

"Very well,--fetch the switch."

II

Three days later, John sat with his father having dinner on the

verandah, for it was a warm evening and the stars glimmered in a

cloudless sky. Over the western precipice the daylight had not quite

disappeared, there was a strip of red which higher up changed to a

light green and gradually merged into the dark blue of the night.

They could hear the Iris singing along its bed, a deep full-toned

note now, for the melting of the mountain snows was increasing its

volume. John did not usually sit up to dinner, but to-night he was

enjoying a special privilege which his father gave him occasionally.

After dinner he would sit on his father's knee while he was read to

from an exciting story book--a custom of his mother's which had been

faithfully retained. So when the dinner had been served and the

servants had cleared the table and shut the windows behind them, John

fetched the book for his father to read. As he handed it to him,

Dean took the child's hand in his own, holding it while the boy stood

between his knees.

"John, why didn't you tell me what happened when you disobeyed me the

other morning?"

John looked into his father's face; some one had told him then.

"I didn't think that was any excuse, Daddy," he said simply.

As he spoke, Dean looked at the boy. What an astounding sense of

logic the child had! Of course it was no excuse, he had disobeyed

and had accepted his punishment; but it was amazing that no advantage

had been taken of the incident at the bazaar. For a minute there was

silence, in which neither spoke, and Dean's hand closed tightly over

his son's. This boy was made of good stuff. A great pride in him

leapt up in Dean's heart.

"John," he said gravely, "I am very proud of you. You were a young

Englishman that morning. You made no excuses--which I loathe, and

you didn't flinch in a tight corner, which makes me proud of you,"

and with that said, he lifted the boy up on to his knees and began

reading.

John's taste for fiction had undergone a change. Once he had loved

tiger stories, and hunting yarns in India; now he wanted school

stories. It fascinated him to know how English boys lived in that

far country where he had been born. Their escapades at school, their

tricks on masters, their friendships, sports, quarrels, the fagging

and the lordly prefects, all filled him with wonder and delight. As

he listened to these tales, a great desire grew up within him. He

longed to be with them, to go to an English school. It would be St.

Martin's or St. David's--for all big schools began with St. something

he discovered. He would be among English boys there and perhaps

share a study with one of them. They would be great friends and then

they would quarrel and "cut" one another. He didn't like the idea of

the quarrel, but it was necessary, otherwise he couldn't get hurt on

the football field, scoring the goal that won the match for the

school.

Yes, he would have to quarrel, because how otherwise could his friend

help him to limp back to his study, and then shake hands, and sit

down to make toast, as in the days before they had quarrelled? John

also wondered what the school chapel would be like. He had never

been in a chapel. He imagined there would be hundreds of boys bowing

their heads, and the stern-faced headmaster would speak in a deep

voice (that was really kind although it would seem terrible), and at

his side there would be a big boy crying, a prefect--for was not this

his last Sunday? There would also be the pealing organ--he wondered

how an organ would sound--and the light would stream down through the

high-coloured windows and rest on the heads of the boys while the

lines of the last hymn died away. For the light always streamed

through highly coloured windows in school chapels--that was what

helped the prefect to cry. It would be---

"John, you are not listening--are you sleepy?" said his father.

"No, Daddy--I was only wondering--"

"What?"

"If only I could go to a big school like that, and have friends and--"

"Well, you will one day."

"Oh! In England?" asked John, his eyes dancing with excitement.

"Yes--when you are a little older."

"O-o-oh!" cried John, flinging his brown arms round Dean's neck, and

wriggling his body until his face touched his father's. "And shall I

have a study, and a big box with my name on it--'J. N. Dean' in great

black letters?"

"Yes, Anna will pack it full with your clothes."

"Oh, how glorious--and you will come too?"

Dean laughed, and pinched his son's leg.

"No, old son--they won't have daddies at school." Then seeing the

young face cloud over, "But I shall take you there. When you are

fourteen we will all go to England for a holiday, and I shall leave

you at school."

"And come back here?"

"Yes, you see your father has to make money to pay for your

schooling."

The young arm tightened around his neck, and in the dim light Dean

saw the boy's mouth quiver.

"I don't want to leave you, Daddy."

"It won't be for long, not very long," he said, "and when you have

grown up you will be able to keep your old Daddy always by your

side--if you want him."

"I shall always want you. There's--there's only us."

There was a silence then between the man and the boy. Dean stared

out across the valley. The stars glittered frostily and the moon was

coming up behind the precipice. But he hardly noticed that, for his

thoughts were far away in England. In two years or so he would be

alone--out here, an exile, with his boy far away.

The moon slowly climbed, peered over the precipice and then flooded

the gorge. A breeze came wandering along the night and stirred the

boy's hair as he lay sleeping in his father's arms. It was growing

late, but Dean sat on, moving not, just looking down on the sleeping

face of the tired boy.

CHAPTER III

In the shadow of one of the walls of the castle of Amasia two boys

were resting during the hot noon-tide, for it was near the end of May

and the summer sun was already scorching the plains and reducing the

size of the Iris as it flowed along the gorge.

Another two years had wrought a change in John and his friend, Ali

the Turk. They were fourteen and fifteen respectively, but John had

outgrown Ali, both in height and breadth. This slight period had

further developed the English boy who now looked sturdy and thickset

in comparison with the slim Turk. They had climbed all the morning,

starting out before the sun had dried the dew on the ground. Ali's

uncle had shown them over the castle, a treat that had been postponed

through one cause and another until this day. The excursion had been

made at last because the two boys would soon be parted.

In three days' time, John was setting out with his father for

England. Of that journey and the wonder that awaited him at the end

of it, John had talked for months, and Ali eagerly listened to every

detail of the new life his friend would soon be living. England, to

Ali, was a country of fabulous wealth, where great lords lived in

wonderful houses; most of them were soldiers, and the country in

which they lived was so small that open spaces were almost unknown.

It was from John that he gained his first conception of a public

school, which seemed something very unlike the great schools in

Constantinople where his father would send him one day. As the two

boys rested in the shade they were busy with their own thoughts.

Below them, almost under the high rock where they lay, crouched the

town of Amasia. They had a bird's-eye view down the gorge, and

across to the opposite precipice walling in the valley. They could

see the course of the winding river until it abruptly turned from

sight in the bend of the valley; they counted the bridges

intersecting its silver stream, and saw behind the trees fringing its

banks, the flat-topped houses, the slender minarets, dwarfed by the

height from which they looked, and the patternless maze of baths,

domes, khan courtyards, and mosques covering the narrow valley. Far

up the eastern precipice they could follow the winding highway,

climbing like a white ribbon, until it reached even higher than the

rock where they lay, and disappeared over the pass leading to

Marsovan.

As they watched and half dreamed, they heard the muezzin calling to

prayer. Ali straightway arose, and as if John had not been present,

performed his elaborate genuflections, bowing his head to the ground.

John did not watch Ali closely. On such occasions he always felt a

little awkward and hardly knew what he should do. He did not wish to

give Ali an impression of irreverence; on the other hand, he was

English and a Christian, and felt he had something which he should

uphold. He pretended therefore, whenever Ali performed his religious

exercises, not to be aware of them. The subject was one they never

discussed, each avoiding it with caution.

When Ali had finished, he stood up and looked at John in silence for

a minute. His friend lay on his back, one leg crossed over the

other, with a brown arm propping up the sunburnt face and head. As

if aware that Ali was watching him, John sat upright.

"Ali," he said, "let's have a bathe, I'm baked! Is there any water

near?"

"There's a stream half a mile down, it runs into the Iris, I've often

bathed there--shall we go?"

"Yes!" cried John, springing up. They set off at a brisk pace over

the rocky ground. They found the stream, and as if constructed for

bathing there was a deep pool where it turned into a rocky crevice.

Eager to cool their sun-weary limbs, the two boys were soon stripped,

and splashed and shouted in the clear water. As they swam they

seemed like silver fishes in the crystalline stream, and long

practice had made them adept swimmers. John who had been looking for

a place from which to dive, soon found a jutting rock lower down the

stream. Calling to Ali, he mounted it and stood poised for the dive.

As he did so, he stood up straight, cutting the brilliant sky with

his slim brown body. Ali, looking up stared at his friend, for

although only fifteen he had the Asian's keen appreciation of beauty.

Behind John's head the sunlight danced in his wind-fluttered hair, it

gilded his shoulders and rimmed with silver the outline of his young

body, and as the muscles quivered, the wet flesh gleamed like a

burnished shield.

As he watched, John raised his arms straight above his head, the slim

body was taut for a moment, the muscles contracted, then suddenly

relaxed themselves and rippled as the shining figure leapt through

the air and fell like a silver arrow into the blue pool below. For a

moment the diver disappeared under a broken bubbled surface, and

then, spluttering and laughing, John had reappeared. Ali stood on

the bank, shivering despite the heat. He was unhappy and could not

shake off a heavy sense of doom. What oppressed him he did not quite

know, he could only attribute it in some way to John going away from

him to a distant land.

Swimming to the side, John climbed the bank and was amazed to find

Ali not there. Their clothes lay together all in a heap, so it was

impossible for him to have gone far. There was nothing to be heard

save the hum of insects and the soft whisper of the grasses as they

bent under the breeze. Ali would come back soon, he thought, as he

lay down in the grass. It was delicious to feel the wind pass over

his body. It touched him as though it delighted in rippling over the

flesh and he felt its cool hand play on his shoulders then run

swiftly down to his stomach, along his legs and finally make a queer

sensation on the soles of his feet. He let his head fall and

half-turned on his side. The wind blew down his back and between his

legs deliciously. Why didn't Ali come, where had he gone?--it must

be nearly two o'clock, they would have a . . . .

When John awoke he had a feeling it was late afternoon. The sky

above him was not such a brilliant blue, some of the lustre had gone

out of it. The stream sang louder than before, otherwise there was

perfect quiet, for the insects had ceased humming. All at once he

realised he was naked. Of course, he had been bathing and had slept

in the grass, waiting for Ali! Where was Ali? John got up and then

gave a low cry. His friend too, was fast asleep at his side. John

stretched out his hand to wake him, when he felt something upon his

head. It was a wreath, twined out of asphodel, pressed over his brow

like a crown. He drew it off with a laugh. Ali had been playing

tricks. His laughter woke Ali, who sat up.

"Hadn't we better get dressed?" asked John, standing up. "What's the

wreath for?"

"To crown you."

John laughed gaily, and then checked himself, for there was an

expression of pain on Ali's face. His friend was now on his knees,

his sunburnt body erect, and he was looking at him from under a brow

half hidden with hair tousled by the wind. John had never seen Ali

look like that before. The eyes were no longer those of a merry lad,

but belonged rather to a suffering dumb brute. As John looked down

at him, their eyes met, and a low cry escaped Ali's lips.

"What is it, Ali?" John asked, stooping, and his question seemed to

loose a floodgate of the emotions, for Ali flung his arms round the

boy's ankles, and sobbed as if his heart would break.

Like all males, John hated the sight of tears; it made him feel

awkward; he knew not what to say or do. So he just stood still and

looked down at the bowed back of his friend. Then, unable to watch

Ali's distress any longer, he bent down, and with sheer strength,

lifted him on to his feet and held him just as a mother would a

troubled child. Somehow, John felt years older, and Ali seemed like

a baby--it was strange, because Ali had always been so silent, so

reserved, with a kind of hidden strength which had often made John

admire him secretly.

"I say, Ali--you mustn't go on like this,--what is the matter?"

"You are going away, John effendi."

"Yes, but I shall come back,--besides why do you worry so?"

"You are my friend, John effendi--I would never leave you--you are

more to me than a brother."

"Thanks, Ali--we--we've been great friends, and when I come back--"

"You will come back?"

"Of course I shall! I shall spend my summer holidays at

Constantinople with my father. He wants to take you there with him,

unless you are there at school. I didn't know you--thought so

much--of me, All."

"Have I not always followed you, effendi? You are English, I am a

Turk--but we are brothers--and now you are leaving me."

He stood there holding John as if he would hold him thus through

time. The English boy, embarrassed, with the British instinctive

dislike of emotional display, knew not what to say. He wanted to say

something that would express all he felt, his love for his friend,

and all the happy times they had had, but no adequate words would

come. So he just gave a short, forced laugh, tightened his grip on

the other boy, and then turned and picked up his shirt.

"I say, we must get dressed!--it's getting late."

Ali was now calm. The storm had passed. They made their way down

the mountain side almost without words. The sun had not set, but the

town below was already in deep shadow and they could see the lights

glimmering. Now that the inevitable moment of parting was drawing

near, John began to feel something of the emotion which Ali had shown

by the pool. It was a break in his life, this parting; the first he

had ever made. They had been jolly days, and although the future had

its glamour, things would never be quite the same again. Ali would

grow up, and he would grow up, each in different worlds, with

different customs. They would meet in two years, but two years was a

long time. Dear old Ali, if only he could take him with him!

They had now reached the fountain at the foot of the steep street

where the ways parted. The inevitable moment had come. John took

All's hand and gripped it, English fashion.

"Good-bye, Ali--I'll write to you often. We'll meet in two years."

"Insh' Allah--God willing," said Ali gravely. "I will make you a

gift, John effendi, will you give me a promise?"

"Yes, Ali--what is it?"

Ali opened his shirt at the neck, and lifted over his head a thin

chain. At the end of the chain hung an oval moonstone; on one side

it had Turkish characters, on the other the etching of an eye. John

had often seen this charm against the evil eye hanging on his

friend's neck, but as it no doubt had something to do with his faith,

John had refrained from asking any questions.

"See, effendi--I give you this talisman. My father brought it from

Mecca. It will keep you from harm, and also you will remember me by

it. Will you wear it always?"

The tone was so earnest, and Ali spoke with such gravity that John

nodded his head, which he lowered while Ali passed the chain over him

until the talisman hung on his breast. For a moment there was an

awkward pause. Ali seemed about to say something, but his lips did

not move. John feared another outburst; so gripping his friend's

hand, he looked into his eyes for the last time.

"Good-bye, Ali!" he said, and was quickly gone into the darkening

twilight. Down the street he felt an overmastering impulse to turn

and wave to Ali, who, he knew, would stand watching his going, but

such an act would only prolong the agony. With a firm resolve he

strode on along the way home.

It was dinner time when John reached the house, and he just had time

to wash before the gong sounded. Seated at table he was very quiet

during the meal, and when coffee had been served and they had passed

out onto the verandah where so many happy evenings had been spent,

Dean drew John down into his big wicker chair.

"You are very quiet, John--anything the matter?"

"No, father--I was only thinking."

"What of?"

"Oh--of England, and leaving here, and--Ali."

The moon had come up over the precipice and flooded the garden in

soft light. They could see the river, like a silver shield where it

turned in its course. Not a leaf stirred in the garden, but there

were sounds floating about the night. From the orchard came the

first notes of a bulbul; more distant, they could hear the musical

rippling of the water as it sang in and out among the rocks, and

further off, subdued, pulsating with mystery, sounded the low droning

of a native drum. It rose and died in the night air with its

barbaric note insistently calling. Calling what?--they did not know;

perhaps it drew towards it the Moslem spirits, as it had drawn them

on that night long ago when Timur came near, red with conquest.

Dean looked down at the boy sitting quietly by him. The moonlight

glinted upon something on John's breast. He slowly drew out the

chain with its talisman.

"What's this?" he asked, reading the Turkish characters--"Kismet!"

"Ali gave it to me for a keepsake--what does Kismet mean, father?"

"Destiny--all Moslems believe in it."

"Do we?" asked John. Dean paused before replying.

"Some of us do, some of us don't," he said quietly. Then there was

silence again, save for the drum calling through the night.

BOOK II

WEST

CHAPTER I

The guard's whistle sounded shrilly, and in John's ears it seemed to

be cutting through his life as he stood on the platform at Sedley and

felt his hand held in his father's farewell grasp. The last carriage

door had been slammed, the perspiring porters mopped their brows

under the hot September sun, the train drew back a little with a

hissing of steam and a rasping of brakes, then slowly crawled

forward. John ever afterwards carried a distinct impression of his

father as he saw him that afternoon leaning out of the carriage

window. The tanned face, the clear grey eyes and clean-cut features

all stamped themselves upon his memory. The ring in his father's

voice as he said--

"Good-bye, John--you'll soon settle down,"--then the long pause, the

last look into his eyes, and the tightened hand. These impressions

burnt themselves upon the boy's brain, and, somewhat overwhelmed with

the pain of it all, he stood watching the train dwindle down the

line. It drew out of sight, first the long length of carriage

windows, then the shortened perspective, until the back of the

guard's van covered the train, finally the lamps, the two buffers,

and a coiled up gas connection--and a long stretch of shining steel

rails that converged to a point. He wanted to run along that iron

way, to catch that train, to get away from this terrible desolation

creeping over him. He stood, lonely and miserable, in a crowd of

shouting boys and porters struggling with luggage. Just outside the

station, beyond the white palings where the ticket collector stood,

was a waggonette packed with boys of all ages. John looked at them

curiously. They were to be his companions, to form his life in the

coming years.

In Amasia he had looked forward to mingling with boys of his own age

and race, but now their noisy behaviour and boisterous good humour

repelled him. He thought how much preferable was Ali with his quiet

oriental manner. There was also another disconcerting experience

which depressed him--his new clothes irritated him. He had worn

trousers for a week now and hated them. His waistcoat was like a

chain round his chest and he wanted to tear the vile Eton collar from

his throat in rage. He longed for his loose open shirt, his easy

shorts and socks. There were other clothes packed away in that white

wooden box, with black iron flanges. John stared at his initials,

black-lettered on the front--"J.N.D."--did they belong to him?

Somehow they seemed to shout at him, to possess him, and the "N" in

the middle grew and swelled until it dwarfed its companions. John

was terribly afraid of that "N". Why hadn't the porter stuck the

luggage label over it? He recalled what that awful boy, at the house

where his father went to dine one day, had said, when he told him his

name.

"Narcissus! Good Lord, you will get ragged!"

"Ragged--what's that?" he had asked.

"Oh--knocked about--chivied." And then, in a friendly tone, "You'd

better keep that name quiet."

John must have stood thinking on the platform for a considerable

time. It was almost empty. He would walk back to the school. His

housemaster's wife had asked him to have tea with her. He

instinctively liked Mrs. Fletcher. She was motherly and there was

such a pleasant ring in her voice, also she was beautiful and

probably young. Her cheeks were very fresh, as if she had walked in

the wind all day, and John liked the style in which she did her hair.

Fletcher too had attracted him, though he had not been able to notice

him much, for his father had talked to him about Eastern affairs.

When John reached the school, he tapped on his housemaster's study

door and entered. He was in no genial mood, but full of warlike

thoughts. Mrs. Fletcher smiled at him as he entered and motioned for

him to sit by her side. There were other boys in the room, seven or

eight, all laughing and talking with Mr. Fletcher, and John wondered

whether he would ever be on such familiar terms with the master as

these boys were. There was something about the book-lined study

which pleased John--it had such a homely look and Mr. Fletcher seemed

all the more attractive because of his study. The books, portraits

and pictures were interesting, the chairs were very comfortable, and

Mrs. Fletcher gave attention to John. Soon he was laughing at

something she had said which amused him immensely, and he laughed as

only a boy can laugh. Mr. Fletcher turned from the group about him

and looked across at John.

"Now I wonder what I am missing, Dean?" he said. "Come here. This

is Mason--Rogers, Russell, Thomson, and Vernley." He indicated the

boys with a sweep of his hand, and John surveyed his new

schoolfellows. One boy attracted him, a heavily-built fellow with

carefully brushed hair that was thick and shiny. John saw that he

was strong, so strong that he looked ungainly in his suit, which

tightened with every movement, but what attracted John was Vernley's

smile, it was so good natured, and warm, like sunshine. He was

pleased when Mr. Fletcher added--

"Vernley is in your dormitory, Dean." Then turning to the boy, "You

must take charge of Dean until he finds his way about. Now you'd

better get along, all you. Don't forget to see the Matron about your

things, and chapel's at seven-thirty."

John followed the boys out into the corridor. He shivered as he

closed the study door. On this side of it he was in the school and

it looked so depressingly barren after the cosy study. He watched

the other boys with envy as they walked down the corridor to the

Matron's room. Vernley was among them, and seemed to have forgotten

the master's injunction, but at the Matron's door he waited for John.

"Come along, our boxes are up in the dorm,--yours has been put next

to mine--I'll show you the way up."

Putting his arm in John's he led the way, talking as they went. To

John it was a novel experience. He had never talked to another

English boy in this free manner, and the friendliness with which

Vernley had taken his arm gave him a slight thrill. It was pleasant

to be noticed like this, and already he liked his companion. There

was something so placid and solid about him which appealed to John.

There was nothing Eastern about this boy, he talked without reserve

and his clear brown eyes seemed like those of a young animal rather

than a human being.

Vernley sat down on John's bed and explained the various contrivances

in the room. It was a long well-lit chamber with eight beds on

either side, bordered by two long strips of carpet. The middle of

the floor was bare.

"It's jolly cold too," said Vernley, "when you stand on it with the

wind blowing over you."

"Stand on it, why?"

"Oh, it's Lindon's fad--he's a physical culture crank, he's prefect

here. He makes us all strip night and morning and has us squirming

on our backs with our legs in the air,--but he's quite a decent chap.

You'll get on with him well."

"Why?"

"Oh, you look so splendidly fit--he's simply mad on fitness. He

spends half his time torturing me to get my fat down."

"But you're strong," said John admiringly.

"Oh, yes, but it is not strength he believes in--it's what he calls

form, the Greek ideal--he's always talking about some Greek johnny,

and he's rather like one himself. What's the J.N. for?" Vernley

broke off abruptly and stared at the box.

"John Narcissus--"

"Narcissus!"

"Yes--it's Greek too," John smiled, and Vernley laughed. John

noticed that he had teeth like an animal's--white and strong.

"Well--they'll call you 'Cissy' for short."

"Oh, please don't tell them--I hate it," he said, looking at Vernley

imploringly.

"Very well--then it'll be Scissors--that's more cutting!"

"I don't mind that--what's your name?"

"What do you think--there's only one name for all persons like

myself--Tubby--isn't it a libel?"

"Yes--you're not too fat. I think you're--" John hesitated,

"Well, what--let's hear."

"You're quite--splendid."

Vernley laughed again in his fascinating way.

"Thanks--I can return that compliment."

John flushed. He was glad Vernley had laughed like that.

"That's strange, you know--saying that," added Vernley.

"Why?"

"Because most fellows never think about appearances--I always do, and

you do. I loathe ugliness. Lindon's always preaching on that text.

You'll hear him later, 'the good and the beautiful' that's his pet

phrase. He's beautiful enough, but he isn't good."

"Why?--does he swear?"

"Good lord, yes--we all do, there's worse things than that." He

stooped down and took a book out of the box at the foot of his bed.

Then he glanced at a watch on his wrist.

"Glory!" he exclaimed, "it's a quarter past seven. Come along or

we'll be late." He hurried out, John following. He wished Vernley

had gone on talking, he interested him in Lindon. What was it Lindon

did? Perhaps he drank secretly, or cribbed, or--John hurried on, his

head filled with speculations. He was looking forward to seeing the

terrible Lindon.