ON THE MOUNTAIN
It was a college custom for each class to go for a three days'
excursion, before the Easter holidays, and this year the boys of the
Sophomore class had selected the mountain of Sof, to the northwest
of Aintab, as the objective point of their trip. Monsieur Bernier
and Mihran hodja were to go with them.
About six o'clock in the morning, one day toward the end of March,
the masters gave the signal for the start, and the boys sprang to
their saddles. They rode horses or donkeys. These donkeys of the
East are strong, vigorous animals, with bright eyes and glossy skin,
and often rival the horses in speed.
The sky was cloudless, the air pure, and fragrant with a thousand odors
from the plain; the fields, so bare in autumn, when parched by heat and
drought, had put on their bridal array of grass and flowers. The road
ran beside a stream bordered with laurel, roses and eglantine. After
a ride of three hours, the party came to the lower foothills of the
mountain. The good beasts went on bravely, picking their way among the
rough stones and fallen débris, never stumbling. The vegetation was
marvelous; as far as eye could see, stretched fields of narcissus,
hyacinths, tulips and gladiolas. Monsieur Bernier kept jumping off
his horse every few moments to gather a fresh handful of flowers.
The riders stopped near a well, to eat their luncheon; after tethering
the donkeys and horses to some plane-trees, every one proceeded to
unpack his food.
"I say," said Aram, "just look at Soghomon!"
The gluttony of the fat boy was notorious; he now had twelve eggs
spread out on his knees, the sight of which sent his companions into
fits of laughter.
"Are you going to hatch them, or what?" asked the merciless Aram.
"I speak for the chicks," said Dikran.
Soghomon turned red to the tips of his ears.
"Vai bana (worse luck), I'm hungry," he stammered at last, "and I
always have a good appetite."
"Right you are, old man," said Aram, "it seems to me you've been
getting thin lately."
"Bah!" said Nejib. "I bet he won't eat them."
"Why not?" said Soghomon pettishly. "My father ate thirteen once."
The shouts of laughter redoubled.
"I bet he will eat them," cried Aram.
"What will you bet?" asked Nejib.
"My Iceland postage-stamps."
"Pek-et (all right)! I'll bet my romance by Walter Scott."
Soghomon was nettled by the jesting. He ate eight eggs easily, but the
ninth had a queer taste. At the tenth his stomach seemed to close; he
stuck to it however. Orientals adore betting, and his comrades put him
on his mettle. He ate the eleventh, then the twelfth! Nejib had lost.
"Aférim, Aférim (Bravo)!" cried Aram, delighted, and he dragged
Soghomon into a wild dance.
It was so hot that the company unanimously agreed to take a siesta,
and not start on their way until four o'clock.... The muezzin was just
telling the hour of sunset as our cavalcade drew up at the village
of Ibrahamli, where they were to spend the night. Dr. Spencer had
given Monsieur Bernier a letter of introduction to Mustapha Hara, the
chief man of the village. The inhabitants of Ibrahamli were Kurds,
and without the doctor's letter, our friends would have found every
door closed to them.
Mustapha was a bilious-looking little man, with a nose like an eagle's
beak; his mouth was hidden by an enormous mustache, which curled back
over his chin. At first, he looked at his guests rather distrustfully,
but after reading the letter from Dr. Spencer, who had cured him
of typhus, his face brightened. He offered his best room to the two
masters, and had some straw spread in the courtyard for the boys. His
wife and children stood in a ring around the party of Christians, for
strangers are rarely seen in this obscure village. Monsieur Bernier
especially excited their curiosity; the children felt of his clothes,
and a young Kurd even went as far as to rob him of a lock of hair,
having been assured by a sorcerer that the fair head of the "Frangi"
(Europeans) was an efficacious protection against the evil eye.
Monsieur Bernier and Mihran hodja had lain down on the floor, rolled
up in the quilts which Mustapha had provided, and they were just
dropping off to sleep when a sound of scratching at the door made
them start. In an instant they were on their feet.
"Bouyourun (Come in)," said Mihran hodja.
It was Boghos, in great agitation.
"Effendis, come quick! Soghomon is very sick; he says he is going
to die!"
"Bah!" cried Monsieur Bernier. "It's those eggs."
He had, before this, had some experience of the terrible fear of
sickness by which these good people are tormented; they have iron
constitutions, but at the most trifling ailment, they imagine their
last hour has come.
In the courtyard the masters were greeted by the groans of the
sufferer. The other boys and the members of the household were
standing round him in a circle, shouting and gesticulating. Each had
some advice to give, but Monsieur Bernier went up to Soghomon and
offered him a spoonful of castor-oil.
"Take this, it will make you feel better."
If the patient were afraid of sickness, he was equally afraid of
medicine.
"What is that horrid stuff! I can't take that!" and he pushed away
the spoon in disgust.
"Soghomon, if you don't drink this, nothing can save you."
These words had the desired effect, and the sick boy swallowed the oil,
making a thousand wry faces.
"He'll be all right to-morrow," said Monsieur Bernier, as he went
back to his room.
In the morning, the party set out for the ascent of Sof, leaving their
horses with Ibrahamli, and Soghomon, who preferred to remain behind.
The mountain of Sof is shaped like a tooth. The ascent was very
difficult, over a rough trail, scaling walls of rock, and often
passing close to the edge of a precipice, but on reaching the summit
the climbers were rewarded for their exertions by a magnificent
view. At their feet lay a vast plain enclosed by the hills which
separate Aintab from Killis; toward the north towered the great
wall of Anti-Taurus. Most of the boys lay down on the grass, to dry
the perspiration that streamed from their faces. A few of the more
adventurous went off to investigate the huge blocks of granite jutting
out over the depths below.
"Be very careful," called Mihran hodja, as he stretched himself out
beside Monsieur Bernier.
"Does our Sof remind you of your Swiss mountains?"
"Not exactly; our Alps are higher and more majestic, but we seldom
enjoy such pure air and sunshine----"
He was interrupted by a terrible cry, followed by the sound of
something falling.
"There has been an accident!" said he to his companion, and they both
ran toward the rocks. There they found Dikran, Aram, and three other
boys, all pale and trembling.
"What is the matter?" asked Mihran hodja.
In reply, Dikran beckoned to them to come nearer, and pointed straight
down. There was his cousin, suspended over the chasm, and clinging
to a small tree. The boys gave a cry of horror.
Poor Nejib had slipped as he was gathering anemones, and had fallen
between two walls of rock. His fall had been broken by a narrow ledge
covered with thick grass; a few meters lower, he had caught hold of a
young pine, but the frail tree might give way at any moment, and then
the unfortunate boy must roll down to the turbulent stream below. With
neither rope nor ladder, it seemed impossible to save him; yet he could
not be left to perish like that. There was perplexity on every face.
At last Archag went up to Monsieur Bernier and said:
"He must have been hurt as he fell; I hear him groaning. I am going
to try to get down to him."
"You will certainly be killed in the attempt."
"I'm used to mountains, and I can scramble over the rocks like a wild
goat. Let us make a rope of our girdles; [24] you fasten it about me
and let me down."
It was the only chance of saving Nejib, and after a moment's
consultation the two masters consented. They bound the improvised
rope about Archag's loins, and let him down.
Our friend made good use of his hands and feet, and finally reached
Nejib. He braced himself against a rock, gripping it with his
right hand, while with the left he untied the rope and fastened it
about Nejib. The lad had sprained his ankle, and his arm was badly
bruised. Archag gave a whistle, and the rope began to go slowly up
with its burden. The spectators held their breath in suspense: if a
single girdle were to break, Nejib would be lost.
The rope ascended; one more last pull, and--Nejib was saved! The
shock and pain had exhausted his strength, and he fell fainting on
the grass. Mihran hodja hastened to take off the rope; he examined
it carefully and then threw it down to Archag, who in a few moments
gave the signal, and again the boys began pulling. Three-quarters of
the ascent had been accomplished, when the rope began to split.
"Destowe, destowe (take care)!" all the boys cried out together,
and Archag had just time to save himself by clinging to a projecting
angle of rock. He discarded the rope, now useless, and set himself
to climb up the narrow cleft in the cliff that rose sheer before
him. By dint of fitting his feet to the rough surface of the rock,
and gripping where he might with his hands, he managed to reach the
top, but not without many a bruise.
His companions received him in their arms, and gave him a regular
ovation. Nejib had come out of his swoon, and as he looked at Archag,
his eyes filled with tears.
"Avf-edersin (forgive me)," he said, under his breath.
"Forgive you for what?"
"For pushing you that day when you were looking at Professor
Missirian's collection."
"Was it you?"
"Yes. Thanks to your blundering, I was punished for reading 'The
Arabian Nights.' I thought you did it on purpose, out of spite--Stay
still; I know now that wasn't true," (Archag had started to go away)
"I was furious, and I was bound I would pay you back. But I haven't
had a moment's peace since. You are so good, so generous; do say you
forgive me."
Archag held out his hand in silence, and Nejib clasped it with both
his own. Masters and pupils alike watched this scene with astonishment.
"Nejib, I can't say I congratulate you on your behavior," cried
Monsieur Bernier. "I wouldn't have believed it of you."
"Nor I, nor I," murmured the others.
"Let him alone," said Mihran hodja. "Reproaches do no good."
The boys broke off some pine boughs and made a litter for Nejib, but
the descent was very difficult, for the boy was suffering severely,
and every jolt drew from him a groan of pain.
At Ibrahamli, the village sorcerer massaged his foot, and dressed his
wounds according to all the rules of the profession. The next morning
he was put on a horse, and the whole company set out on the return
trip to Aintab. The president and professors were indignant when
they learned of Nejib's ill-conduct. Dr. Mills imposed a punishment
of three days on bounds, and made him ask pardon of Archag publicly.