CAPTIVES
The chaoush and his soldiers, still guarding the trap door beneath
which Dicran and his family were imprisoned, had watched their
companions burn the church, and disappointed at not having a part in
it, gave expression to their discontent.
“Bring out the old man,” ordered the mollah, who had now joined them.
The chaoush looked at the soldiers; the soldiers looked at the crowd;
the crowd looked at the priest. Nobody moved; for nobody cared to
venture into the hole to grapple with Dicran. A grin spread over the
faces of the crowd, and the chaoush, feeling himself to be the object
of their ridicule, pried open the door, and with a revolver in his hand
stepped down the ladder. When halfway to the bottom, a powerful hand
suddenly tightened about his arm. He tried to shoot; but before he
could aim, his revolver was wrenched away. Defenseless, he hurriedly
scrambled out, to the amusement of the jeering crowd. Angered by the
raillery, he seized his rifle and pointed it into the hole, ordering
his soldiers to follow his example. They fired again and again in all
directions until it seemed that nothing below could be alive. But
Dicran, having foreseen what would happen, had placed the girls in the
far corner, and partly protecting them with the empty boxes, he and
Vartan stood before them. The chaoush, followed by his soldiers, again
climbed into the hole. On the ground lay the bodies of the two men,
while in the far corner, almost out of the range of the rifles, was
the white dress of a woman. Striking a match to light up the darkness,
the chaoush stood gazing at the upturned, beseeching eyes of Armenouhi
holding her unconscious sister in her arms. The soldiers seized the
wounded men, dragged them to the floor above, and then carried out the
girls.
“Leave the old man till the last,” shouted the mollah, pushing Dicran
into the corner, while the soldiers stretched Vartan on his back on the
floor.
Armenouhi buried her face in her hands to shut out the sight, while the
old man, bleeding profusely, sat in the corner, apparently unmoved.
“Why should they torture a dead man?” he thought. Slowly his eyelids
sank and closed; his head dropped to one side; he fell over face
downward on the floor, and his arms were stretched out as if lifeless.
“Yallah! the old dog is dead,” cried the mollah, and gave Dicran a kick
to verify his remark; not a muscle of the old man’s body moved; the
disappointed mollah had uttered the very words of Dicran’s thought, for
he left him lying where he was.
The sound of a whistle announced the approaching noon train from
Constantinople. Takvor, the only passenger for Ak Hissar, was wondering
what would happen when he should attempt to enter the village without a
passport. He nodded to the German station agent, who seemed strangely
excited, and then approached the gate, only to find the guard absent.
Congratulating himself on passing so easily, he started for the town.
A thick volume of smoke was rising, and the houses seemed deserted.
Turning into the street, he saw the charred timbers of the church. Then
he caught sight of the bare-headed Dicran contending with a group of
soldiers and felled to the ground. The soldiers were leading away two
girls, one dressed in white, the other in black. He recognized them and
sprang forward.
“Armenouhi! Armenouhi!” he shouted.
The chaoush lifted his rifle and brought it down on Takvor’s head. One
blow was enough; then seizing Armenouhi by the arm, he dragged her on.