FOR THE PADISHAH
The first glance at Armenouhi revealed to the chaoush her remarkable
beauty. She was not so plump as most Turks wish their wives to be, yet
there was something about her which reminded him of the wealthy Frank
ladies and the wives of the Sultan’s harem. She was exceedingly pale;
her cheeks were stained with tears; her hair, no longer held together,
fell in profusion about her shoulders; and her dress was soiled; yet
never had he imagined a dark-eyed houri of paradise half so beautiful.
The great, blue eyes, which some called evil eyes, looked into his for
just an instant when he lighted the match in the dark cellar; there was
no trace of evil in them. Now they seemed to lack that deep expression,
and were staring vacantly. What had the young man called her? Was it
“Armenouhi?” He wondered if that could be her name. He spoke it aloud,
and looked into her eyes to read the answer. Her head was drooping, her
face half concealed by the flowing hair, and her eyes gave no response.
Moved by pity, he brushed the hair from her forehead with his big rough
hand, and while doing so, one of his soldiers made as if he would touch
her.
“Leave her alone,” growled the chaoush, striking the uplifted hand.
A coarse grin spread over the faces of the soldiers. Then one of them
pinched her arm.
“I tell you to leave her alone; she is mine,” roared the chaoush; and
pointing to the one who had pinched her, he commanded him to bring a
horse. He lifted Armenouhi to the saddle, sprang up behind, and hitting
the horse with the butt of his gun, rode rapidly toward the mountain.
Vassinag was left with the four brutal soldiers; her eyes closed, her
head fell forward, and she slipped through the arms of her captors to
the ground.
The chaoush had abandoned his post, but that mattered little; for in
the general excitement he would hardly be missed. Moreover, his mind
was too occupied to think of such a trivial matter, for visions of
great wealth and royal favor were fast rising before him; and it seemed
to him that at last he could restore the old home, and be a pasha, as
his father had been. He would place Armenouhi in his house in Brusa,
under the care of his mother, and at Beiram, when the Sultan added a
wife to his harem, he would present her to him. The Padishah had great
wealth, and for such a wife the reward could not be small. It would be
well for the girl too, and at the thought a feeling somewhat akin to
kindness possessed him. If she but knew that some day she was to be
the wife of the great Padishah, how happy she would be! In his newly
found hope he had already forgotten the scene of an hour before, and
was unable to understand why his captive should lean so lifelessly upon
him. He would not harm her, not even touch her, for she was reserved
for the Padishah. He would speak comfortingly to her, and then she
would be happy and talk to him.
“Armenouhi,” he began, as gently as his guttural voice would allow.
She seemed not to hear.
“Armenouhi,” he repeated, a little louder.
Still there was no response; and thinking that perhaps it was not her
name, he again looked into her face.
“The little Armenian!” he mumbled half aloud. “No other name could suit
her better,” and that he decided it should be.
“Armenouhi,” he repeated, “you are safe. Nobody shall harm you. You
shall be the wife of the great Padishah, and live at Yildiz. You
shall have silk dresses and diamonds; and slaves and carriages; and
go to Selamlik; and some day perhaps you may be the Valide Sultana.
You should be happy now, Armenouhi, for never again shall you live
at Ak Hissar with dirty Armenians. I will take you to Yildiz, to the
Padishah.”
For just an instant Armenouhi piteously raised her eyes to the
soldier’s face; her lips moved as if she would speak, but no sound
came. The horrors she had witnessed that day had robbed her of her
speech. The chaoush could not understand her silence; for what
Circassian or Albanian would not leap with joy at such a proposal?
Disappointed, yet not discouraged, he redoubled his efforts to win her
confidence, and stopping his horse by the wayside, he broke a leafy
branch from an overhanging tree that he might protect her head from the
scorching rays of the sun.
It was a journey of twenty-two hours from Ak Hissar to Brusa; but with
two on the horse the chaoush did not hope to accomplish it in less
than three days. It was late in the afternoon before they reached the
spring on the summit of the mountain. He dismounted and looked into the
valley from which they had ascended. A thin column of smoke was still
curling up from the dying embers of the church. Before him, by the
lake on the other side of the mountain, lay the little town of Isnik,
two hours away. Not wishing to reach the village before dark, he led
his horse into the shade of a large tree, beneath which was a spring
bubbling up through the sand and rocks, and lifted Armenouhi from the
saddle. She sank to the ground, burying her face in her hands. He stood
for a moment looking at her, and then going to the spring, washed the
old gourd which the shepherds used for a drinking cup, filled it with
water, and carried it to her.
“Drink, Armenouhi; it will do you good.”
She remained silent and motionless. Again he offered her the gourd, but
there was no response.
“Don’t be afraid, child; I would not harm you; and Yallah! if anybody
so much as puts a finger on you, he shall take a short road to
paradise.”
At this suggestion of kindness Armenouhi slightly raised her head, but
immediately hid it as before. Encouraged by the movement, he drew a
handkerchief from his belt, moistened it, and in his clumsy way bathed
her forehead. Then for the first time he noticed how big and red were
the stains on her white dress. He refilled the gourd and tried to wash
them away. When his efforts only increased their size and ugliness, he
ceased, and stood wondering where he could take her for the night. If
they remained in the fields, they could probably escape observation,
but the brigands who infested the region might steal her from him;
besides, she was not a rough soldier like himself, who could sleep
in the open. If he should seek protection in Isnik, he feared what
the people might say of her helpless condition and of the traces of
blood. Pulling off his coat, he wrapped it about her, but it scarcely
concealed the half of her skirt. He recalled an old shepherd hut down
on the slope of the mountain, where he might find something to cover
her. With this new hope he again bathed her forehead, and lifting her
to the saddle, started down the mountain.
“My sister has met with an accident,” he mumbled to the old woman he
found spinning before the hut, “and I have nothing to protect her; can
you not let me have something to wrap about her?”
She had lived too long among brigands to express any astonishment
at Armenouhi’s appearance. At the same time she would have refused
his request if he had not been a chaoush. Groaning of her poverty,
she hobbled into the hut and presently returned with a long black
cloak, which she put about the girl. Without even a word of thanks,
the chaoush rode on, leaving her staring after him, indignant at his
ingratitude.
It was dark when the chaoush, with Armenouhi on the saddle before him,
passed through the ancient, crumbling gateway of Isnik, and stopped
before the door of the inn. To the innkeeper he explained that he was
carrying a sick girl home to her mother in Brusa; and the one vacant
chamber was placed at his disposal. He lifted Armenouhi from the horse,
carried her upstairs, and laid her on the bed. He went and prepared hot
milk and rice, and took them to her. Before he left her for the night,
he removed the long black cloak, and again bathed her face. He then
went out and closed the door, spread his coat for a bed in front of
it, lay down, and was soon fast asleep.
At dawn he stood at the door and listened. No sound came from within.
He knocked; but there was no answer. He opened the door and entered.
Armenouhi was lying on the bed as he had left her the night before, and
the food at her side was untasted. He spoke, but her half-opened eyes
betrayed no consciousness of his presence.
“Why doesn’t she speak to me?” he mused, as he removed the untasted
food and placed fresh coffee at her side.
Though she seemed unconscious, he urged her to drink, for soon they
must continue their journey. Half an hour later, again finding her in
the same position, he placed the coffee to her lips; she only raised
her sad eyes, and left it untasted. Wrapping the cloak about her, he
lifted her and carried her to the horse waiting below.
They passed the second night at an inn at Yeni Shehir; but Armenouhi
took no food. It was only toward the evening of the third day, when she
was cooling her head with water from a spring near Brusa, that she ate
two of the grapes he had picked from a vineyard by the roadside. It was
the first food she had tasted for sixty hours.
“That is right, Armenouhi,” he said kindly. “Eat more; for we have had
a long ride to-day.”
Not yet had the chaoush heard his captive speak. Not one of his many
questions had she answered; and only occasionally, when he brought her
water or fruit, did she turn her eyes to him. The stories which he told
her brought no smile, nor had she shed a tear since they left Ak Hissar.
Again it was dark when they climbed the narrow street in Brusa.
Stopping before a large wooden house with latticed windows, he
dismounted and knocked. The door was opened by a tall black eunuch, who
lifted Armenouhi from the saddle and carried her within; the chaoush
followed leading his horse.