THE DERVISHES
Safe within the inn, Takvor led Armenouhi to his own room, and placed
her on the divan by the window. Without a word he lighted a candle,
and holding it close to her face, looked anxiously into it to read the
effects of her captivity. She was pale, and her cheeks were thinner
than when he last saw her, more than two years before; her eyes lacked
their usual luster, but never were they so mild and so deep; her
lips bore an expression which he had never seen on them before, the
expression of sweetness and sorrow that comes from deep grief silently
and patiently borne. But now she smiled, and tears came to Takvor’s
eyes.
“My poor, poor, little Armenouhi!” and he gently stroked her face. He
drew her to him, and her arms found their way about his neck.
Half an hour later the innkeeper knocked at the door, to announce, he
said, that if Takvor would bring the young lady below, his wife would
prepare her some tea and give her a room next to her own, where she
would be comfortable.
There was little sleep for Takvor. Happy because Armenouhi had been
unexpectedly rescued, yet overwhelmed by the difficulties that still
lay in his path, he tossed all night long. Of the two liras from
Dicran’s iron box, only one remained, and it would hardly suffice to
pay what he owed at the inn. He had come to Brusa without a passport,
a thing quite impossible except at a time of unusual excitement, when
a solitary traveler would not attract the attention of the officials.
The country was again at rest, and should he even apply for a pass, he
would be imprisoned. Forbidden by law to go by rail or by carriage, or
even afoot, threatened at every moment with arrest or death, to save
the innocent girl whom he loved, he must travel with her more than
sixty miles through a country swarming with soldiers and legalized
brigands. All this would drive sleep from more tired eyes than his.
Great as his difficulties were, they were much magnified by the long,
dark hours of the night; and when for a moment he drove them from him
and fell into a doze, they towered above him like some monster, and
forced themselves upon him. At the first approach of dawn he dressed
and went below to lighten his troubles by imparting them to his Greek
friend.
He was discussing with the innkeeper and his wife how the journey to
Ak Hissar might best be made, when Armenouhi appeared and sat down at
his side on the divan. While she was drinking her coffee, and listening
eagerly to the conversation of which she was the principal subject,
there suddenly came from the street a loud, nasal drawl, begging alms
in the name of Allah. Staring through the windows was a wandering
dervish. His dark face was nearly concealed by a heavy, black, shiny
beard, and his matted hair reached below his shoulders. His clothes
were patches roughly stitched together, while his shoes were but rags
wound about his feet. A bag was strung to his shoulder. In his hand he
carried an axe. And about his neck was suspended a long string of beads
representing the nine and ninety names of Allah.
“Can’t we be dervishes?” suggested Armenouhi.
“Does a dervish have big blue eyes, and a fair soft skin?” smiled the
innkeeper’s wife.
“Blue eyes can be closed, and fair skin can be colored,” came the quiet
but assuring answer.
The two men looked inquiringly at each other, and the innkeeper nodded
his head in approval, taking a silver piaster from his pocket to throw
to the beggar.
“We will be dervishes, Armenouhi,” said Takvor; “it will be safest for
both of us.”
Of all the peculiar peoples of the Mohammedan world, the loathsome,
fanatical, and oftentimes hypocritical and vicious dervish enjoys the
greatest freedom. To whatever order he belongs, he may wander at will.
His real or pretended piety, his implements of torture, his beads,
his long prayers in public, his pious ejaculations, his blessings for
those who give him alms, and curses for those who refuse,--these are
his passport, and he requires no other. Hair filled with vermin, filthy
skin, rags scarcely sufficient to cover him, exposure to heat and cold,
self-torture for Allah’s sake, long wanderings across burning deserts
and through dangerous mountain passes,--why, or whence, or whither,
nobody knows,--these are his virtues. Among robbers and brigands he is
safe, for he has nothing worth stealing, not even himself, since nobody
would pay the ransom. No soldier will arrest or harm this favorite of
Allah, suffering as he does for the world, and in return the world owes
him a living.
Takvor and Armenouhi were to return to Ak Hissar as dervishes, as two
homeless wandering men, for no dervish ever traveled with a woman. The
innkeeper went busily searching for the proper dress. Takvor squeezed
the juice from green walnut shucks and painted Armenouhi’s face and
hands; and then she painted his, imparting to them the dark tan which
is evidence of long exposure to the scorching sun.
Armenouhi chose for herself an Arab costume. Her long, greenish,
dirt-colored tunic reached to the ground and entirely concealed her
form. Through the ragged openings of her outer dress could be seen the
equally ragged trousers clinging tightly to her ankles and extending
into her worn-out shoes, which were far too large for her little feet.
Her hair, fastened securely on the top of her head, was concealed
by a large white cloth that fell about her shoulders and gave her
half-hidden face the appearance of a fine-featured Arab boy. Only her
eyes betrayed her; but to show what a perfect dervish she could be, she
closed them, and taking Takvor’s hand, blindly followed him about the
room.
Takvor’s costume resembled hers, save for the yards and yards of faded
green cloth wound about his head, the evidence of frequent pilgrimages
to Mecca, or of lineal descent from the Prophet; and these suggestions
of extreme piety were emphasized by a string of enormous beads and a
long staff reaching above his head.
The innkeeper and his wife pronounced their disguise perfect, for
everything in their appearance seemed to indicate that they had
descended from an ancient dervish family.