DRIVEN ON
The next morning, while Takvor and the innkeeper were sitting in the
room with Dicran discussing the probable outcome of the “question,”
as the massacre was called, the girls were standing in the doorway,
looking toward the village square, where they saw the mollah with a
few of the Faithful peering into the well. The labor of bringing water
from a distant spring had at last driven the Turks to remove the dead.
The girls shuddered, for the group of men vividly recalled the horrible
scene which they sought to efface from their minds. Suddenly the heavy
tread of the approaching patrol caught their attention. Armenouhi
turned and saw the chaoush, rifle in hand, rapidly approaching. With a
scream she darted into the house.
“The chaoush! the chaoush!” she gasped. “Don’t let him take me away.”
The men within, hearing the cry, rushed to the hall, while the chaoush,
who had already entered, sulkily stopped at the appearance of the
unexpected encounter.
“I’ll have you yet,” he muttered, as he slowly returned to his soldiers.
It had occurred neither to Takvor nor to Armenouhi that there could
still be danger in Ak Hissar. It seemed to them that when once they
had reached home, everything would continue about as it had before
the massacre; the Armenians might still be closely watched, or their
freedom be somewhat restricted, yet life, they thought, would be safe.
The chaoush had made little effort to recapture Armenouhi in Brusa; he
reasoned rightly that she would return to her people and that if he
were ever to retake her, it would be at Ak Hissar. Moreover, should
he not find her, the post which he had deserted, if still vacant,
would afford him a livelihood; and leaving his family to shift for
themselves, he set out on foot, passed the two dervishes, and reached
Ak Hissar a day before them. His absence had not yet been reported;
his soldiers were still awaiting his return; and he continued his work
as if it had not been interrupted.
The three men in Dicran’s house watched the chaoush until he joined
the group of men at the well, and then returned to the room where
Armenouhi, trembling with fear, was sitting on the divan. From the
window they could see her enemy loitering as if to witness the raising
of the bodies from the well, but the frequent glances he cast in their
direction disclosed his real intention of watching for the girl. There
was little to prevent his seizing her. Even to the government no appeal
could be made. Indeed, the very person who should have aided her was
he from whom she sought to be protected. Should the chaoush succeed
in his attempt, there would be no redress; no court or judge would
condemn a Turkish soldier in a case against a Christian. If Armenouhi
would be saved, she must be taken away, and at once. While the three
men stood at the window silently watching the chaoush, each was trying
to think of some plan for her escape. The priest’s work at the well
was progressing, and by noonday the last load of the dead was driven
away to the final resting place outside the village; but the chaoush
remained sitting in the shade of the plane tree, with his eyes fixed on
Dicran’s house.
“My child,” began the old man, after having spent half the day in
trying to come to a decision, “you must again disguise yourself as a
dervish and go to Constantinople. You will be safer with Aunt Vartouhi
than here.”
The plan commended itself better than any other, and the remainder of
the day was spent in restoring to the faces and hands of Takvor and
Armenouhi the stain they had been trying so hard to remove. By dark
they were again in their dervish costumes, ready for their journey,
while the chaoush was still sitting before the inn. Whether it was his
purpose to attack the house during the hours of darkness, or merely to
see that Armenouhi did not again escape him, was uncertain. Though the
lights in Dicran’s house were extinguished as if all within had retired
for the night, the soldier remained at his post. It was midnight when
the watchers at the window saw him enter the inn. The time for the
dervishes to start on their journey had come. It was a sad parting. The
old man embraced Armenouhi, and fondly kissed her as if he were never
to see her again.
“Take this for her, and if you need it, for yourself,” he whispered to
Takvor, handing him a small bag of gold liras. “It is nearly all that
Hassan has left me. I need not ask you to protect her,” he continued,
“nor bid you care for her when I am gone; she has always been yours
more than mine.”
As if to express her full approval of her grandfather’s words,
Armenouhi placed her hand within Takvor’s and together they silently
passed through the open door into the darkness without. Only the stars
lighted their way as they noiselessly left the village by the road to
Ismid.
At daybreak the next morning, when the innkeeper went to the stable to
hitch his horse to the carriage, the chaoush, satisfied that Armenouhi
could not escape him, was already at his post, patiently watching
the house. He seemed to regard the innkeeper as one of Armenouhi’s
protectors; for he watched all his movements and was rejoiced to see
him leave the village by the road that led to Brusa. Had he continued
his watching, he could have seen him cross the fields to the west of
the village, and hasten on toward Ismid. If at midday, his vision,
instead of being confined to the house before him, could have reached
fifteen miles or more westward, he would have seen two tired, hungry
dervishes, sitting by the roadside waiting for an approaching carriage.
Could his ears have caught sounds so remote, he would have heard the
Greek’s hearty laugh, and two deep sighs of relief as the dervishes
hastily climbed into the carriage to increase the distance that
separated them from Ak Hissar.
After a difficult journey of two days, the innkeeper and his two
dervish passengers reached Haidar Pasha in time to catch the last boat
across the Bosphorus. Mingling with the crowds on the Galata bridge,
they passed unnoticed. At Stamboul the innkeeper motioned to a Greek
driver, and hurrying the dervishes into the closed carriage, climbed to
the seat beside him. A few minutes later they stopped before Vartouhi’s
house in Kum Kapu. The house seemed deserted. The shades were closely
drawn, and no light was visible. The innkeeper alighted, and struck
the iron knocker. No answer but the resounding echo. Again he struck,
louder than before, and waited. Presently the corner of a window shade
moved slightly as if somebody were stealthily peeking out. Once more he
struck, and a woman’s voice faintly inquired who was there.
“Aunt Vartouhi!” called Armenouhi, from the carriage; “Takvor and I
have come.”
The key turned, the bolt slid back, and the door slowly opened. Takvor
and Armenouhi entered, followed by the innkeeper. Aunt Vartouhi,
refastening the door, led the way through the dark hall to a dimly
lighted room in the rear of the basement. Here for the first time she
noticed the strange appearance of her unexpected guests.
“Mashallah! What is the meaning of all this?” was her anxious inquiry.
“Don’t be alarmed, auntie. We have had so much trouble, and poor father
is gone, but we are here safe and sound,” and Armenouhi went on to
relate the awful experiences that had befallen them.
The aunt was deeply affected by hearing of the death of her brother
Vartan, and in reply to Armenouhi’s inquiry concerning uncle Varhan,
Vartouhi’s husband, she gave way to tears. For three long weeks he had
been absent, ever since the morning of the massacre, and though she
sometimes feared he too had been lost, she was still waiting and hoping
to hear his familiar knock at the door. As the long weary days passed,
she grew more timid and lonely, and now she seldom ventured from the
little basement room. She was glad to have Armenouhi with her, to help
wear away the dreary hours while waiting for the husband who was never
to return.
In the morning the innkeeper took his leave of his friends to return to
Brusa.
Sometimes in the lowest walks of life, among people who are strangers
to culture and humanizing influences, a great, kind soul is found.
Such was this Greek. Rough and uncultured, his neighbors called him
unchristian, and the parish priest had often told him that his soul,
never purified by prayers and by offerings to the church, was in
constant danger. This was the man who neglected his business, spent his
money, and ran the risk of arrest, imprisonment, and death, to assist
a helpless girl of another race. It was in vain that Takvor tried to
recompense him for his kindness.
“Some other time,” was his only reply.
Takvor pressed the hand of his great-hearted friend, and watched him
till he was out of sight, tears of gratitude filling his eyes.