THE REAL HAKIM
“Armenouhi,” called a deep, rich voice.
On the threshold, with uncovered head, stood a tall, straight young
man, in fashionable European dress. A beard concealed his chin, but his
face, perhaps a trifle more mature, was the face that had lived in her
thoughts for the last five years.
“Oh, Takvor!” and she sprang to his arms. The dream of her life was
realized; the real hakim had come.
Aware that any delay in taking Armenouhi to a place of safety might
be disastrous, Takvor urged her to gather at once whatever souvenirs
she cared to retain of the home of her childhood, while he went to the
government building to have his passport viséed for Constantinople.
“I can not visé this passport,” said the official, curtly, after
scanning the document as if searching for hidden instructions.
“Why not?”
“I have orders from Constantinople not to do so.”
“I am a British citizen, and I demand that you visé it.”
“Olmas! impossible!” exclaimed the official, rubbing his thumb and
forefinger together to express that money would cancel all superior
orders.
Takvor took a lira from his pocket. The official clucked with his
tongue, and threw up his head in disgust at the smallness of the bribe.
Takvor took out a second, a third, and then a fourth lira. The official
seemed to be yielding.
“It is a great deal of money,” remarked Takvor, adding a fifth gold
piece to the others.
“Let me see the passport again,” said the Turk, hesitating.
He examined it closely, and then with a knife carefully scratched away
a seemingly insignificant mark beneath the initial letter of Takvor’s
name. To satisfy himself that the erasure could not be detected, he
held the paper to the light, and then, as Takvor directed, added the
words, “and wife,” to the name already on the passport.
All difficulties in the way of leaving Ak Hissar being thus removed,
and Armenouhi’s few valueless mementos hurriedly packed together, they
took the next day’s train for Constantinople. Alighting at the Pera
Palace, they saw the pasha’s spy waiting as if to welcome them.
“His game will soon be up,” muttered Takvor, sharply returning the
spy’s bold stare.
Leaving Armenouhi secure in an upper parlor, Takvor hurried away in
search of the priest Papasian and the British consul. Soon he returned
with them, and there, in the consul’s presence, as the law required, he
and Armenouhi were married. If at that moment Hassan could have seen
the radiantly beautiful bride, clinging to the arm of her husband, his
evil heart might have been persuaded to pursue her no farther. And
Hassan did see her; for the door suddenly opened, and the big, pompous
pasha, entered unannounced, with his spy and a policeman.
“There is the girl,” he began, pointing to Armenouhi.
“What do you want with her?” asked Takvor, stepping before him.
“Out of the way, boy! She is mine.”
“Effendim, you are mistaken; she is my wife, and a British subject. And
this gentleman is the British consul.”
For the briefest instant Hassan paused in amazement; his eyes bulged,
but he was not baffled, and again he moved toward Armenouhi.
“I am too old to believe such tales,” he sneered. “She is an Armenian
girl, and a Turkish subject. Out of the way, you fool!”
Takvor seized him by the throat and pushed him backwards through the
doorway, crowding the astonished spy and policeman out before him, and
then sent him sprawling. The ponderous pasha’s fall fairly shook the
building, while audible amid his grunts and the rattling of his sword
was the titter of the pompous hotel porter, who for the moment had
forgotten himself. Well aware that laughing at a pasha’s discomfort
might prove expensive, he helped him to rise, and sympathetically
escorted him to his carriage.
It was Armenouhi’s wish that before leaving the country she might take
some of her belongings from the home of her aunt in Kum Kapu. On the
afternoon of the day of their marriage they drove to the house, only to
be received by a Turkish policeman, with Hassan at his heels.
“What do you want here?” demanded the pasha, in a tone that indicated
he had not forgotten his recent lesson.
“This house is mine; it was left me by my aunt.”
“It is no longer yours,” the policeman assured her; “it has been
confiscated by the government.”
Hassan was still pursuing Armenouhi. As a boy he had marred the
innocent games of her childhood, and later drove her from home. He
ruined her village by extortionary taxation, murdered her father by
torture, and caused the death of her sister. He robbed her grandfather
of wealth accumulated by years of industry, and brought to his last
days almost abject poverty. He poisoned her aunt, and set on the
girl’s track a spy to pursue her as hounds would slaves, to bring
her against her will into his harem. And now, since his purpose was
thwarted, he robbed her of her home and all that was in it.
“Yes,” added Hassan, with a sneer, peering over the policeman’s
shoulder; “it is the law that no foreign subject may inherit property
in Turkey.”
“It is true,” murmured Armenouhi, staring vacantly before her. “It is
all gone.”
She turned her eyes to Takvor. He took her hand and drew her toward the
carriage.