By Far Euphrates A Tale 26

By Far Euphrates A Tale 26

Time passed on. He felt his strength forsaking him. He tried to speak,

but his voice sounded hollow and unlike itself. Was he dying? He thought

this numbness and faintness might mean _that_; but then perhaps the wish

was father to the thought. He was young and strong, and such do not

quickly die.

 

Time passed on. Shushan was in his thoughts continually, with the

wish--with the prayer often--that she might never know. Thank God--there

was something to thank God for even here--she did not know now! Miss

Celandine would take care of her,--and sometime, somewhere, when all

this agony was over, they would meet again. Was _this_ the cross of

Christ?

 

Time passed on. The numbness in his limbs increased. He began to lose

himself a little now and then. He was at Pastor Stepanian's church--in

Biridjik--in England even; then he would come suddenly back again, with

a thrill of anguish, to the horrible present. Yet he was not dying, he

was not fainting even; strange to say, he was only falling asleep. Even

upon the cross, men have slept. At last no more light came in through

the little grated window. It was night.

 

Time passed on. A sounder slumber than before came mercifully to steep

his senses in oblivion. He was in England, in his old home. In the

orchard was one particular tree he used to be very fond of climbing, in

spite of his father's warning, "Take care, my boy, you will break your

bones some day." He thought now that he had fallen from the highest

branch, and was laid on his bed, a mass of fractures and bruises,

calling on the surgeons, whose faces he saw distinctly, to give him

chloroform--anything to stop the pain, and bring unconsciousness. Was he

crying out at the pitch of his voice, and doing shame to his manhood?

 

He awoke in horror. Shriek after shriek, though not from _his_ lips,

rent the midnight air. To those who only know what the human voice can

do by the cries of childish pain or fear, a strong man's shriek of

agony is an unimaginable horror.

 

"Oh, what is it?" Jack cried aloud, his own voice a wail.

 

"Some one is being tortured in the next cell to this," a weary,

indifferent voice made answer.

 

The shrieks went on, interspersed with short intervals of silence, and

with deep, heavy groans. There were words too, heard more or less

distinctly, cries for mercy, agonized prayers. Then in a higher key, "I

know nothing--nothing. You are killing me." And again, "Kill me, in the

name of God. I implore of you to kill me!" Once more, as if flung out

with all the remaining strength of dying lips, "No!--No!--No!--No!"

 

"It is only," said the man who had spoken last, "some one who refuses to

accuse his friends."

 

"God help him!" Jack murmured feebly. For a little while the cries died

away; then they began again, culminating in a shriek so appalling that

Jack's senses failed him with the horror, and at last unconsciousness

took him out of his misery.

 

A waft of cooler air revived him. When he came to himself, he lay

amongst a number of fallen or falling bodies. Then some one was dragging

him along, as it seemed, through some passage towards the light. "Where

am I?" he asked, trying mechanically to shake off the hand that held

him. Then he saw that he was between two zaptiehs, who were laughing at

his feeble efforts to get free. He thought it very likely they were

going to kill him, and he did not care.

 

Yet their intentions did not seem at the moment particularly cruel. One

of them pointed to a place near the wall, and told him to sit down and

rest; the other fetched him a cup of water, incomparably the most

delicious draught he had ever tasted. Then they half led, half dragged

him into an open court, where many other prisoners were waiting.

 

He looked on dreamily while several of these were led up to the Kadi,

who sat in state on the divan at the end of the room, and after a brief

examination, sometimes a few words only, were led away again by the

zaptiehs. At last his own turn came. He could manage to stand alone now,

though he still felt confused and bewildered.

 

He was asked his name, and he gave it in full. But here strength and

memory seemed to fail him together. He knew there was _something_ he

wanted to say, but he could not remember what it was. He looked around

him blankly, helplessly--and the next moment would have fallen to the

ground, if one of the zaptiehs had not caught him and held him up.

 

The next thing he heard was the voice of the Kadi addressing him again.

"Listen," said the zaptieh; "His Excellency condescends to enquire if

you are a true Believer."

 

"I am," said Jack.

 

"Are you then of the creed of Islam?"

 

He stood up straight, and looked the Kadi in the face. "No," he

answered.

 

"Will you become a convert to the creed of Islam?"

 

"No," he said again.

 

"Since we are inclined to mercy, we will give you a week to think the

matter over. After that, if you refuse again, you must die."

 

"I had rather you would kill me at once," Jack said.

 

"It is not the will of Allah," the Kadi replied. "Guards, take the

prisoner away."

 

He was led presently to another dungeon, where at least there was room

to stretch his weary, aching limbs at full length on the ground; and

where, from utter exhaustion, he almost immediately fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

Chapter XVI

 

"THE DARK RIVER TURNS TO LIGHT"

 

"The thousands that, uncheered by praise,

Have made one offering of their days;

For Truth's, for Heaven's, for Freedom's sake,

Resigned the bitter cup to take,

And silently, in fearless faith,

Bowing their noble souls to death."

 

 

John Grayson awoke from his long sleep. Though still aching all over, he

was much refreshed and strengthened. Nature was putting forth her

recuperative powers in his young and vigorous frame. For a while he lay

quite still. The light was dim, the ground beneath him foul and muddy;

and he could see nothing, not even a mat, in the way of furniture. But

he soon became aware that he was not alone. There were several persons

in the room, or cell, and they were conversing together in low tones,

mingling their words with many a sigh, and many a murmured "Amaan!" or

"Jesus, help us!" One spoke of his large family of little children--how

hard to leave them destitute! Another of his wife; a third of his aged

father, who was blind; a fourth of his brothers and sisters; and in him

Jack recognised the voice of a friend of the Vartonians, who had been

away at the vineyards when the storm burst upon his people.

 

He raised his head. "Is that you, Kaspar Hohanian?" he asked.

 

"Djanum!" cried the young man, coming towards him and looking at him

attentively. "Friends, this is Yon Effendi, the Englishman who married

Oriort Shushan Meneshian."

 

Most of the twelve or fifteen prisoners who were shut up there together

knew his story, and all gathered round him with sympathy and interest.

In the awful strain of their position any momentary distraction was a

relief. "How had he come there?" they asked. It happened that they had

all been imprisoned before he set out on his desperate errand: some,

like Kaspar, had been found outside the Armenian Quarter; others had

been arrested by the Redifs, on various pretexts, within it. But Jack,

before he told his story, asked if they could give him any food, for he

was exhausted with hunger. All they had to offer was a piece of hard

black bread, defiled by the mud and filth into which it had been

purposely thrown by their jailors; and a draught of water, by no means

either clean or fresh. But even for these he was very thankful, and ate

and drank with eagerness.

 

Kaspar Hohanian quoted to him a proverb of their race. "'Eat and drink,

and talk afterwards,' says the Turk. 'Eat and drink, and talk at the

same time,' says the Armenian."

 

"At all events, while I eat you can talk to me," Jack said, with his

mouth full. "Your people thought you were dead, Baron Kaspar."

 

"The Turks killed all my companions--oh, and so cruelly!" he answered

with a shudder. "But an acquaintance I had among them persuaded them,

instead of killing me at once, to tie me to one of the tall, upright

tombstones in their cemetery outside the gate. Their thought was to

leave me there to die of hunger; my friend's, as he whispered, was to

come back at night and release me. But, Amaan! the patrol came along

before he did, took me, and brought me here. And now I have a week given

me to choose between Islam and death. It is hard."

 

They were all, as it seemed, in like case, only the period of respite

varied a little. Meanwhile, it relaxed the intolerable tension of their

thoughts, and wiled away a few weary hours, to tell and to hear each

other's histories. Jack accordingly gave his, expressing sorrow for the

fate of Der Garabed, the priest of Biridjik, and asking if any one

present knew anything about him.

 

No one did; and while they were discussing the matter, the prison door

was opened, and another captive led--or rather thrust--in, to join their

mournful company. He was a man of middle age, good-looking, and well

dressed in European fashion. But his head was bowed down and his fez

pulled low over his face, his arms hung helplessly by his side, and his

whole manner and bearing showed the most utter dejection.