By Far Euphrates A Tale 30
The executioner began with Dikran, the youngest. John Grayson veiled his
face, but not till he had seen too much. Could he ever cease to see it?
A deadly faintness swept over him, from which he was roused by
Thomassian's brave words of comfort and encouragement, spoken to the
victim: "Dear boy, be strong; it will soon be over! you will soon be
with Christ." Then came the poor lad's own murmured words of confession
and of prayer, ending at last with one strong, joyful "Praise to Jesus
Christ!"
John Grayson looked up again. It was time; he was wanted now. His turn
had come. At that supreme moment, faintness and sickness, and every
trace of fear, passed from him. One thought possessed him wholly--_God
was there_.
Yet, he could have shaken like a leaf at Thomassian's sudden call to the
executioners, "Hold, I have something to say!" Martyrdom could be
borne, but the moments of suspense that followed seemed the most
unbearable he had ever lived through. He heard Thomassian protesting,
"It will be on your peril if you touch this man. He is an Englishman; I
know it. He can prove it if you give him time; which, for your own
sakes, you ought to do."
Jack might have said this himself till he was hoarse, and the Turks in
their present state of frantic excitement would not have listened to,
still less have believed, him. It was different when a man of mark, a
"notable" like Thomassian, averred it solemnly and at the point of
death. Their orders not to kill foreigners were precise and stringent,
and hitherto had been wonderfully well obeyed. There might be trouble if
they were transgressed. Jack was informed that it was not the will of
Allah he should die that day; and, to his sorrow, was led away, without
seeing what became of his fellow captives.
He was transferred that evening to a comfortable room, and told he might
order any conveniences he desired and could afford. He begged to be told
the fate of his friends, and was informed that several of them had died
"with unparalleled obstinacy"; the rest were reserved for another time.
"Was Baron Thomassian amongst the dead?"
"No," said his informant, with an evil smile. He was much the worst,
and should stay till the last.
As for himself, what were they going to do with him?
Let the Effendi give himself no uneasiness on that score. His Highness
the Pasha had been informed of the circumstances, and would take care of
him. Probably he would send him, under a safe escort, out of the
country. But nothing could be done until order was restored, and the
town quiet. "Let the Effendi be patient, and put his trust in Allah. The
Effendi knew things had to go--_Jevash_--_Jevash_."
Jack was very miserable. How could he take pleasure in the comfort of
his surroundings, when he knew what his friends had suffered and were
suffering? Only for Shushan, he would not have cared at all to live. He
asked if Miss Celandine was gone yet.--No, not yet. There was some delay
about her passport, his informant thought. But no doubt all would be
ready soon, and she would go. Would the Effendi like to take exercise in
the prison court? If so, he was quite at liberty. No one wished the
Effendi to be incommoded; it was entirely for his own safety he was
placed under restraint, until the rebellion amongst the Armenians should
be put down.
Two long, slow days, Thursday and Friday, wore on. On Saturday morning
he was aware of some unusual excitement in the court of the prison. The
prisoners there, who were all Moslems, hung together in groups, talking
eagerly, and more than once a word reached his ears about "killing the
Giaours." Moreover, he heard shouts and cries from outside, increasing
gradually until the uproar became terrible. The extraordinary sound of
the "Zilghit" reached his ears, but he could not understand it.
The guards who brought him his food shared in the general excitement and
exhilaration. After returning their "salaams," he said casually, "It is
a fine day," to which one of them answered, "It will be a bad one for
the Giaours"; and the other added, "It will be wet in the Armenian
Quarter,--but the rain will be red."
He entreated them to tell him more; but they would not. Evidently they
had their orders. Did the Effendi want anything more? No. Then peace be
with him.
They departed, securing the door behind them, as he thought, with
unusual care.
Peace was _not_ with him. Instead of it, a fierce tumult raged in his
heart. On that strange Christmas morning, when he thought himself about
to die for the Name of Christ, there had been a calm over him which was
wonderful, "mysterious even to himself." The conflict was not his, but
God's. God had called him to it, and would bring him through. He was
very near him, and would be with him, even to the end.
But the chariots and horses of fire, which the prophet of old saw about
him, did not stay. When the hostile hosts departed, the resplendent
vision vanished too. Martyrdom at a distance, martyr strength seems at a
distance also; sometimes it even seems unimaginable. Patient, powerless
waiting is often harder than heroic doing or suffering. Perhaps the
hardest thing of all is to be brave and strong _for others_, when they
have the peril and the suffering, and we the bitter comfort of
compulsory safety.
But the longest day must end at last. Evening brought to John Grayson
the doubtful pleasure of a companion in misfortune. This was a handsome
young Turk, who seemed much amazed, and still more annoyed, at the
predicament in which he found himself. Paying little heed to his
companion, he walked up and down, cursing certain persons, apparently
his own kinsfolk, in the name of Allah and the Prophet, with true
Eastern volubility.
In one of these perambulations he accidentally kicked over Jack's tray
of food, and stopped to ask his pardon very politely, of course in
Turkish. "I think," he said, looking at him attentively, "I think you
are a Christian?"
"Yes," said Jack. "In fact, I am an Englishman; though I have been in
this country for some years."
"Oh! Then I suppose you are the Mr. Grayson I have heard my friends
speak of?"
Jack bowed, then added immediately, "I am unutterably anxious about dear
friends of mine who are in the Armenian Quarter. Can you tell me how it
has been with them to-day?"
The young man turned his face away and did not speak.
"For God's sake, say _something_," Jack cried; "say _anything_; only
tell me all!"
"It was the will of Allah," said the Turk.
"Have you killed them?" Jack gasped out.
"Yes, a great many. Chiefly men and boys. But I did not see the end.
That uncle of mine--Allah give him his deserts!--had me taken up and
clapped in here."
"What? For killing our people?"
The Turk stared. "That were merit," he said. "No; what I did was to
resist a soldier, a Hamidieh. In fact, I struck him. But what would you
have? A man must have friends." He sat down, and taking out his tobacco
pouch began leisurely to make cigarettes, apparently with the purpose
of restoring his calmness, imperilled by the thought of his wrongs. "The
matter was this," he resumed: "I passed by a long row of Giaours, fine
young men, lying on the ground with their throats cut. In one of them I
recognised a friend, and looking closer, saw he was not dead, for the
work had been very ill done. Just then this Hamidieh came by, and wanted
to finish him. Like a fool instead of giving him a couple of medjids, I
gave him the butt end of my gun. I took my friend to my house, and
thought no more of it; but, by the beard of the Prophet, what did that
rascal do but go and complain to his captain, who knows my uncle, and
must needs go to him? Then my uncle informs against me, and has me put
in here, to keep me out of mischief, as he says. Curse his mother, and
his grandmother, and his wife and his daughters, and all his relations,
male and female, unto the fourth and fifth generations!"
Apparently, the Turk forgot that amongst these relations he was cursing
himself.
Jack listened in horror. "Only tell me who are slain," he said. "How
many?"
"How should I tell that? I could only see what I saw with my own eyes."
"Do you know aught of the Meneshians?--or of the Vartonians?"
"Yes; I fear that all of both families are killed, with perhaps one
exception," he added slowly, stroking his beard. "I saw the mob burst
into their courtyard."
"Oh God, it is horrible!" Jack said with a groan, and covering his face.
After a while he spoke again. "The Stepanians?"
"Of them I know more. With my own hand I shot the Pastor."
Jack sprang on him, his eyes blazing, his hand at his throat. He had
nearly been a martyr, but he was an Englishman, and a very human
Englishman too.
"Let be," the Turk gasped, cool though choking. "A moment, if you
please."
Jack loosened his hold. "You can strangle me, of course, if such be the
will of Allah," the Turk continued. "But you may as well hear me first.
For, if you get free, you can tell your people the words of Osman."
"_Osman!_ Are you then the Turk I have heard the Pastor speak of so
kindly? That you should sit there before me, and tell me you have killed
him!--_killed him!_ How could you?"
"Can't you understand?" the Turk returned with an expressive look.
"There were his daughter and all his children looking on. His last
thought was for them. 'Do not touch me _here_,' he said. Was I going to
let them see him cut to pieces? At least, I could save him--and
them--from _that_. He had not a moment's pain."
Jack stretched out his hand to him impulsively, but drew it back again.
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