By Far Euphrates A Tale 31

By Far Euphrates A Tale 31

The Turk went on: "I could save the dead from insult, and I did. I

wanted to save the children too, and might have managed it, but for my

fool of an uncle."

 

"Is Miss Celandine--are the people with her in the Mission House all

safe?" Jack enquired. He had little doubt of it, yet he could not help

the beating of his heart.

 

"Oh, yes; they have a special guard of zaptiehs. Only an hour before the

killing began the Pasha sent to Miss Celandine, to say that now she

might leave the city; everything was safe and quiet. But she has not

gone. Perhaps she thought she could help the other Giaours by staying.

That however she cannot do. Even her own people are not safe beyond the

Mission premises. A young lady in her charge had gone into the town with

a guard of zaptiehs, to see her dying father at the house of one

Selferian. She never returned. Mehmed Ibrahim, who has long wanted her

for his harem, took care of that. In fact, I believe the summons to her

father was a pretence, and the whole thing a plot of his. I saw them

leading her away--_Allah!_"

 

With a cry of agony John Grayson fell senseless on the floor.

 

The Turk sat gazing at him, without stirring hand or foot. To use any

means for his restoration was the last thing he would have thought of.

Allah had stricken him, and Allah would restore his senses--when He

pleased. A logical Western might ask, why he did not reason thus in the

case of his Armenian friend, or of the Pastor and his family; but a

man's heart may be sometimes better than his logic.

 

Jack at last recovered consciousness and struggled to his feet.

 

Osman did not know the story of his marriage, but he drew his own

conclusions from what he saw "How hard you Franks take things!" he

remarked by way of consolation. "Now there are in the world a great many

girls, any of whom a man can marry, if he pleases."

 

"Don't," Jack said hoarsely.

 

"My dear fellow," the Turk went on kindly, "I am very sorry for you. See

the advantage it would be to you now, if you were only a true Believer.

We lose a wife, and we are very sorry--oh, yes! But then, you see, we

have so many, it is only just like losing a cow. There are others quite

as good."

 

Jack, fortunately, did not hear a word of this. He stood as one

bewildered; then made a sudden rush to the door, which he pulled and

shook with all his might.

 

"What are you doing?" asked the Turk serenely.

 

"I must get out!" cried Jack. "I must get out and save her."

 

"You cannot save her. She could not be more out of your reach if she

were up there in yonder sky. Take my advice, and be quiet. It is the

will of Allah."

 

"I must get out!" Jack shouted, once more shaking at the door.

 

"You had much better stay where you are. If you were out, you would do

something rash, and bring trouble on yourself."

 

"On _myself_?" Jack repeated in a voice of despair. "For myself, there

is no trouble any more."

 

"I could tell you how you might get out, if it were really good for

you," Osman mused; "but the truth is, I do not want more of you to be

killed. I am sick of all this misery and bloodshed."

 

"Osman Effendi, I think you have a kind and pitying heart; therefore I

pray you to help me now, and so may God help you if you ever come to a

bitter hour like this. I must get out, or I shall go mad."

 

"I wish I could do you a better service--but if you will try it, wait

until the morning light. Then the killing will begin again. They are

going to let the Moslem prisoners out that they may take part in it, and

thus deserve their pardon from God and the Sultan. Tell the jailor, when

he comes to us, that you want to walk in the courtyard. That he will

allow. Once there, you may be able to slip out unnoticed among the rest.

Take my scarlet fez instead of your crimson one, and see, here is a

green kerchief to tie over it."

 

"The fez I take, and thank you; the kerchief--no."

 

"As you please. I wish you well, Grayson Effendi, and if I can help you

in anything, I will. Should you want a refuge, come to my mother's

house. You know where it is. In fact, that is the best thing you could

do," he added. "My people will make it known you are an Englishman, and

then no one will even wish to hurt you. There will be a mark set upon

you, as it were."

 

"Ay," cried Jack wildly--"the mark of Cain--'lest any finding him should

kill him.' To save my own miserable life, and see all I love perish

around me! Is _that_ what it means, the mark of Cain? He saved himself,

others he did not save."

 

"I do not understand you."

 

"How should you? I don't understand myself. I think I am going mad. Only

I know it was not _that_ mark which was put upon her forehead and mine;

it was the cross of Christ, and that means just the contrary--'He saved

others, Himself He did not save.'"

 

The young Turk took the cigarette from his lips and stared at him,

wondering. Into his hard, black eyes there came for an instant a

perplexed, wistful look, like that of a dumb creature who longs and

tries to understand, but cannot pass the limitations of his being. At

length he said in a softened voice, "When I get out of this cursed

place, with the help of Allah and a handful of good medjids, I will try

to do what I can to help your people. But now it is the hour of prayer.

I will pray, and then try to sleep. Grayson Effendi, you ought to pray

too. It may be Allah the Merciful will hear you, though you do not

acknowledge His Prophet. He may remember you are a Frank, and make

allowance."

 

For John Grayson there was no prayer that night. His anguish was beyond

words; and as for tears, their very fount seemed dried up within him.

Even the simplest cry to God for help seemed to freeze upon his lips.

Where was the use of it? He had prayed with all his soul, and God had

_not_ heard.

 

How that long night passed, how he watched and waited for the morning,

none would ever know. The morning light came at last, though it brought

no joy with it. He continued however to hold off the anguish of his

soul, as it were at arm's length, while he made himself carefully up to

look as like a Moslem as possible, though avoiding the green _kafieh_

for conscience sake. Assuming a tone of indifference, he made his

request of the jailor, who, with his mind running on killing Giaours,

muttered a careless assent.

 

For a good while he lingered about the court, joining one group or

another so as to avoid suspicion. At last the prison gate was opened,

and, lost amidst a crowd of Moslem criminals, who were rushing out with

tumultuous joy to earn at the same time Paradise and pardon by killing

Giaours, John Grayson made his way into the street.

 

 

 

 

Chapter XIX

 

A GREAT CRIME CONSUMMATED

 

"God's Spirit sweet,

Still Thou the heat

Of our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.

Quiet their swell,

And gently tell

That His right Hand doeth all things well.

 

"Tell us that He,

Who erst with the Three,

Walked (also) with these in their agony;

And drew them higher

And rapt them nigher

To Heaven, whose chariot and horses are fire."

 

--_C. F. Alexander._

 

 

Dread were the watches of that December night, amidst the unutterable

agonies of half a city. In the Armenian Quarter the only sleepers were

those--thrice happy!--who would never awake again--

 

 

"Until the Heavens be no more."

 

 

They were very many, like the slain in some great battle that decides a

nation's destiny. They lay in heaps, in the open street, in the

court-yards, in the houses. Tearless, wild-eyed women, strong in the

strength of love, came and sought their own amongst them. Sometimes a

wife who found her husband, a mother who embraced her son, wept and

wailed and made sore lamentation, but for the most part they were still

enough. Sometimes they thanked God that they had found them--_there_.

 

It went worse with those who sat in their desolate homes, and watched

the slow ebbing, often in cruel anguish, of the lives they loved. The

number of the wounded and the dying was enormous. For one thing, the

murderers were unskilful, for another they were often

deliberately--_diabolically_--cruel. Moreover, it was better economy to

hack a Giaour to pieces with swords or knives than to shoot him, since

every bullet cost two piastres!

 

It went worse still with the women, the girls, the little children even,

who were dragged to the mosques and shut up there, in hunger, cold, and

misery, until the murderers of their fathers, their husbands and

brothers had leisure to come and take them, and work their will upon

them. Oh God of mercy and pity, that these things should be in this

world of Thine!

 

Had He quite forsaken Urfa? Not always, standing outside the Furnace,

can we see therein the Form of One like unto the Son of God. _In the

Furnace_, men know better.