II.
HE MADE A VICIOUS THRUST AT HIS FRIEND'S HEART.
A few days later Karin the son of Artog had a slight difference of opinion with Oglou the son of Kizzil. No one knew how the quarrel originated, but it ended in Karin the son of Artog drawing an extremely sharp and crooked sword and rushing upon Oglou the son of Kizzil with the indecorous observation that he would slice out his liver. Although Karin the son of Artog was theoretically acquainted with the position of the human liver he had no practical knowledge of the fact, and, consequently, made a vicious thrust at his old friend's heart. Fortunately for Oglou the son of Kizzil, the point of the sword caught in the cover of the old missionary's Bible, and whilst Karin the son of Artog futilely endeavored to get it out again, Oglou the son of Kizzil, with the neat and effective back-stroke which was his one vanity, cut off the head of Karin the son of Artog. Oglou the son of Kizzil had placed the Bible over his heart as an amulet; hence, this providential instance of its powers more than ever convinced him of its utility as a charm to ward off misfortune. However this may have been, it could not protect the son of Kizzil from the somewhat inopportune attentions of his late friend's clan. The relations, with that blind haste which generally distinguishes the actions of relatives, promptly assumed that Oglou the son of Kizzil had been the aggressor, and demanded "blood-money." Here again arose another difference of opinion. Oglou the son of Kizzil, whilst willing to testify to the admirable qualities of his late friend Karin the son of Artog, felt inclined to rate those qualities at a lower market value than seemed becoming to the dead man's friends. Three liras and a pony seemed to Oglou the son of Kizzil an adequate tribute to the virtues of the defunct warrior. He was willing, as a concession to sentiment, to throw in a praying-carpet with the pony, but was not prepared to do more. As a tribute to old friendship, however, he would marry the widow and take over the household. To this ultimatum the widow, through the medium of a white-haired old chief, her father, replied that Oglou the son of Kizzil had insulted her by supposing that she could ever have married a man whose "blood-money" would scarcely suffice for the funeral expenses, and that it would be well, in view of the circumstances, for Oglou the son of Kizzil to put his house in order and bid farewell to a world which he had too long disgraced by his presence.
With feminine unfairness, the widow of Karin the son of Artog did not give Oglou the son of Kizzil a start, for his relations were scattered about on different plundering expeditions, and were much too busy to attend to their kinsman's sudden call for aid. One morning, that darkest hour before the dawn in which ill deeds are done, Oglou the son of Kizzil was awakened by a smell of burning thatch.
"Ugh!" he grunted, feeling to see whether his yataghan was in order. "She's set her relations on to me. I should like to marry that woman. I wonder how many of them are outside."
Whilst he was still pondering, a bullet came through the wall of the hut, and scattered little pellets of mud all round. This seemed to Oglou the son of Kizzil a hint that it was about time for him to be off. With characteristic forethought he had tethered his pony in the hut. Picking up his small one-year-old son, the joy of his heart and the pride of his eyes, Oglou the son of Kizzil mounted his pony, rushed through the crazy door, tumbling against a crowd of Kurds who were waiting to receive him, and the next moment was madly galloping through the darkness in the direction of Kharput.
Recovering from their momentary panic, the relations of Karin the son of Artog charged after their former friend, headed by the widow, who, lance in hand and mounted en cavalier, resolved to revenge the slights which her pride had suffered. But Oglou the son of Kizzil had a good pony, the shovel edges of his stirrups were sharp enough to rake even that much-enduring animal's hide, and he sped up the mountain, guiding the animal with his knees, holding his little son on the saddle before him with one hand, and brandishing his yataghan with the other, as if he were slicing an imaginary foe with the same famous stroke which had killed Karin the son of Artog.
But the way was long, the ascent steep, and the one-year-old Artin, so rudely awakened from slumber, began to cry.
"Hush, little warrior," said his father, tenderly. "Little sheep's heart, be still."
As they toiled up the steep mountain path, the wiry pony going at each sudden rise in the broken ground with an impetuous rush, the clatter of falling stones served as a guide to the pursuers, and they came on, headed by the widow, brandishing her husband's lance.
"I shall have to turn and fight them presently," said Oglou to his son. "They'll never let me alone now."
Suddenly he gave a wild yell, and mercilessly prodded the pony.
"The house next the college! That is the place. Inshallah, I shall have time to get there and back to the top of the pass before they catch up with me. But unless I can get back in time I'm done for. It all depends upon the pony."
In answer to this appeal the gallant little beast bounded up the precipitous path like a wild goat. The piercing shriek of the widow died away, and the loud breathing of the pony, as he neared the top of the pass alone, broke the stillness. Once on the level ground, Oglou the son of Kizzil gave a peculiar cry, and the pony skimmed along, his belly almost touching the earth.
Hastily taking off his thick lamb-skin coat, Oglou the son of Kizzil wrapped it round the child, tied the missionary's Bible to his breast, sprang from his pony, hammered vigorously on the door of a little house next the college, and left the boy there. When the Rev. William P. Marsh opened the window, Oglou the son of Kizzil was already moving away.
"What does the rascal mean by having religious doubts at this hour of the morning," grumbled the good missionary, preparing to shut down the window. "Perhaps he has brought back the Bible I gave him."
Little Artin, snugly wrapped up in the lamb-skin, rolled off the door-step and began to howl. "When a baby howls," thought the good missionary, "the best thing is to call one's wife." He awoke his better half and explained the circumstances to her. "What would you advise me to do?" he inquired, as she sat up in bed.
"Fetch the child, and bring it up to our warm bed," she said, promptly. "Fancy wasting all this time, and on such a bitter night."
As Oglou the son of Kizzil reached the top of the pass, the gray dawn began to break. Only one of his pursuers was in sight; whereupon, Oglou the son of Kizzil urged the tired pony forward, took a firmer grip of his yataghan, and prepared to demolish his plucky adversary.
"Stop," shouted the widow of Karin the son of Artog. "I've changed my mind; a live donkey is better than a dead lion. Kill your son, and I will marry you. You shall be the head of our tribe."
"You are stronger than Rustam, fairer than a gazelle," said Oglou the son of Kizzil. "Inshallah, but it is kismet. My son dropped over the precipice as I rode along."
And they went back together.