III.
Sixteen years later Oglou the son of Kizzil, much stouter and a little dirtier than of yore, cautiously rose from his couch without awakening his spouse, slipped out from the hut, and rode swiftly away through the darkness towards Kharput. Oglou the son of Kizzil was much troubled, for his interests lay in different directions. The little boy Artin had grown up to be a fine stalwart lad, with a strong vocation for the ministry, and an equally strong affection for the old cutthroat, who dare not openly acknowledge his son. Three or four times a year the Kurd galloped up to Kharput, whistled beneath his son's window, and the two would ride away together, the lad longing for the wild life of his father's folk, and yet restrained by his knowledge that he would one day be called to minister to them.
On this particular night Oglou the son of Kizzil was much perturbed. "These Armenian pigs will all be slaughtered to-morrow like sheep," he said. "It is the Sultan's will. We begin early in the morning, and the looting is to last for three days. But if the old hodga hears of it, he will go to the Vali, and the Vali will know that he has been betrayed."
Then young Artin thought for a moment. "Is there no way of stopping the massacre?" he asked. "You know people think I am an Armenian."
Oglou the son of Kizzil shrugged his shoulders. "There will be much plunder. We shall walk our horses through blood," he said, as if that settled the matter.
"And what shall I do?" inquired Artin.
"If the hodgas (schoolmasters) keep within their houses they will be safe; but we shall kill all their servants, and not leave an Armenian alive in the place, the dogs."
Artin knew that it would be useless to argue with the old robber, his father. "I suppose I had better get away with Mr. Marsh, or else take refuge with the British Consul at Sivas? He is staying with Mr. Marsh, but leaves to-morrow."
"It is the will of Allah that these dogs should die the death," said the Kurd, with pious resignation for other people's sufferings. "Joy of my heart, get away early in the morning, or you might be hurt when we attack the place. If we didn't obey orders we should have the troops let loose on us; and even my wife is afraid of that."
He embraced Artin fondly, shook his shaggy hair, and galloped swiftly away, leaving the young man in a brown study. Artin went back to the college, roused up every slumbering pupil, and hunted among the Consul's travelling things for one particular article. When Mr. Marsh came down to breakfast, three hours later, there were fifteen thousand Armenians huddled together within the Mission walls.
"What does this all mean?" asked the English Consul, as he entered the breakfast-room. "I can hear firing in the town."
"The Sultan has ordered a massacre of all the Armenians to be found here," said Artin, quietly. "The Kurds are beginning now."
"I'll go to the Vali," cried Mr. Marsh, starting up in horror.
"It is no good," said Artin, with a touch of fatalism. "What will be, will be. I have done all I could. We have several thousands here already."
"But these cutthroat scoundrels will soon break into the college grounds," said the Consul. "Why didn't you warn people to fly, if you knew what was coming?"
"It was too late. There was only one thing to be done."
"And that was—?"
"To collect as many as the place would hold."
"Of course you will interfere to protect these poor people," suggested Mr. Marsh to the Consul.
"I have no instructions," said the Consul. "My action might bring about a war between Turkey and England."
"But if you do not, you will have the blood of thousands of innocent people on your soul;" and the good missionary paced the room in his agitation. "Then you must act!"
"The Consul has already interfered," said Artin.
"What do you mean?" testily asked the Consul.
"The English flag is flying from the top of the college," said Artin. "I took it out of your baggage and put it up. Now, for the honor of your country, you can't haul it down again."
The Consul's face cleared. "It's a fearful responsibility you've forced on me."
Accompanied by Mr. Marsh and Artin, he went into the court-yard. The Kurds were already beginning to batter in the gates.
The gates soon came down with a crash, the Turkish regulars outside looking on with an amused grin, and licking their lips at the thought of what was to follow.
But the English Consul strode out through the gates. He was unarmed, and his life hung on a thread. Then a Turkish officer came forward. "Effendi, this is no business of yours. You had better leave."
The Consul pointed to the British flag flying from the college tower. "Whilst that flag is flying here," he said, proudly, "this is English ground. Now enter if you dare."
After a hurried consultation with the Turkish officer the disappointed Kurds drew off, and rode into the town to continue their butchery.
"I did all I could directly I knew what was going on," said Artin the Kurd, to Mr. Marsh the American.
The missionary put his hand affectionately on the lad's shoulder. "To think," he mused—"to think that one small Bible should have been the means of saving the lives of all this multitude of people! If your father hadn't carried that Bible, his enemy's sword would have pierced his heart, and he would never have brought you here. Now we must try to feed the women and children until this slaughter ceases."
But Oglou the son of Kizzil, in the very act of shearing off an Armenian's head with his characteristic back stroke, sighed as if all the savor of slaughter had gone out of him. "Alas that I should raise up seed for the wife of mine enemy, and my own son rides not at his father's bridle-hand!"