Soghomon was nettled by the jesting. He ate eight eggs easily, but the ninth had a queer taste. At the tenth his stomach seemed to close; he stuck to it however. Orientals adore betting, and his comrades put him on his mettle. He ate the eleventh, then the twelfth! Nejib had lost.
“Aférim, Aférim (Bravo)!” cried Aram, delighted, and he dragged Soghomon into a wild dance.
It was so hot that the company unanimously agreed to take a siesta, and not start on their way until four o’clock.... The muezzin was just telling the hour of sunset as our cavalcade drew up at the village of Ibrahamli, where they were to spend the night. Dr. Spencer had given Monsieur Bernier a letter of introduction to Mustapha Hara, the chief man of the village. The inhabitants of Ibrahamli were Kurds, and without the doctor’s letter, our friends would have found every door closed to them.
Mustapha was a bilious-looking little man, with a nose like an eagle’s beak; his mouth was hidden by an enormous mustache, which curled back over his chin. At first, he looked at his guests rather distrustfully, but after reading the letter from Dr. Spencer, who had cured him of typhus, his face brightened. He offered his best room to the two masters, and had some straw spread in the courtyard for the boys. His wife and children stood in a ring around the party of Christians, for strangers are rarely seen in this obscure village. Monsieur Bernier especially excited their curiosity; the children felt of his clothes, and a young Kurd even went as far as to rob him of a lock of hair, having been assured by a sorcerer that the fair head of the “Frangi” (Europeans) was an efficacious protection against the evil eye.
Monsieur Bernier and Mihran hodja had lain down on the floor, rolled up in the quilts which Mustapha had provided, and they were just dropping off to sleep when a sound of scratching at the door made them start. In an instant they were on their feet.
“Bouyourun (Come in),” said Mihran hodja.
It was Boghos, in great agitation.
“Effendis, come quick! Soghomon is very sick; he says he is going to die!”
“Bah!” cried Monsieur Bernier. “It’s those eggs.”
He had, before this, had some experience of the terrible fear of sickness by which these good people are tormented; they have iron constitutions, but at the most trifling ailment, they imagine their last hour has come.