In the courtyard the masters were greeted by the groans of the sufferer. The other boys and the members of the household were standing round him in a circle, shouting and gesticulating. Each had some advice to give, but Monsieur Bernier went up to Soghomon and offered him a spoonful of castor-oil.
“Take this, it will make you feel better.”
If the patient were afraid of sickness, he was equally afraid of medicine.
“What is that horrid stuff! I can’t take that!” and he pushed away the spoon in disgust.
“Soghomon, if you don’t drink this, nothing can save you.”
These words had the desired effect, and the sick boy swallowed the oil, making a thousand wry faces.
“He’ll be all right to-morrow,” said Monsieur Bernier, as he went back to his room.
In the morning, the party set out for the ascent of Sof, leaving their horses with Ibrahamli, and Soghomon, who preferred to remain behind.
The mountain of Sof is shaped like a tooth. The ascent was very difficult, over a rough trail, scaling walls of rock, and often passing close to the edge of a precipice, but on reaching the summit the climbers were rewarded for their exertions by a magnificent view. At their feet lay a vast plain enclosed by the hills which separate Aintab from Killis; toward the north towered the great wall of Anti-Taurus. Most of the boys lay down on the grass, to dry the perspiration that streamed from their faces. A few of the more adventurous went off to investigate the huge blocks of granite jutting out over the depths below.
“Be very careful,” called Mihran hodja, as he stretched himself out beside Monsieur Bernier.