Our two friends were rejoiced to find that they were not on a desert island, as they had feared, but on a promontory jutting out into the lake. The cliff against which their boat had been wrecked formed the point; on three sides it rose perpendicularly, but was slightly inclined on the fourth, making a little cove, and here the boys had come ashore.
As they stood watching the lake, their attention was attracted by a dark object which was being washed by the waves against the rocks. On looking more closely, they thought it resembled a human body, and both were seized by the same apprehension: could it be poor Ibrahim?
In a flash Archag stripped off his clothes and swam out toward the object. Alas! it was no longer possible to doubt; it was the old sailor. His feet protruded from the water, and his open zouboun was floating on the waves. Archag took him in his arms and swam back to the beach where Aram was anxiously waiting. Here, he laid the body down on the sand. The poor man must have been hurled against the rocks, for his face was disfigured by a bad wound on the temple. The boys stood looking at him, dumb with terror.
“It’s all our fault,” said Aram after a while. “He wanted to go back, and we wouldn’t let him.”
“Yes,” said Archag, “we didn’t know the lake, and ought to have listened to him; but you mustn’t take his death so much to heart, Aram dear; since his hour had struck, nothing could save him.” But Aram, on his knees beside the ill-fated fisherman, was sobbing convulsively.
They carried Ibrahim to the cave and recited the prayers for the dead. Then they decided to go to the nearest village and send back some men to bury the body. It took them a good hour to reach the hamlet of Bos-Ujuk, but there they found hospitality at the house of an old servant of Boghos Effendi, Toros Ammi by name. After eating they felt better, and asked for horses, for they were still about fifteen kilometers from Van, but before leaving Archag begged his host to have Ibrahim buried, promising that his father would reimburse him for the expense. The old sailor had been alone in the world.
Boghos Effendi and his household were in a torment of anxiety. Hanna badgi had cried all night, trembling every time a violent gust of wind shook the house. Her husband tried to console her with the assurance that the boys must have spent the night at the convent, and would be at home before long, but he scarcely believed his own words, knowing how venturesome Archag was. The poor woman shook her head without reply. Gulenia and Krikor, kneeling before the picture of Sourp Krikor Lousavoritch (Saint Gregory the Illuminator), muttered prayers for sailors in distress.
Early in the morning Boghos Effendi went to town, hoping to find out something, but he had only bad news to bring home. It was reported that several boats had capsized in the storm of the previous night, and the people at the bazaar were talking of nothing else. About ten o’clock he went to town again, and met one of the Akhtamar monks, who had come over to make some purchases. This man said that the boys had spent the day at the island, but had left late in the afternoon.
Boghos Effendi stood rooted to the ground; the monk’s words had destroyed his last hope, and he knew that, but for a miracle, the luckless three must be mourned as dead.
When he reached home he had not the courage to tell his wife these sad tidings. Dinner-time came, but Hanna badgi refused all food. She had lighted two tall candles before the picture of her patron saint, believing in her simple faith that he alone could save her child. Bowed to the ground, she continued to pray fervently, and at last she seemed to feel that she had been heard, for she rose to her feet, radiant.