The man was still young; he could not have been more than twenty-five or six; his face was pale, his cheeks hollow, as if from recent illness, and partly covered by his black whiskers; his clothes were hanging in tatters, and his feet were bandaged with blood-stained rags. Yet he did not give the impression of a mendicant, but of a leader, accustomed to command; his thin lips, his brilliant eyes told of an energy which death alone could conquer.
After a moment’s reflection, Archag said: “I know a capital hiding-place, and we can get there in two hours, for we have fast horses. Get up and ride behind me.”
No sooner said than done. The horses, spurred on by their riders, flew over the ground, and Archag led the way over cross-roads, to avoid any awkward encounters. The cave where he and Aram had found shelter on the night of the storm seemed to him a safe asylum, for the entrance was concealed by high rocks, and the place was known only to a few fishermen.
Before entering the village of Bos-Ujuk, Archag let his companion dismount, bidding him wait while he and Aram went to leave their horses with an acquaintance. They soon returned with their arms full of provisions.
Toros Ammi had served fifteen years in the household of Boghos Effendi; he was a discreet person, and loyally devoted to his former master, so Archag took him aside and told him all about his meeting with the fugitive. Toros approved the lad’s decision, and thought the cave a good hiding-place; he gave the two boys a basketful of supplies on the spot, and promised to take some food to the refugee every evening, an offer which was gratefully accepted by Archag.
When the man saw his companions coming back, he went to meet them.
“Oh, how kind you are!” said he. “You are bringing me something to eat. This morning I managed to find a few berries, but I have eaten nothing else since last evening.”
He fell upon the bread and olives which Aram offered him, and ate greedily. It was growing dark, and they made their way over the rocks with extreme caution. At last, after a thousand difficulties, they reached the cavern, a spot which awakened many recollections in the boys’ minds. Aram and Archag took out the treasures from their basket: dolmas,[1] eggs, cucumbers and figs, and the fugitive ate ravenously, his eyes eager with appetite.
When his hunger was appeased, the boys begged him to tell them his story. They were sitting cross-legged at the entrance to the cave, with the full moon shining on them, and jackals yelping in the distance.
“I am a native of Moosh,” said the man, “that unfortunate city, continually exposed to the attacks of wandering Kurds. My name is Rupen, and I was for three years the inseparable companion of Andranick; perhaps you may have heard of him?”