At these words the child gradually became quiet, dried his tears and said:
“I want to follow his example.”
The master stroked Archag’s black curls; then, the bell having already rung, he dismissed his pupils with the benediction. In the twinkling of an eye the boys had put on their pretty red slippers, strapped up their books, and were running through the streets of Van, shouting, and chattering like a flock of sparrows. Archag was among the first to scamper out; he ran like a shot as far as the Cathedral, then turning at the back of the Bishop’s house, he followed a lane which led to the shore of the lake.
His parents lived outside the city in one of those flat-roofed dwellings so common in Asia Minor. His father owned a great deal of livestock, herds of sheep and goats, as well as droves of horses and camels; Archag breathed a sigh of content as he caught sight of his father’s house at a turn of the road. A young girl of sixteen was coming to meet him; it was his sister Nizam, who made a great pet of him. He threw his arms about her neck, and asked in a wheedling tone:
“Tell me, have you been making something good for my supper?”
“Fie! you greedy boy,” replied the young girl. “You think of nothing but eating. Tell me instead what you did at school to-day.”
At these words a shadow came over the child’s face.
“Oh! Nizam, to-day is Vartan’s Day, so Jousif hodja read us a description of the battle of Avaraīr. Only think! Three thousand Persians fell upon the Armenians, who had only five hundred soldiers, and they killed Vartan and all his men. Don’t you think our hero must have been like Jousif hodja?”
Nizam blushed at the name of the schoolmaster; for, to tell the truth, the two young people were secretly in love.
“Now Archag, stop; what are you talking about? Come along to supper. Mamma has been making tomato pilaaf for us.”