“I—I—” stammered Samouīl; but his speech was checked by a rush of blood. The handkerchief which he had put to his lips was stained crimson. There was a murmur of pity from the boys, and they made haste to carry the sick lad to his bed: Archag kneeling beside him, bathed his temples, while Garabed ran for Dr. Spencer.
The doctor’s face grew grave as he examined Samouīl, and listened to his breathing.
“He must be taken to the hospital,” said he to Badvili Melikian; “he will get better care there than here.”
The change was made at once. Samouīl was not suffering, but his life was ebbing away. Badvili Melikian told the boys that their comrade was going to die, and they were moved and saddened by his words. The Juniors took turns in going to spend their spare hours with the sick boy, taking him gifts of flowers and fruit. Samouīl never complained, but always welcomed his friends with a smile.
“You know,” he said once to Garabed, “I’m not going to live much longer. I am so glad; I have no one left on earth, and I’m so tired all the time.”
For a few days he felt a little better, and was able to get up and walk about in the hospital garden; then he had another hemorrhage, more violent than the last.
“It is the end,” said Dr. Spencer. “I don’t think he will live through the night.”
The boy was drowsy all day, but about five o’clock he opened his eyes and smiled, as he saw Archag sitting by his bed.
“You all spoil me,” he said to his friend, as he smelt the flowers he offered. “When I am down there” (and he pointed to the hospital cemetery), “you will cover my grave with cyclamen, won’t you? It’s my favorite flower.”
“Oh Samouīl! You’re not going to leave us! What shall we do without you?”