He went to the most distant corner of the prison, the rest making way for him. No one ventured to approach him with enquiries or condolences, though they all knew him by sight, and several were amongst his acquaintances.
He sat down—or rather, lay down—upon the ground, and turned his face towards the wall.
Low, furtive whispers passed among the others.
"So much to lose. What can all his money do now?"
"Better had he shown mercy and given to the poor."
But these were quickly hushed, lest he should overhear. They did not want to hurt the feelings of the unhappy man, whom indeed they would have gladly comforted, if they had known how. But, as this seemed impossible, they left him to himself; and their talk soon wandered back to their own situation, and the momentous choice that was set before them.
Some were steadfast and comparatively serene. Others wavered, and two or three seemed disposed to give way. All prayed much and often. Most of them could sing, and, led by a few of the braver spirits, they made the gloomy walls resound with Psalms and hymns, especially with that favourite of the Armenians,—
"Jesus, I my cross have taken."
Once John Grayson's voice broke down in singing it, for he heard Shushan saying to him, "The cross of Christ has been laid on us together." Only, if it could be, that he might bear the heaviest end, and that she need never know of all this!
Meanwhile, Thomassian never spoke, and scarcely ever moved from the place where he sat, or lay, his face turned away from the rest. He ate little, and they could not see that he slept. Once or twice they noticed that his tears were falling silently. But not even a groan or sigh told of the anguish of his soul.