"Yes; I fear that all of both families are killed, with perhaps one exception," he added slowly, stroking his beard. "I saw the mob burst into their courtyard."
"Oh God, it is horrible!" Jack said with a groan, and covering his face. After a while he spoke again. "The Stepanians?"
"Of them I know more. With my own hand I shot the Pastor."
Jack sprang on him, his eyes blazing, his hand at his throat. He had nearly been a martyr, but he was an Englishman, and a very human Englishman too.
"Let be," the Turk gasped, cool though choking. "A moment, if you please."
Jack loosened his hold. "You can strangle me, of course, if such be the will of Allah," the Turk continued. "But you may as well hear me first. For, if you get free, you can tell your people the words of Osman."
"Osman! Are you then the Turk I have heard the Pastor speak of so kindly? That you should sit there before me, and tell me you have killed him!—killed him! How could you?"
"Can't you understand?" the Turk returned with an expressive look. "There were his daughter and all his children looking on. His last thought was for them. 'Do not touch me here,' he said. Was I going to let them see him cut to pieces? At least, I could save him—and them—from that. He had not a moment's pain."
Jack stretched out his hand to him impulsively, but drew it back again. "I cannot touch your hand," he said; "but I can say from my heart, God bless you!"
The Turk went on: "I could save the dead from insult, and I did. I wanted to save the children too, and might have managed it, but for my fool of an uncle."