It had a look besides which made Jack cry aloud in amazement, "Kevork!—my brother!"
The voice aroused the sleeper. He sat up and looked about him. "Who is it?" he asked. Then, after a moment's astonished gaze, "If Yon Effendi's father were not dead, I would think he had come to look for his son in this charnel house!"
"Brother, I am Yon Effendi. How have you come back to us from the dead?"
"What does it matter? Are they not dead, all of them? You too, they told me you perished in the burning church."
"And they told us your throat was cut."
Kevork put his hand to his throat, where a red mark still remained. "The work was done, but not well enough," he said. "Would it had been! Why spare this blood, of which no drop flows any more in the veins of any living man?"
"That is not true, Kevork. Gabriel lives."
"Gabriel? How did he escape? Not—not—do not say he denied the faith!—not Gabriel."
"No; he was heroically faithful. He was left for dead, but he lives still. How he will rejoice to see you again, my brother!"
A deeper shade passed over the face of Kevork, and he stretched out his hand to Jack. "My brother," he repeated, pausing on the word. At last he went on in a low voice, "I know all—the worst;—your anguish and mine are the same. Our Shushan and Oriort Elmas——"