But the lad stood motionless, his large brown eyes staring vaguely in the direction of the voice.
"He is blind, sir," Kaspar explained. "During the massacre he hid in a dry well. He was there several hours, and came out stone blind from the terror."
"Poor boy! Well, come along with me, all of you. The ladies will make room for your sister among them."
"And, Captain," Jack interposed, "the boy can have my berth. This young man and I, who are old friends, can sleep on the deck together."
The captain agreed. He was heard to remark afterwards that he "thought Armenians were all savages, but these people seemed just like ourselves."
At night, under the stars, Jack and Kaspar resumed their conversation. They were very comfortable; the Irish steward brought them rugs and cushions, and lingered to say he was glad the gentlemen and the young lady had got away from "thim murtherin' brutes of Turks. I was in Constantinople last September," said he, "and, by the Powers, Oliver Cromwell himself was a thrifle to thim!"
"And I wish we had Oliver Cromwell here to deal with them now!" Jack said, with juster views of history.
The great ship was ploughing easily and steadily through calm waters. All around and all about them reigned sleep and rest. It was a good time to talk of past perils and to enjoy present security.
"How could you say your life was saved through me?" John Grayson asked.
"I must tell you first why I was not killed with the rest," answered Kaspar. "That was horrible. All the rest were dead, even Thomassian; but they took me back again to the prison. There they brought me a paper to sign, setting forth that the men who had been executed were convicted of a plot to attack the mosques and murder the Moslems at their Service on Friday. If I signed, they promised me life, and without the condition of renouncing my faith."