"Yes," said Avedis, "we have given gold. He will get us a respite if he can."
"What use in a respite," Boghos, Shushan's father, moaned in his despair—"except to dress the bride?"
"The bride!" a younger man repeated,—rage, hate, and shame concentrated in the word.
There was another pause, and a long one. Then John Grayson strode out into the middle of the room and stood there, his form erect, his eyes flashing, his arm outstretched. "Listen!" he cried, in a voice like the sharp report of a rifle.
Every one turned towards him, but old Hohannes said hopelessly, "It is no use; yet speak on, Yon Effendi; thou dost ever speak wisely."
"There is one way of saving Shushan."
"Let me speak first," an old man, as old as Hohannes, broke in hastily. "Englishman, thou hast lived long among us, but thou art not of our race. Thou dost not yet understand that we are born to suffer, and have no defence except patience. I wot thou wouldst talk to us of fighting and resistance; for thou art young, and thy blood is hot. But I am old, and my head is grey. I have seen that tried often enough—ay, God knows, too often! Did not my son die in a Turkish prison, and my daughter, whom he struck those blows to save—Well, she is dead now, and Shushan—as we hope—will die soon, for God is merciful. But let there be no word spoken of resistance here; for that means only anguish piled on anguish, wrong heaped on wrong."
Without change of voice or attitude, Jack repeated his words, "There is one way of saving Shushan."
Avedis spoke up boldly. "Let us hear what Yon Effendi has to say. He saved her once already from the wild dogs."
Jack looked round the room. "Do I not see a priest here? Yes, Der Garabed."