The boy said he wanted nothing of the kind. He had been sent for water, and water he must bring. His people were waiting for it, and would be very angry. He tried to pass on, but the Turk laid hold on him, seized his pitcher, and emptied the bucket of iran into it, not without spilling a good deal in the street. "Now pay me my money," he said.
"But the thing is no use to me," the boy protested ruefully.
"What does that matter, dog of a Giaour? You got it; and, by the beard of the Prophet, you must pay for it."
As the boy, crying bitterly, searched for the few piastres he had about him, Jack's honest English face flushed with wrath, and Gabriel would have sprung to the rescue had he not laid his hand on him and whispered, "Wait."
They waited until the Turk had turned down a side street, then Jack hailed the lad, who was standing quite still, gazing dolefully at his useless pitcher of iran. "Will you give us a drink?" he asked, coming out of the gate. "We are dying of thirst."
The boy checked his sobs; and for answer held up his pitcher to the lips of the stranger. Jack took a long deep draught, then passed it on to Gabriel, while he made the boy happy with more piastres than the Turk had taken from him. His tears all gone, he blessed the strangers for good Christians, and thanked them in the Name of the Lord.
"What church is that?" asked Gabriel, giving back the pitcher.
"That? Oh, that is the church of the Protestants."
"Is it English then?" Jack asked, feeling a pull at his heart strings.
"No; it is Armenian. But it is of the religion of the foreigners, who talk English. They are good people, and very kind to the poor."