They walked quickly, and were soon there. When in Urfa before, Jack had always attended the cathedral services; he had not entered the beautiful Protestant church since he saw the dead lying there in her peaceful rest, on the morning of his first arrival. Vartan led him through it; then, by the little side door, into his father's study. All around the room there were bookshelves, filled to overflowing, and with books in several languages. The Pastor was seated in a chair, before a little deal table, reading. He was dressed à la Frank, and when, after a few words from Vartan in Armenian, he rose and greeted his visitor in excellent English, Jack thought himself back in his own land again. He almost thought himself back again in the study of the good old clergyman who had been the pastor and teacher of his childhood.
It broke the illusion a little when that stately gentleman touched his own forehead, and stooped down to kiss the hand Jack stretched out to him, instead of taking it in a hearty grasp. But this was in especial thanks for the service rendered to his children, and a few earnest words just touched with Eastern grace were added.
The pastor said a word or two to Elmas and Vartan, who left the room. Then he invited Jack to take the one chair, and seated himself on the little divan under the window.
Delighted at hearing his native tongue so perfectly spoken, Jack said impulsively and in English,—
"Pastor, you are more than half an Englishman."
Pastor Stepanian shook his head rather sadly, but did not speak.
Then Jack remembered the nationality of the missionaries, his friends.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I meant—you are more than half an American."
"Neither English nor American," said Hagop Stepanian proudly. "Every drop of my blood, every pulse in my heart, belongs to my own race. But I am very grateful to the Americans, our benefactors."
The blood rushed to the face of John Grayson. "I am afraid," he said, "you have no cause to be grateful to us."