“‘You see, sir,’ he said gravely, ‘I know all about killing. I have killed many men....’
“‘Army Service Corps?’ inquired Tarlyon.
“‘No, sir,’ snapped the stranger. ‘I know nothing of your Corps. I am a Zeytounli.’
“‘Please have patience with me,’ I begged the stranger. ‘What is a Zeytounli?’
“He regarded me with those smoldering dark eyes; and I realized vividly that his nose had been broken in some argument which had cost the other man more than a broken nose.
“‘Zeytoun,’ he said, ‘is a fortress in Armenia. For five hundred years Zeytoun has not laid down her arms, but now she is burnt stones on the ground. The Zeytounlis, sir, are the hill-men of Armenia. I am an Armenian.’
“‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Tarlyon murmured.
“‘Why?’ snarled the Armenian.
“‘Well, you’ve been treated pretty badly, haven’t you?’ said Tarlyon. ‘All these massacres and things....’
“The stranger glared at him, and then he laughed at him. I shall remember that laugh. So will Tarlyon. Then the stranger raised a finger and, very gently, he tapped Tarlyon’s shoulder.