We sought refuge in the khan for the evening meal, sharing the fire with our own men and the Zaptiehs. Onik Dervichian, always merry and full of resources even on such an evening, made the men sit round so as to leave an empty space in the centre of the room. Then he produced a walking-stick and laid it flat on the ground.
"Stand up, oh stick!" he said, waving his hand and addressing it in Turkish.
Not a sound could be heard in the room; all eyes were fixed on the stick, which slowly rose and stood up, apparently of itself.
"Ha! ha!" went round the room in deep murmurs.
"Lie down, oh stick!" said Onik.
And the stick, after giving a hop or two, went slowly down on the floor again.
For full half an hour did Onik Dervichian, by means of a fine thread invisible in the dim firelight, go through a series of tricks with the walking-stick.
The men never moved or took their eyes off it for a moment, but showed no curiosity about it. They took it, like everything else, as a matter of course.
Hassan and Rejeb, two silent men, talked together the whole night long just outside our tent. What with this and the wind and the rain, and the flapping of the tent and the drips, which, coursing down the canvas, found new points of entry at every moment, we got but little rest.
Hassan greeted us with an anxious look next morning.