Our patience was well nigh at an end, when, one day, the sound of a trumpet and drum announced the approach of the caravan.
On mules, on horses, camels, and ox-carts, came the fifteen-hundred-odd human souls, their escort, a valiant company of soldiers in coats of mail, and helmets, and armed with halberds, and muskets. It was a motly crowd, outnumbering our band in souls; but inferior to us in strength.
When, at a preconcerted signal, our men dashed from the thicket, the entire caravan fell into confusion. The soldiers fired off their muskets, heedless where they aimed; we, on the other hand, sent our shots where they would prove most effective.
A frightful tumult ensued—it was: save himself who can; while the heavily laden carts and vans were left behind.
I must admit that the haidemaken behaved atrociously. Never, in all my experience on the battlefield, did I witness such a scene of carnage. It made me ill; I became so faint with horror and disgust I sank unconscious to the ground.
When I came to my senses, I saw a Turkish merchant hobbling on a crutch toward me. He was old, and seemed to have been seriously wounded, for he was covered with blood. He came straight toward me, and, sinking to the ground by my side, said in a pleading tone: "My son, I beg you, take my yataghan, and cut off my head."
Your honors may believe that I was startled by so singular a request.
"I shan't do any such thing!" I replied promptly, and with decision.
"Pray do," he urged. "Cut off my head without further parley, and you shall have this koltuk-dengenegi," which is Turkish for "beggar's staff."
"No, Baba," I returned, with the same decision as before. "I can't cut off your head, for I have no grudge against you. I am not an assassin—though I do belong to the haidemaken; I was forced into this band, much as Pilate was thrust into the credo—against his will, I'll warrant!"