"Now, you shall go and have a good time in my garden. Do you know where my house is?"
"Yes, I know. Not far from the Church of Our Lady."
"Right, my son, you have found it. It has green blinds, and a fig-tree stands in front of it. Now take this basket and carry it to Auntie, and say that I sent word that she was to let you go into the garden with my son Toros. There you two may eat what you will."
He handed me a neat-looking basket. I peeped into it and saw a sheep's liver. I was as disgusted with this as though it were a dead dog, for at that time liver-eaters were abhorred not less than thieves and counterfeiters; they with their whole family were held in derision, and people generally refused to associate with them. In a moment I forgot entirely what a good man Sarkis was; I forgot his fruit-garden and his pretty daughter, of whom the good old lady had told me so many beautiful things. The liver had spoiled everything in a trice. Sarkis noticed this, and asked me smiling:
"What is the matter?"
"Have you a dog in your yard?" I asked, without heeding his words.
"No," he said.
"For whom, then, is the liver?"
"For none other than ourselves. We will eat it."
I looked at Sarkis to see if he were jesting with me, but no sign of jesting was to be seen in his face.