"It would be simpler to cut this missionary pig's throat," he suggested, stroking his long mustache. "Perhaps the Vali would be only too glad to get rid of him."
"I should like to; I have not killed any one for a week," rejoined Oglou the son of Kizzil, with much fervor. "But—" He hesitated.
The missionary did not understand Kurdish, and spoke in Armenian. "It would be more becoming," he remarked, "for you to sit down and listen to me without interruption. You may never have such another chance."
The quick eyes of Karin the son of Artog caught a glimmer of arms in the plain below them. All around the mountain pass was flecked with snow. "Proclaimed by all the trumpets of the sky," fresh masses began to fall. Their own village was a good many miles away. This mad hodga would continue to preach until he talked them to death. The Turkish zaptiehs, winding slowly up from the plain below, might ask inconvenient questions and appropriate all the plunder.
"After all, it is only four liras," suggested Oglou the son of Kizzil. "If we cut his throat, the zaptiehs will come after us, and our horses are done up. Better tell him we repent and give him back the money."
"When Allah, the All Great, has given us this money," sententiously said Karin the son of Artog, "it is showing ourselves thankless to throw it aside. But—perhaps it is as well. We can always catch him again when there aren't any zaptiehs about. Let us repent and get away before we are caught by these sons of burnt mothers, the zaptiehs."
Hence it was the Rev. William P. Marsh felt that his efforts at conversion had been suddenly blessed. "Maybe I was a bit hard on you," he said, affably, as the two Kurds helped him into the saddle. "If ever you show yourselves in Kharput, just come and see me and let me know how you're getting on. I don't want either of you to backslide after this act of grace, for I know how badly you must feel at giving back this money. I could see just now that nothing but the fear of the Lord prevented you from cutting my throat. If that stops you from cutting your neighbors' throats in your usual hasty fashion, you'll be very glad you tried to rob me by the way, and were brought to repentance. Now here's this Bible of mine, beautifully printed in Armenian. Maybe some one could read it to you when you feel inclined to go out and plunder your neighbors after the fashion of these parts. If you like to have it just say so, and I'll make you a present of it."
"Some day we will bring it back to you, Effendi," obsequiously said Karin the son of Artog, as the two picturesque-looking villains helped the infirm old missionary into the saddle. "Where is your house?"
"By the big college; you can't mistake it," said the old missionary, cheerfully. "Just ask for me, and you shall have a square meal first and some square truth afterwards. But I must get on." He jogged his patient old horse with one spurless heel, and shuffled away in the direction of Kharput, lifting up his voice in a hymn of praise as he disappeared in the gathering night.
Karin the son of Artog and Oglou the son of Kizzil watched the receding old man with a grin. "Four liras!" said the one. "Four liras!" echoed the other. "Now for the zaptiehs." The two cronies turned in the direction of the approaching force, but it was not to be seen.