With feminine unfairness, the widow of Karin the son of Artog did not give Oglou the son of Kizzil a start, for his relations were scattered about on different plundering expeditions, and were much too busy to attend to their kinsman's sudden call for aid. One morning, that darkest hour before the dawn in which ill deeds are done, Oglou the son of Kizzil was awakened by a smell of burning thatch.
"Ugh!" he grunted, feeling to see whether his yataghan was in order. "She's set her relations on to me. I should like to marry that woman. I wonder how many of them are outside."
Whilst he was still pondering, a bullet came through the wall of the hut, and scattered little pellets of mud all round. This seemed to Oglou the son of Kizzil a hint that it was about time for him to be off. With characteristic forethought he had tethered his pony in the hut. Picking up his small one-year-old son, the joy of his heart and the pride of his eyes, Oglou the son of Kizzil mounted his pony, rushed through the crazy door, tumbling against a crowd of Kurds who were waiting to receive him, and the next moment was madly galloping through the darkness in the direction of Kharput.
Recovering from their momentary panic, the relations of Karin the son of Artog charged after their former friend, headed by the widow, who, lance in hand and mounted en cavalier, resolved to revenge the slights which her pride had suffered. But Oglou the son of Kizzil had a good pony, the shovel edges of his stirrups were sharp enough to rake even that much-enduring animal's hide, and he sped up the mountain, guiding the animal with his knees, holding his little son on the saddle before him with one hand, and brandishing his yataghan with the other, as if he were slicing an imaginary foe with the same famous stroke which had killed Karin the son of Artog.
But the way was long, the ascent steep, and the one-year-old Artin, so rudely awakened from slumber, began to cry.
"Hush, little warrior," said his father, tenderly. "Little sheep's heart, be still."
As they toiled up the steep mountain path, the wiry pony going at each sudden rise in the broken ground with an impetuous rush, the clatter of falling stones served as a guide to the pursuers, and they came on, headed by the widow, brandishing her husband's lance.
"I shall have to turn and fight them presently," said Oglou to his son. "They'll never let me alone now."
Suddenly he gave a wild yell, and mercilessly prodded the pony.
"The house next the college! That is the place. Inshallah, I shall have time to get there and back to the top of the pass before they catch up with me. But unless I can get back in time I'm done for. It all depends upon the pony."