In answer to this appeal the gallant little beast bounded up the precipitous path like a wild goat. The piercing shriek of the widow died away, and the loud breathing of the pony, as he neared the top of the pass alone, broke the stillness. Once on the level ground, Oglou the son of Kizzil gave a peculiar cry, and the pony skimmed along, his belly almost touching the earth.
Hastily taking off his thick lamb-skin coat, Oglou the son of Kizzil wrapped it round the child, tied the missionary's Bible to his breast, sprang from his pony, hammered vigorously on the door of a little house next the college, and left the boy there. When the Rev. William P. Marsh opened the window, Oglou the son of Kizzil was already moving away.
"What does the rascal mean by having religious doubts at this hour of the morning," grumbled the good missionary, preparing to shut down the window. "Perhaps he has brought back the Bible I gave him."
Little Artin, snugly wrapped up in the lamb-skin, rolled off the door-step and began to howl. "When a baby howls," thought the good missionary, "the best thing is to call one's wife." He awoke his better half and explained the circumstances to her. "What would you advise me to do?" he inquired, as she sat up in bed.
"Fetch the child, and bring it up to our warm bed," she said, promptly. "Fancy wasting all this time, and on such a bitter night."
As Oglou the son of Kizzil reached the top of the pass, the gray dawn began to break. Only one of his pursuers was in sight; whereupon, Oglou the son of Kizzil urged the tired pony forward, took a firmer grip of his yataghan, and prepared to demolish his plucky adversary.
"Stop," shouted the widow of Karin the son of Artog. "I've changed my mind; a live donkey is better than a dead lion. Kill your son, and I will marry you. You shall be the head of our tribe."
"You are stronger than Rustam, fairer than a gazelle," said Oglou the son of Kizzil. "Inshallah, but it is kismet. My son dropped over the precipice as I rode along."
And they went back together.