Not arrogant in gilt or goodly cloth,
Nor mincing meek, and yet not poorly proud;
With eyes afire that glittered not with wrath;
Aware of evil hours, and undismayed
Because he loved too well. He also prayed.

"Oh, Thou, who gavest, may I also give,
Withholding not--accepting no reward;
For I die gladly if the least ones live.
Twice righteous and two-edged be the sword,
'Neath freedom's banner drawn to prove Thy word
And smite me if I'm false!" His prayer was heard.


The remainder of that night was nightmare pure and simple--mules
and horses squealing in instinctive fear of action they felt impending
--gipsies and Armenians dragging packs out on the floor, to repack
everything a dozen times for some utterly godless reason--Rustum
Khan seizing each fugitive Armenian in turn to question him, alternating
fierce threats with persuasion--Kagig striding up and down with hands
behind him and his scraggly black beard pressed down on his chest
--and the great fire blazing with reports like cannon shots as one
of the Turk's sons piled on fuel and the resinous wet wood caught.

The Turk and his other six sons ran away and hid themselves as a
precaution against our taking vengeance on them. With situations
reversed a Turk would have taken unbelievable toll in blood and agony
from any Armenian he could find, and they reasoned we were probably
no better than themselves. The marvel was that they left one son
to wait on us, and take the money for room and horse-feed.