“God is good to you, Chai. Come up—you must be frozen.”
“Make room! Give him a place to sit.”
“By heaven, I’m frozen”, he replied. I couldn’t stay out another minute. I thought the sky was cracking over my head. They are frightened in the village, too. I said to myself, I’ll go to the sakhi, I’ll warm myself, and then I’ll go out again.”
He seated himself beside the wall.
Above the buchar[1] in a blackened space, hung the oil lamp. The sad flame trembled and wavered, as if it, too, were terrified by the voice of the wind. But it gave sufficient light to show some of the faces under the lamb’s fur caps. An occasional pale line of light fell upon the new comer. It was a peasant’s face which hard work and suffering had made harsh. He was a young man but he had the appearance of having lived much. Under his short mustache were two thick lips so tightly pressed together that they gave the impression of stubbornness. The eyes were small, but full of fire. He was the village watchman. And he was an Armenian. Many of his race had attempted to live in the mountain village, but they had been driven away. Only this one had remained like a deserted crane. He did not want to beg, so he became watchman. The villagers did not know his name. Instead of Nacho they called him Mcho, some even Mko, but at last they agreed upon the name of Chai.
- ↑ Buchar, an open fire place.
