nest, without a weapon, without even a stick. For a time all went well and I met no one. Before me rose another mountain. I must go over it and down into the valley on the other side. I climbed and cllmbed. Just before I reached the top, a Kurd jumped up, a hornidie,[1] well armed.
“Good day,” I said carelessly.
“Good day, Armenian,” the Kurd replied. He did not pass me, but stepped in front of me. I continued my way, but I felt that the Kurd was still standing there, and following me with his eyes. I did not hasten. I was afraid of arousing suspicion.
“Armenian—wait! Wait!” suddenly called the voice of the Kurd. I looked back, then stopped. It is fate, I thought. Fate might well take the form of a Kurd. A gun rested upon his shoulder; there was a moon shaped blade by his side, a dagger with an ivory handle stuck in his girdle. I saw that his eyes were those of an angry wolf. He came nearer.
“At this time, in this place, there should be no Armenians. Who are you? Where are you going?”
“Kurd,” I replied, “the time is bad, I know, but do not forget that we are neighbors. I say to you as a neighbor that I am from Chnt. We are starving there—that you know. I am on the way to Derdschan to get bread for my children. Let me go in peace.”
“You can’t deceive me, Armenian! You are a bad lot.”
“You have a God, too, Kurd. You see I have no weapon. There is not even a knife in my pocket. If
- ↑ Hornidie—name of a Turkish regiment.
