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A dash of cold water in his face, the first dreamlike impressions of an unreal world betokening a returning consciousness, and Osman opened his eyes to look into the face of Moustafa Fazil, the Kurdish chief, the Kizilbashi. He attempted to rise to a sitting posture, but fell back, his swimming head almost bursting with the bone-splitting, nerve-racking pain of the injured temple.

"Lie still, friend. The danger is past. The Armenians are gone. They fled when they saw us coming, but we were too late to save many of the Turks," volunteered Moustafa kindly, when he observed what he took to be a look of inquiry on Osman's face.

The injured man, with a supreme effort, struggled feebly to his feet. Refusing assistance, or even company, he laboriously made his painful way over the little distance which separated him from his house. Slowly, racked by unutterable suffering both physical and mental, supporting himself, and guilding his uncertain footsteps by clinging to every object in his path, which would so much as furnish a hand-hold, Osmand reached his home.

Just within the door to the haremlik, the head, horribly crushed and bearing innumerable mutilations on the torso, lay the body of his beloved companion, Halide Hanum. At the awful discovery Osman for the time forgot his own grave injuries. Oblivious to his enfeebled condition, his tortured head forgotten, Osman stooped, and

with his old giant strength lifted the mangled form of his wife as one might pick up an infant. Already the form was cold and stiff, and an anguished groan escaping his lips, Osman carried his burden to another room, where he placed it tenderly on a sofa. There his roving eyes fell upon a little heap of gray ashes and a large charred area on the wall, which told him that the incendiary attempts of the murderers had failed. But now for the first time he thought of his daughter, Djemile. In the excitement of his earlier discovery, her very existence had escaped Osman's memory. He hurried through the house, searching every room, looking carefully in every nook and corner, hoping, yet fearful of what the next glance might reveal. The girl was not to be found, however. Over and over again the grief-crazed father frantically searched the house, but to o avail.

At length Osman paused, realizing that his search was over, and for the first time allowed himself to imagine his daughter's fate. All his former torturing pains came over him with renewed severity. With a nameless dread, the stricken man dragged himself to the street. There he found a young man, a Turk named Reshad, from a neighboring village, who told Osman that he had seen Krikor Karakashian ride at breakneck speed through his village, carrying what appeared to be the insensible form of a woman before him on the saddle. This had aroused Reshad's fears as well as his curiosity, for, knowing Krikor by reputation, he suspected some foul work. So he had come, and finding his worst fears increditably surpassed, was doing what he could to alleviate the suffering of the wounded.

Reshad brought some old ladies who had escaped the slaughter, and they took charge of the remains of the unfortunate Halide, preparing the body for burial. Osman was worn out. His wound ached; his poor, overwrought mind was at the breaking point. Sitting in the sun outside his house, he mentally reviewed the terrible calam

ity which had overtaken him. Now and then as he sat there an old friend would appear, and turning his griefstricken face towards Osman, silently salute him and as silently hurry on. For in that village few Turks had escaped the slaughter, and none had escaped the loss of a dear friend or relative.

Of the many sad processions to the little cypress-grown cemetery on the hillside the following day, one was that of Osman, who with bowed head and aching heart, guided his tottering footsteps behind the remains of his faithful companion, borne on the shoulders of Reshad and some other young men who had accompanied him. from his village. Many thoughts Many thoughts crowded themselves through Osman's mind as he silently followed his wife's bier, and when they were of the living they were not less sad than when of the dead.

He thought of his son, Husseyn, and his stalwart young manhood. To Osman's mind all the virile promise of the Ottoman race was typified in Husseyn. He thought of the boy's love for his mother and sister, and at the thought sounded the depths of his misery. How could he bring himself to tell his son of this overwhelming misfortune, this cataclysm which had overtaken them. However, Osman resolved that a letter must be written to Husseyn that very night.

But even as the broken and desolated father's mind turned toward his absent son, and in all the unfathomable depths of his own despair found it still possible to commiserate the son's grief, at a lonely cross-roads near the northern frontier the same sun shone upon another scene. There an alert-looking young Turkish soldier, who during his period off duty was amusing himself by strolling through the half-cultivated fields, unconsciously happy in the enjoyment of his youthful, effervescing health and spirits, was finding amusement and instruction in solitary communion with Nature's works.

After a time, upon the introspective

soldier's consciousness was borne the fact that in the not far distant highway at short intervals, sometimes alone, then again by twos and threes, swift riding horsemen were passing with surprising regularity. This strange occurrence in a roadway usually almost deserted, aroused the young man's interest, and, on approaching nearer the crossroads, he observed that the riders were Armenians. Why, he asked himself when concealed from view behind a cluster of thickly growing shrubs which bordered the road, were those tired horsemen spurring their jaded mounts to the very limit of their last remnants of speed? As he looked on, inquisitively, fascinated, the mysterious procession continued. They would arrive, halt a moment at the cross-roads, and, exchanging a few words with their companions, be off again to the north. Some Some passed through without slackening their pace. At length the soldier saw slowly approaching on the dusty highway a horse which bore a double burden. The splendid horse was in the final stages of exhaustion. Evidently they had come far, and judging from the frequency with which one of the riders looked back over the road, fear rode at their heels to spur them on. The horseman alighted and lifted his inert companion from the horse, as though the thing he handled were a bag of meal. The woman, if woman it was, was so swathed in robes as to render impossible a guess as to who or what she might be. She was able to stand, which led the observer to the conclusion that she was not drugged, as was his first impression, but that fear and sheer inability to help herself, or even hope for release, was responsible for her sluggish, inert condition.

"Give me your horse," insolently commanded the stranded horseman, as another rode up on a rather fresh-looking horse.

"Who are you, fellow, to demand my horse in that manner?" asked the new

comer.

"I am Krikor, the bandit, and not accustomed to having my orders dis

obeyed," boasted the horseman, drawing himself up.

"Very well, Krikor, I fear you will be forced to accustom yourself to being disobeyed if you remain long in my company. You may be a little tyrant among your own band of cutthroats, but you must remember that Garabed Ekmekdjian calls no man chief." And with this introduction the newcomer leaped from his horse and approaching the bandit continued: "But what is this, Krikor? By my soul, I" wager he's carrying away somebody's grandmother." And he indicated the black-robed figure that stood immovable by Krikor's side.

"No; by God, it's the most beautiful girl in Erziroum. I destroyed a whole village; put men to the sword, raped women, and dashed the brains of little children against the stones in the pavement, in order to get this girl," flashed Krikor in reply.

"Yes, as ever a braggart, I see. Why, in my town, when they say 'boastful as Krikor Karakashian,' we all understand. Oh! it's a good joke, an excellent joke." Garabed laughed unroariously.

"But," he continued, seeing the gathering anger in Krikor's face, and wishing to irritate him still further, "if you wish to cross the border yourself, I'm going that way. You You can just leave your grandmother here and get on my horse with me, and I will carry you across."

Fierce, blinding wrath seized Krikor at the continued taunts of Garabed. "Look, you lying dog," he cried, and grasping the head-coverings of the black figure which stood silently at his side, with one quick wrench he tore them from her, leaving the face, head and streaming hair uncovered in the sunlight. It was a surpassingly beautiful face which he thus cruelly exposed to view, and the long golden hair was of wondrous shade and texture.

The Turkish soldier who was a witness to this disgraceful interview. swayed and put his hand to his head when his eyes fell upon the face of the girl, and as he stepped into the

open, her eyes met his and a glad light came into them.

"Hasseyn-brother!" she cried, and in the excess of her emotions burst into tears.

With the angered cry of a wild beast which flies to the protection of its young, Husseyn sprang at the throat of the bandit chief. A feeling of inexpressible satisfaction came over him as he felt his hands close over the Armenian's windpipe. Down, down, with all his strength, he pressed his thumbs into the man's jugular veins— pressed until pressed until his steel-like hands could feel the throat growing lax, and he could hear the gurgling sound as the breath pent up within his adversary's heaving chest labored to force an exit. The bandit's efforts to free himself grew weaker; the end of the struggle was near. Husseyn for an instant took his eyes off the face of his antagonist. His sister stood dryeyed now, as she breathlessly watched the struggle.

"Run, Djemile. Save yourself. Hide yourself," he cried, as suddenly he realized the overwhelming odds against which they would find themselves pitted in case other members of Krikor's band should arrive to find his sister there. The spell broken, Djemile obeyed.

At last Krikor's wildly gripping hands encountered the handle of the knife which hung from his belt. Once, twice, thrice, with rhythmic precision. his arm rose and fell as he plunged the dagger into Husseyn's back. The dagger found his heart, but still Husseyn held on, and with his fast glazing eyes followed the flying form of his sister. At last, as by sheer force of will, he held within himself the soul which was struggling to be free; he felt the bandit's body grow limp within his grasp, and as it slithered to the dusty roadway, Husseyn's heroic soul was released, and his body lay stretched across that of the dead bandit.

Garabed Ekmekdjian lightly watched the death-struggle with a careless interest. When with a final quiver the body of Husseyn lay still,

he leaped to the saddle and in response to a twist of the rein and a touch of the spur, the well trained horse was galloping down the road in pursuit of the fleeing girl. Bending low in the saddle, the skilled rider with one arm seized the girl, and, placing her on the horse in front of himself, without checking his speed, wheeled about and spurring his horse sped away northward toward the border.

That evening when the muezzin climbed the stairway to the minaret of

the little mosque in Osman's desolated village and called to the evening prayer, a trembling, stricken old man, old before his time, answered the call. With his face turned toward Mecca and his heart toward the ever-living God, the old man bowed his head and prayed, and as he prayed, it seemed that God's angels came, and standing on either side of the worshiper, ministered unto him. And a great peace entered into Osman's heart for God, the comforter, the merciful, was with him. Next day they found him thus, dead in the attitude of prayer.

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The Invisible Cat

Josephine Clifford McCrackin

T WAS at my own request that Jack -our faithful old dog-was dispatched to the happy hunting grounds. Not because I found him at all hours of the day and night, with his nose pressed against the door of his dead master's empty room, whining piteously for admittance, and breaking into wild howls when denied entrance; I loved the beast all the more for his faithfulness and affection. But the infirmities of age were upon him; lame, half blind and wholly deaf from an incurable ailment of the ears, I felt that no one would care for him as his master and I had done, and I knew that a time had come when I should have to leave him to the mercy of others occasionally when my temporary absence from home became necessary.

So one afternoon when all was ready, I ran, as if for life, over to the doctor's, and just as Jack discovered I had gone, and came to the east door, out of his master's room, to look for me, a merciful ball from our neighbor's gun brought down the dog without a struggle.

I hope it is not wicked to speak of that first home coming after the dog's death. I could not help raising my eyes to the front veranda, and straining my ears for the quavering little cries and yelps, issuing from a grizzled, trembling old snout in which the teeth were chattering with excitement and impatience. "Hurry, hurry," he "Hurry, hurry," he seemed to implore, "I want you to stroke my head and pat my back once more before I die, and you know I'm so lame it hurts me to climb down the steps. Come quick-come quick." And I used to run as fast as I could to reach him, while he beat the devil's

tatoo with his forepaws on the floor of the porch, and raised his half-blind, faithful old eyes to mine with the most humanly loving expression, when I could lay my hand on him at last.

I never wanted another dog, I said, after Jack died; it breaks one's heart to part with an old friend, even a fourfooted one. But every one who came to the house said: "The place is too lonesome without a dog; you must have a dog on the ranch by all means." Instead of that, I got a cat, though I really did not hanker after one at all.

I had spent the night at Villa Bergstedt, and in the cold gray of the early dawn I heard the most persistent and pitiful mew of a young kitten, and saw the little waif slipping along behind shrubs and plants, never for a moment ceasing in its wild appeal for food and shelter. Elsie Goldman said some one had "thrown it away," and she had managed to feed it yesterday after driving it up from the ravine to the house. On the instant I said: "I'll take the cat if you can catch it"perhaps not thinking that it could be done. But Elsie caught the cat, lugged it over to my house, and we spent the day and night "gentling" it. Though only in part successful, we nevertheless allowed the kitten the freedom of the ranch next day, and as she did not return at night, I was all the more pleased to find her on hand the morning following, though in a really and truly critical position. That is, Elsie, who can do anything and everything, had set a rat-trap, one of those flat, square little boards with a "snap" to it, and placed it in a box turned with its open side to the wall, on the back porch.

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