And south there's the mouth of the Orontes, but the mountain takes a curve. . . ."

 

 

Stephan attentively followed the movements of his father's forefinger as it traced its half-circle of ruffled sea. But what he asked had nothing to do with the geography of Musa Dagh. "Dad -- will you really go to the war?"

 

 

Gabriel did not even notice that he was still keeping tight hold of Stephan's hand. "Yes. I expect my orders any day."

 

 

"Have you got to?"

 

 

"Must, Stephan. All Turkish reserve officers are being called up.

 

 

"But we aren't Turks. And why didn't they call you up at once?"

 

 

"They say the artillery hasn't enough big guns at present. When the new batteries are set up, they'll be calling all the reservist officers."

 

 

"And where'll they send you?"

 

 

"I belong to the fourth army, in Syria and Palestine."

 

 

It consoled Bagradian to think that he might be sent for a certain time to Aleppo, Damascus, or Jerusalem. Perhaps there would be a chance of taking Juliette and Stephan. Stephan seemed to divine these fatherly cares.

 

 

"And what about us, Dad?"

 

 

"That's just it. . . ."

 

 

The boy fervently interrupted: "Leave us here, Dad -- please leave us here. Maman likes our house as much as I do." Stephan was trying to pacify his father as to Maman's feelings here in a foreign country. His delicate alertness was well aware of the two opposing currents in their marriage.

 

 

But Bagradian reflected. "It would be best if I tried to send you both to Switzerland, via Istanbul. But unluckily that's also in the war zone.

 

 

Stephan clenched his fists across his heart. "No -- not to Switzerland. Do let's stay, Dad!"

 

 

Gabriel looked at the pleading eyes of his son in some astonishment. Mysterious! That this boy, who never had known his father's home, should feel, none the less, so deeply bound to it. The emotion had lived in him, this affinity with the mountain of the Bagradians; Stephan, born in Paris, had inherited it with his very blood. He put his arm round the boy's shoulder, but only said: "We'll see.

 

 

When they got back to the flat plateau of the Damlayik, morning sounds from Yoghonoluk assailed them. It did not take more than another hour to reach the valley. They had to hurry to be in time for at least the second half of mass.

 

 

In Azir, the silkworm village, the Bagradians only met a few people, who passed them with morning greetings: "Bari luis" -- "Good light." The inhabitants of Azir usually went to church in Yoghonoluk. In front of many houses there were tables with wide boards laid out on them. The silkworms' eggs were spread upon these boards, whitish masses hatching in the sun. Stephan learned from his father that old Avetis had been the son of a silk-spinner and had begun his career very early, at fifteen, by going to Baghdad to buy spawn.

 

 

Midway to Yoghonoluk the old gendarme, Ali Nassif, passed them. That worthy saptieh was one of the ten Turks who for many years had lived among the Armenians in these villages in peace and amity with them. Besides himself, the only Turks worth mentioning here were the five gendarmes at his orders, composing his gendarmerie post. They were often changed, but he remained, as firm as Musa Dagh itself. The only other representative of Ottoman authority was the deformed postman, who lived here with his family and on Wednesdays and Sundays brought the post in from Antioch.

 

 

Today Ali Nassif looked worried.