Mustapha was a bilious-looking little man, with a nose like an eagle's beak; his mouth was hidden by an enormous mustache, which curled back over his chin. At first, he looked at his guests rather distrustfully, but after reading the letter from Dr. Spencer, who had cured him of typhus, his face brightened. He offered his best room to the two masters, and had some straw spread in the courtyard for the boys. His wife and children stood in a ring around the party of Christians, for strangers are rarely seen in this obscure village. Monsieur Bernier especially excited their curiosity; the children felt of his clothes, and a young Kurd even went as far as to rob him of a lock of hair, having been assured by a sorcerer that the fair head of the "Frangi" (Europeans) was an efficacious protection against the evil eye. Monsieur Bernier and Mihran hodja had lain down on the floor, rolled up in the quilts which Mustapha had provided, and they were just dropping off to sleep when a sound of scratching at the door made them start. In an instant they were on their feet. "Bouyourun (Come in)," said Mihran hodja. It was Boghos, in great agitation. "Effendis, come quick! Soghomon is very sick; he says he is going to die!" "Bah!" cried Monsieur Bernier. "It's those eggs." He had, before this, had some experience of the terrible fear of sickness by which these good people are tormented; they have iron constitutions, but at the most trifling ailment, they imagine their last hour has come. In the courtyard the masters were greeted by the groans of the sufferer. The other boys and the members of the household were standing round him in a circle, shouting and gesticulating. Each had some advice to give, but Monsieur Bernier went up to Soghomon and offered him a spoonful of castor-oil. "Take this, it will make you feel better." If the patient were afraid of sickness, he was equally afraid of medicine. "What is that horrid stuff! I can't take that!" and he pushed away the spoon in disgust. "Soghomon, if you don't drink this, nothing can save you." These words had the desired effect, and the sick boy swallowed the oil, making a thousand wry faces. "He'll be all right to-morrow," said Monsieur Bernier, as he went back to his room. In the morning, the party set out for the ascent of Sof, leaving their horses with Ibrahamli, and Soghomon, who preferred to remain behind.