The Turk stared. "That were merit," he said. "No; what I did was to resist a soldier, a Hamidieh. In fact, I struck him. But what would you have? A man must have friends." He sat down, and taking out his tobacco pouch began leisurely to make cigarettes, apparently with the purpose of restoring his calmness, imperilled by the thought of his wrongs. "The matter was this," he resumed: "I passed by a long row of Giaours, fine young men, lying on the ground with their throats cut. In one of them I recognised a friend, and looking closer, saw he was not dead, for the work had been very ill done. Just then this Hamidieh came by, and wanted to finish him. Like a fool instead of giving him a couple of medjids, I gave him the butt end of my gun. I took my friend to my house, and thought no more of it; but, by the beard of the Prophet, what did that rascal do but go and complain to his captain, who knows my uncle, and must needs go to him? Then my uncle informs against me, and has me put in here, to keep me out of mischief, as he says. Curse his mother, and his grandmother, and his wife and his daughters, and all his relations, male and female, unto the fourth and fifth generations!" Apparently, the Turk forgot that amongst these relations he was cursing himself. Jack listened in horror. "Only tell me who are slain," he said. "How many?" "How should I tell that? I could only see what I saw with my own eyes." "Do you know aught of the Meneshians?--or of the Vartonians?" "Yes; I fear that all of both families are killed, with perhaps one exception," he added slowly, stroking his beard. "I saw the mob burst into their courtyard." "Oh God, it is horrible!" Jack said with a groan, and covering his face. After a while he spoke again. "The Stepanians?" "Of them I know more. With my own hand I shot the Pastor." Jack sprang on him, his eyes blazing, his hand at his throat. He had nearly been a martyr, but he was an Englishman, and a very human Englishman too. "Let be," the Turk gasped, cool though choking. "A moment, if you please." Jack loosened his hold. "You can strangle me, of course, if such be the will of Allah," the Turk continued. "But you may as well hear me first. For, if you get free, you can tell your people the words of Osman." "_Osman!_ Are you then the Turk I have heard the Pastor speak of so kindly? That you should sit there before me, and tell me you have killed him!--_killed him!_ How could you?" "Can't you understand?" the Turk returned with an expressive look. "There were his daughter and all his children looking on. His last thought was for them. 'Do not touch me _here_,' he said. Was I going to let them see him cut to pieces? At least, I could save him--and them--from _that_. He had not a moment's pain." Jack stretched out his hand to him impulsively, but drew it back again. "I cannot touch your hand," he said; "but I can say from my heart, God bless you!"