Hanum Selferian was sitting in what had been only yesterday the best room of her comfortable home. Now not a single article of furniture remained unbroken or unspoiled. Curtains were torn down, presses were smashed open, and their contents either taken away, broken into fragments, or strewn about. In the midst of the floor lay all the food in the house--bulghour, rice, meal, coffee, vegetables, bread--tossed together in a confused heap, over which charcoal had been thrown and kerosene poured. But no eyes for this, or for aught else, had the broken-hearted wife. On a bed in the corner lay her husband, dying. He was horribly mutilated; but the hand of devoted love had bound up the fearful wounds, and done the little that was possible to assuage their anguish. All the long night she had watched beside him, her children clinging round her weeping and praying, the elder ones trying to help her when they could. No joy came in the morning, but a new and terrible fear. What if the Turks should return? Flight and concealment were out of the question _now_. The gate of their courtyard was broken the day before; and now some one pushed open the door of the room where they were. Hanum Selferian started to her feet. A man stood before her, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his face stamped with an expression of unutterable horror. One short hour had passed since John Grayson went forth from the gate of the prison. In that time he had seen things which he never afterwards told to any one, and which he would have given a king's ransom for the power of forgetting. Now, like one walking in a dream--seeing nothing, hearing nothing--he strode up to her and asked, "Where is my wife?" Hanum Selferian had seen him often, and knew all about him. But how could she recognise, in this broken, horror-stricken man, the bright, fearless English youth? He looked full fifty years of age. Besides, her own sorrow filled her heart, and dulled her senses. "Speak low," she said;--"my husband"-- "I am sorry," Jack answered mechanically. "But where is my wife, Shushan Meneshian?" "Shushan?" She looked up now, her thoughts diverted for a moment. "You are not the Englishman?" "Would I were _not_! No one will kill me. There is a mark set upon me, that none may hurt me. It is the mark of Cain.--Where is my wife? I was told she came here." "Yes; to see her father, Boghos, who was not here at all. It was all a trick," said the poor woman. "Amaan! do not ask me more." "Don't cry, dear Effendi," broke in the youngest of the little girls, taking his hand caressingly, and touching it with her forehead. "Mother hid me in the storeroom while the Turks were here, but I looked through the crack of the door and saw--I saw dreadful things. They hurt poor father, oh, so terribly! but they did not hurt Oriort Shushan at all--not the very least. They only took her away with them. I am sure they will be very kind to her, she is so dear and beautiful."