"Beating in upon his weary brain, As though it were the burden of a song" that hideous travesty of the enemy's splendid, unconscious testimony to his crucified Lord: "He saved himself, others he did not save." Rather perhaps might he be permitted, in some humble way, to follow Him, and help to save others. Of himself, there seemed little left to save now. The traveller whose purse is empty sings before the thieves; and if he has been just relieved of a crushing, killing burden, his song may even be one of thanksgiving. He did not know how long he had been waiting in that room, when another person came in and sat down, waiting also. She had with her three pale, frightened-looking little children. Had he judged by her dress alone, he would have thought her an Armenian woman of the very poorest class; but one look in her face made him know her as a lady. It was a very sorrowful face--what Armenian face was not sorrowful then?--but it was also very beautiful, and it bore the unmistakable impress of a refined and cultured mind. He felt sure he had seen her somewhere before; she was associated somehow in his mind with a box of sweetmeats, an odd fancy, for which he could find no reason. But his thoughts soon left her, and returned to their own engrossing theme. "Thomassian Effendi," said one of the children presently, in a wailing voice, "won't you take me up in your lap? I am tired." Jack looked round in surprise. Could this be indeed the beautiful, luxurious, cherished wife of Muggurditch Thomassian? He spoke his thoughts aloud. "Madame," he asked, "do I speak to the wife of Baron Thomassian?" "To his widow," she answered calmly. So much Jack knew already, and he wondered if the lady knew any more. "Have you had certain tidings of his----" He paused for an instant, unwilling to voice the word. "Of his martyrdom?" the widow said proudly. "Yes; he has gone home to God. The way was long and rough, but the end was peace." "Then you know how nobly he witnessed for his Lord?" "We know that he was found faithful." "I was with him almost to the end," Jack said. Then he told the story of his imprisonment, and of Thomassian's courage and faithfulness. Every word was as balm poured into the bleeding heart of the new-made widow. "And now, madame," he said at last, "how is it with you in your loneliness?" "As I suppose you know, we have been robbed of everything. My husband was known to be a rich man, and our house was one which invited plunder. What does it matter? When a scorpion has stung you, you do not feel the prick of a gnat. All I want is a handful of rice to feed these poor little ones." "Are they--relatives perhaps?" asked Jack. He knew she had no children.