It was a saying amongst them that Gabriel, whose hands were useless, had been given "fingers in his heart," instead; for if there was any special sorrow or need, he always knew it by some instinct, and, figuratively speaking, put his finger on the place. For now, on his own account, he had no more grief, no more fear; his heart was all "at leisure from itself" for the griefs of others. He smiled again in answer, and not sadly at all. "My fingers touch a trouble of yours, which yet is not all a trouble," he said. "You have been talking to the American Badvellie." "Yes, and to Miss Celandine. And they both advise me to go home." Kevork turned a startled face to him. "But there is no use in thinking of it," he said quickly. "They would not give you a passport, after what you have done." "That is just what _I_ said. There is no blood upon my conscience, but upon my hand there is blood enough. Were I to apply, as things are now, for a passport, my antecedents would be looked into, and I should never be allowed to leave this land alive." "They would never kill an Englishman," said Gabriel. "Not openly in broad daylight, but in one way or another, I should disappear." "So I think," said Kevork eagerly. "You must run no such risks as that, my brother." "Dr. Sandeman has a different plan," Jack said. "That fine young fellow, Vahanian, wants to stay here to be with Baron Vartonian, and to help among the wounded. What if I took his passport, and went to Aleppo in his place?" "You would be found out." "The doctor thinks not. He almost undertakes to put me safely through. I can dye my hair and stain my face a little. Not much will be needed, so well your suns have browned me." "Then, Yon Effendi, your mind is to leave us," Kevork said sorrowfully, almost bitterly. "My mind is _not_ to leave you," Jack answered. "Only I want to know which thing is right to do." He looked tenderly at Gabriel as he added, "A while ago, I could not have gone. I could not have left you alone, Gabriel--but now you have Kevork. God has given him back to you from the dead." "God has given Kevork to me," Gabriel said; "but what is He going to give Kevork? For, you know, I cannot stay with him!" "Don't speak that way," Jack said hastily. Kevork was more visibly overcome. "I cannot go on alone," he said. "I _cannot_. Gabriel,--you must not go." Gabriel was much worse that night; and early in the morning Jack went for Kevork, whose sleeping place was in another part of the crowded Mission premises. "Come quickly," he said. "I think he is going from us." Kevork sprang up from his mat, threw a jacket over his zeboun, and, choking down a sob, followed his friend in silence. The sweet morning air, which had the touch and thrill of the springtime in it, fanned their brows as they crossed over to the church, where Gabriel lay. "Who is with him?" Kevork asked. "Anna Hanum." She was kneeling beside the dying boy, and as they entered looked up with her calm, sweet face.