Jack stepped inside the gate and looked at it with interest. The door of the church was open also; and Gabriel, seeing him look towards it, said, "You might go in there, Yon Effendi, and rest a little, for I see you are tired to death; I will run on and try and find the house. It cannot be far off now." "But you are tired too." "Not a bit. I would feel quite fresh this minute if I only had a drink. And, by good luck, there goes a fellow outside, a Turk too, with a bucket full of _iran_ to sell." The Turk, who had been crying his ware, stopped at the moment, for he saw an Armenian boy coming down the street with a large empty pitcher in his hand. "You want this?" said he, preparing to pour his sour milk into it. The boy said he wanted nothing of the kind. He had been sent for water, and water he must bring. His people were waiting for it, and would be very angry. He tried to pass on, but the Turk laid hold on him, seized his pitcher, and emptied the bucket of _iran_ into it, not without spilling a good deal in the street. "Now pay me my money," he said. "But the thing is no use to me," the boy protested ruefully. "What does that matter, dog of a Giaour? You got it; and, by the beard of the Prophet, you must pay for it." As the boy, crying bitterly, searched for the few piastres he had about him, Jack's honest English face flushed with wrath, and Gabriel would have sprung to the rescue had he not laid his hand on him and whispered, "Wait." They waited until the Turk had turned down a side street, then Jack hailed the lad, who was standing quite still, gazing dolefully at his useless pitcher of _iran_. "Will you give us a drink?" he asked, coming out of the gate. "We are dying of thirst." The boy checked his sobs; and for answer held up his pitcher to the lips of the stranger. Jack took a long deep draught, then passed it on to Gabriel, while he made the boy happy with more piastres than the Turk had taken from him. His tears all gone, he blessed the strangers for good Christians, and thanked them in the Name of the Lord. "What church is that?" asked Gabriel, giving back the pitcher. "That? Oh, that is the church of the Protestants." "Is it English then?" Jack asked, feeling a pull at his heart strings. "No; it is Armenian. But it is of the religion of the foreigners, who talk English. They are good people, and very kind to the poor." "Perhaps there is service going on, as the church is open," Jack said. "I will go and see." "Do," said Gabriel; "meanwhile, this lad will help me to find the Vartonians, and I will come back for you."