It was a college custom for each class to go for a three days’ excursion, before the Easter holidays, and this year the boys of the Sophomore class had selected the mountain of Sof, to the northwest of Aintab, as the objective point of their trip. Monsieur Bernier and Mihran hodja were to go with them.

About six o’clock in the morning, one day toward the end of March, the masters gave the signal for the start, and the boys sprang to their saddles. They rode horses or donkeys. These donkeys of the East are strong, vigorous animals, with bright eyes and glossy skin, and often rival the horses in speed.

The sky was cloudless, the air pure, and fragrant with a thousand odors from the plain; the fields, so bare in autumn, when parched by heat and drought, had put on their bridal array of grass and flowers. The road ran beside a stream bordered with laurel, roses and eglantine. After a ride of three hours, the party came to the lower foothills of the mountain. The good beasts went on bravely, picking their way among the rough stones and fallen dÉbris, never stumbling. The vegetation was marvelous; as far as eye could see, stretched fields of narcissus, hyacinths, tulips and gladiolas. Monsieur Bernier kept jumping off his horse every few moments to gather a fresh handful of flowers.

The riders stopped near a well, to eat their luncheon; after tethering the donkeys and horses to some plane-trees, every one proceeded to unpack his food.

“I say,” said Aram, “just look at Soghomon!”

The gluttony of the fat boy was notorious; he now had twelve eggs spread out on his knees, the sight of which sent his companions into fits of laughter.

“Are you going to hatch them, or what?” asked the merciless Aram.

“I speak for the chicks,” said Dikran.

Soghomon turned red to the tips of his ears.

“Vai bana (worse luck), I’m hungry,” he stammered at last, “and I always have a good appetite.”

“Right you are, old man,” said Aram, “it seems to me you’ve been getting thin lately.”

“Bah!” said Nejib. “I bet he won’t eat them.”

“Why not?” said Soghomon pettishly. “My father ate thirteen once.”

The shouts of laughter redoubled.

“I bet he will eat them,” cried Aram.

“What will you bet?” asked Nejib.

“My Iceland postage-stamps.”

“Pek-et (all right)! I’ll bet my romance by Walter Scott.”

Soghomon was nettled by the jesting. He ate eight eggs easily, but the ninth had a queer taste. At the tenth his stomach seemed to close; he stuck to it however. Orientals adore betting, and his comrades put him on his mettle. He ate the eleventh, then the twelfth! Nejib had lost.

“AfÉrim, AfÉrim (Bravo)!” cried Aram, delighted, and he dragged Soghomon into a wild dance.

It was so hot that the company unanimously agreed to take a siesta, and not start on their way until four o’clock.... The muezzin was just telling the hour of sunset as our cavalcade drew up at the village of Ibrahamli, where they were to spend the night. Dr. Spencer had given Monsieur Bernier a letter of introduction to Mustapha Hara, the chief man of the village. The inhabitants of Ibrahamli were Kurds, and without the doctor’s letter, our friends would have found every door closed to them.

Mustapha was a bilious-looking little man, with a nose like an eagle’s beak; his mouth was hidden by an enormous mustache, which curled back over his chin. At first, he looked at his guests rather distrustfully, but after reading the letter from Dr. Spencer, who had cured him of typhus, his face brightened. He offered his best room to the two masters, and had some straw spread in the courtyard for the boys. His wife and children stood in a ring around the party of Christians, for strangers are rarely seen in this obscure village. Monsieur Bernier especially excited their curiosity; the children felt of his clothes, and a young Kurd even went as far as to rob him of a lock of hair, having been assured by a sorcerer that the fair head of the “Frangi” (Europeans) was an efficacious protection against the evil eye.

Monsieur Bernier and Mihran hodja had lain down on the floor, rolled up in the quilts which Mustapha had provided, and they were just dropping off to sleep when a sound of scratching at the door made them start. In an instant they were on their feet.

“Bouyourun (Come in),” said Mihran hodja.

It was Boghos, in great agitation.

“Effendis, come quick! Soghomon is very sick; he says he is going to die!”

“Bah!” cried Monsieur Bernier. “It’s those eggs.”

He had, before this, had some experience of the terrible fear of sickness by which these good people are tormented; they have iron constitutions, but at the most trifling ailment, they imagine their last hour has come.

In the courtyard the masters were greeted by the groans of the sufferer. The other boys and the members of the household were standing round him in a circle, shouting and gesticulating. Each had some advice to give, but Monsieur Bernier went up to Soghomon and offered him a spoonful of castor-oil.

“Take this, it will make you feel better.”

If the patient were afraid of sickness, he was equally afraid of medicine.

“What is that horrid stuff! I can’t take that!” and he pushed away the spoon in disgust.

“Soghomon, if you don’t drink this, nothing can save you.”

These words had the desired effect, and the sick boy swallowed the oil, making a thousand wry faces.

“He’ll be all right to-morrow,” said Monsieur Bernier, as he went back to his room.

In the morning, the party set out for the ascent of Sof, leaving their horses with Ibrahamli, and Soghomon, who preferred to remain behind.

The mountain of Sof is shaped like a tooth. The ascent was very difficult, over a rough trail, scaling walls of rock, and often passing close to the edge of a precipice, but on reaching the summit the climbers were rewarded for their exertions by a magnificent view. At their feet lay a vast plain enclosed by the hills which separate Aintab from Killis; toward the north towered the great wall of Anti-Taurus. Most of the boys lay down on the grass, to dry the perspiration that streamed from their faces. A few of the more adventurous went off to investigate the huge blocks of granite jutting out over the depths below.

“Be very careful,” called Mihran hodja, as he stretched himself out beside Monsieur Bernier.

“Does our Sof remind you of your Swiss mountains?”

“Not exactly; our Alps are higher and more majestic, but we seldom enjoy such pure air and sunshine——”

He was interrupted by a terrible cry, followed by the sound of something falling.

“There has been an accident!” said he to his companion, and they both ran toward the rocks. There they found Dikran, Aram, and three other boys, all pale and trembling.

“What is the matter?” asked Mihran hodja.

In reply, Dikran beckoned to them to come nearer, and pointed straight down. There was his cousin, suspended over the chasm, and clinging to a small tree. The boys gave a cry of horror.

Poor Nejib had slipped as he was gathering anemones, and had fallen between two walls of rock. His fall had been broken by a narrow ledge covered with thick grass; a few meters lower, he had caught hold of a young pine, but the frail tree might give way at any moment, and then the unfortunate boy must roll down to the turbulent stream below. With neither rope nor ladder, it seemed impossible to save him; yet he could not be left to perish like that. There was perplexity on every face.

At last Archag went up to Monsieur Bernier and said:

“He must have been hurt as he fell; I hear him groaning. I am going to try to get down to him.”

“You will certainly be killed in the attempt.”

“I’m used to mountains, and I can scramble over the rocks like a wild goat. Let us make a rope of our girdles;1 you fasten it about me and let me down.”

It was the only chance of saving Nejib, and after a moment’s consultation the two masters consented. They bound the improvised rope about Archag’s loins, and let him down.

Our friend made good use of his hands and feet, and finally reached Nejib. He braced himself against a rock, gripping it with his right hand, while with the left he untied the rope and fastened it about Nejib. The lad had sprained his ankle, and his arm was badly bruised. Archag gave a whistle, and the rope began to go slowly up with its burden. The spectators held their breath in suspense: if a single girdle were to break, Nejib would be lost.

The rope ascended; one more last pull, and—Nejib was saved! The shock and pain had exhausted his strength, and he fell fainting on the grass. Mihran hodja hastened to take off the rope; he examined it carefully and then threw it down to Archag, who in a few moments gave the signal, and again the boys began pulling. Three-quarters of the ascent had been accomplished, when the rope began to split.

“Destowe, destowe (take care)!” all the boys cried out together, and Archag had just time to save himself by clinging to a projecting angle of rock. He discarded the rope, now useless, and set himself to climb up the narrow cleft in the cliff that rose sheer before him. By dint of fitting his feet to the rough surface of the rock, and gripping where he might with his hands, he managed to reach the top, but not without many a bruise.

His companions received him in their arms, and gave him a regular ovation. Nejib had come out of his swoon, and as he looked at Archag, his eyes filled with tears.

“Avf-edersin (forgive me),” he said, under his breath.

“Forgive you for what?”

“For pushing you that day when you were looking at Professor Missirian’s collection.”

“Was it you?”

“Yes. Thanks to your blundering, I was punished for reading ‘The Arabian Nights.’ I thought you did it on purpose, out of spite—Stay still; I know now that wasn’t true,” (Archag had started to go away) “I was furious, and I was bound I would pay you back. But I haven’t had a moment’s peace since. You are so good, so generous; do say you forgive me.”

Archag held out his hand in silence, and Nejib clasped it with both his own. Masters and pupils alike watched this scene with astonishment.

“Nejib, I can’t say I congratulate you on your behavior,” cried Monsieur Bernier. “I wouldn’t have believed it of you.”

“Nor I, nor I,” murmured the others.

“Let him alone,” said Mihran hodja. “Reproaches do no good.”

The boys broke off some pine boughs and made a litter for Nejib, but the descent was very difficult, for the boy was suffering severely, and every jolt drew from him a groan of pain.

At Ibrahamli, the village sorcerer massaged his foot, and dressed his wounds according to all the rules of the profession. The next morning he was put on a horse, and the whole company set out on the return trip to Aintab. The president and professors were indignant when they learned of Nejib’s ill-conduct. Dr. Mills imposed a punishment of three days on bounds, and made him ask pardon of Archag publicly.