The holidays were at hand. The boys were so absorbed in their preparations for departure and their farewell visits to town, that the affair of the Juniors’ expulsion was to some extent forgotten. Each morning small groups of students left the college, to attach themselves to some caravan of merchants. They scattered to the four points of the compass; some journeyed toward the high table-lands of Asia Minor, others set out for the Euphrates or the Tigris, in order to go down stream on rafts as far as Mosul or Bagdad. As they separated, they made great protestations of friendship, which were speedily forgotten in the happiness of returning home.

Dikran and Nejib were among the first to leave, their home being at Aleppo, a city easily reached from Aintab. Next, came the turn of Garabed, Soghomon and Samouil. The Juniors who had been expelled went to Syria, for the president of the American college at Beyrout, a man of broad views, had promised to admit them at the next term.

The college emptied rapidly; the dormitories acquired a mournful atmosphere, and the voices of chance speakers re-echoed in the deserted corridors. Archag and Aram still lingered, impatiently chafing at the delay. As a violent epidemic of typhus was raging at Diarbekir, Aram’s parents thought it more prudent for their son not to come home. This was a hard blow for the poor boy, and he was broken-hearted at the idea of having to spend the holidays all alone at Aintab, but at the last moment Archag invited his friend to go home with him to Van. Needless to say, the proposal was joyfully accepted.

After a week’s delay, the boys succeeded in making arrangements for their journey; they were the last to go, and Badvili Melikian was the only person left to wish them a good journey. The merchants in whose company they were to travel were going to Tabriz to buy Persian silks to be sold again at Damascus and Beyrout. They were pressed for time, and made long stages, so that the journey from Aintab to Van occupied only sixteen days.

Soon the country began to look familiar to Archag; he recognized villages where he had been with his father to buy horses or sheep, and at one place an old man who was a friend of Boghos Effendi stopped him for a chat; his was the first familiar face.

Dear reader, have you ever spent a long year at boarding-school? If so, you will understand Archag’s joy at seeing his native town again. A landscape of marvelous beauty lay spread before his enchanted eyes. At his feet the great lake of brilliant blue was sparkling in the sunshine, and in its transparent waters was reflected the sublime peak of Subhan Dagh. The town with its mighty rock crowned by the castle, and its fortified walls and towers, lay embowered in orchards and gardens. To the right, a snow-crowned peak dominated a natural amphitheater, in which rose the walls of the Armenian Convent of Jedi Klissia (the Seven Churches). To the west of the lake were the Nimrona Dagh and the high table-lands which nourish the sources of the great rivers of Mesopotamia. The hills in the foreground were carpeted with gay flowers, and were the pasture ground for sheep and cattle.

The horses, urged on by the spur, broke into a gallop, and soon passed the city gates.

May I be allowed a short digression concerning Van?

According to the history of Armenia, the city was founded by Semiramis, who gave it the name of Shamiram Yerd. Here, in the charming gardens which she had planted and irrigated by means of a thousand canals, the Assyrian queen was accustomed to seek refuge from the intolerable heat of the Mesopotamian summer; returning to her palaces at Nineveh at the approach of winter. The first city, having fallen in ruins, was rebuilt, it is said, by an Armenian king whose name was Van, shortly before the invasion of Alexander the Great. It was sacked by Tamerlane,1 and again rebuilt by the Armenians.

The two boys bade a friendly farewell to their traveling companions, in front of the khan of Achmet Pasha, and went on their way. Before long, Archag caught sight of his father’s house at a turn of the road.

Levon was keeping watch on the roof, and as soon as he saw the travelers he hurried down and ran to meet them. Boghos Effendi and his wife, together with all the servants, followed him out of the house. Archag sprang from the saddle, and embraced his father and mother and Levon.

“How tall he has grown!” exclaimed Hanna badgi with a motherly pride in her son’s fine bearing.

“Look at his pretty mustache!” said Levon. Everybody laughed, for Archag’s mustache consisted of a scant score of downy hairs.

Then Archag presented Aram to his parents; Boghos Effendi bade the boy welcome, and inquired for his father and an uncle with whom he had once had some business dealings. Meanwhile Levon plied Archag with questions about the college.

When they went into the house, the travelers found a regular collation awaiting them, prepared by old Gulenia; tea, three kinds of jam, caghkÉs, still hot, with grapes and watermelon. They felt a keen appreciation of the comfort and happiness of being at home. They talked gayly about their college life, their teachers and comrades. In spite of Archag’s protestations, Aram insisted on telling the story of the butterflies and Nejib’s rescue. The father and mother had heard no word of this, and Hanna badgi shed tears as she learned of the danger into which her boy had run, and gave thanks to God for having so miraculously preserved him.

The voice of the Bakshi (watchman) crying ten o’clock reminded Boghos Effendi that the boys must be very tired, so he went with them to their room, which had formerly been Nizam’s, and made them good night. Hanna badgi lay awake a long time that night, unable to sleep for the joy of seeing her son again.

Aram and Archag spent the next day with Nizam and her husband, and also paid a short visit to the old Bishop who had always been especially fond of Archag. They made numerous plans for all sorts of jaunts and excursions, and even talked of making the ascent of Subhan Dagh; but Boghos Effendi forbade that.

The days and hours of the holidays passed all too quickly for our lads. Aram was eager to see everything, and Archag took pleasure in showing his favorite haunts to his friend. About a week after their arrival they made a trip to Akhtamar, an island in Lake Van, where there is a celebrated monastery, formerly the residence of three Gregorian patriarchs. When the Catholicos of Echmiadzin became Primate of the Church, the office of his two associates was abolished, but the convent still continues to be a famous object of pilgrimage; its library contains many precious manuscripts in old Armenian. It is a charming spot, with magnificent stretches of garden and lawn, and ancient trees offering repose beneath their venerable branches.

An old sailor was commissioned to take the boys over in his boat, and Archag held the tiller, while Aram lay stretched out on a seat, and sang at the top of his voice, or chaffed the boatman, whom he called “Captain of the ship.”

The Superior of the monastery, a distant cousin of Boghos Effendi, gave the lads a cordial reception and directed a lay brother to show them all the treasures of the place: the relics of the Saints, the old pictures, the golden censer, and the manuscripts and objects of early art in the library.

Then Archag and Aram went off to eat a picnic lunch on the banks of a stream. The Superior had given them permission to take their dessert from the trees in the garden, so our two friends filled pockets and stomachs with plums and peaches. When they had satisfied their appetite, they explored the whole island; Archag, conscientious as usual, hunted for some coleoptera which he had promised to take back to Professor Pagratian.

About four o’clock, however, they had to think about going home. They found the boatman sitting in front of the convent with some of the monks, and when he saw the boys he stood up at once.

“Well, Ibrahim ammi (uncle),” said Archag, “are you ready?”

“Ewet, my young Effendi, bouyourun (Yes, yes, let us be off).”

“I really think,” said one of the monks, pointing to a little cloud over Subhan Dagh, “that you will do well not to linger too long. We may get a squall.”

The old sailor looked up at the cloud, which he had not noticed before.

“Yes, yes, we must make haste; Lake Van isn’t pleasant in a storm.”

“A storm!” cried Aram laughing. “You see everything on the dark side to-day, uncle. The lake is as smooth as glass.”

But Ibrahim was already untying his boat, so our friends bade the monks good-by, and followed him.

The island of Akhtamar soon lay a good distance behind them; Ibrahim rowed in silence, scanning the horizon from time to time. Aram laughed and joked; Archag was pre-occupied, for he knew the treacherous character of the lake. Great clouds, too, were coming over the mountains, and the boat rocked lightly on the waves.

“Perhaps we should do better to go back,” said the old man after a while. “In an hour we should be safe at Akhtamar, and it will take at least two hours and a half to reach Van.”

But the boys opposed this wise suggestion. The family at home would be anxious if they did not come back, and there was no storm yet. Besides, if the situation should grow worse, they could at any time put in to one of the villages along the shore, not more than two miles away.

The old man bowed his head, muttering some words of resignation. He and Aram now bent to the oars. An hour passed thus. They were nearing the shore, and Archag was hoping yet to make port safely, when a flash of lightning rent the clouds, followed by the rumbling of thunder. The old man crossed himself: “We are in for it now!” he said. He lowered the sails, and prepared for a struggle against the elements now let loose. The wind was blowing a gale; huge waves broke against the boat, drenching the three occupants with spray, and the little vessel rolled and pitched. Aram was no longer joking; everything seemed to turn upside down, and his stomach was very uneasy. The poor lad had never been off the solid earth before, and soon became very sea-sick.

The sky was on fire; peals of thunder reverberated from the cliffs, and rain fell in torrents. Instead of keeping on toward Van, Ibrahim had put about and was making with all speed for the nearest land. Calm and resolute, he preserved his sailor’s coolness. The boys made the best of a bad business, but now they realized the danger that threatened them, and repented of their rashness.

The tempest increased in fury, and the boat seemed one moment on the point of being engulfed in the deep, the next of being tossed up to the sky. They were near land, but the increasing darkness prevented them from seeing the reefs which line these shores. Suddenly a black mass rose before them, and the boat trembled under the force of a terrible blow. At the same time it was lifted up by a tremendous wave and dashed against the rocks. Before they knew what was happening, all three were thrown into the water.

Instinctively, Archag caught hold of Aram, and held him under his left arm. He ducked to let a great wave pass over them, then, taking advantage of a momentary calm, he swam around the reef, holding fast his precious burden. Presently his feet touched bottom, and he laid Aram on the ground, in a swoon.

The night was so dark that he could not make out where he was. Bending over his friend, Archag first made sure that he was not seriously injured, and that the blood on his face came from nothing but scratches; then from the gourd that he had with him, he forced a few drops of rum between the closed lips of the unconscious boy. He had not long to wait for the desired effect; Aram opened his eyes in astonishment, wondering where he could be.

The boys’ haven proved to be a deep cave in the rocks. Archag gathered some dried water-weeds which lay strewn on the sand, and made a great heap of them; he had no matches, but was not hindered by such a trifle as that. He looked about and found two flint pebbles which he rubbed one against the others to make the sparks fly. Before long a brisk fire was burning, and the shipwrecked travelers dried their drenched garments. They were not uneasy about Ibrahim, for they supposed that he must have found shelter somewhere, and that they should find him in the morning. Archag went down to the beach and called repeatedly, but his voice was drowned in the tempest, and he went back to his companion. Then they took off their clothes, which had become soaked through again, and stretched themselves out on a thick bed of dried weeds. Worn out as they were, with fatigue and excitement, they soon fell into a deep sleep.

When they awoke, the bright sunlight was streaming into the cave, and their clothes were thoroughly dried, so they dressed and went outside. There was not a trace of the storm; the sky was azure, and there was scarcely a ripple on the lake.

Our two friends were rejoiced to find that they were not on a desert island, as they had feared, but on a promontory jutting out into the lake. The cliff against which their boat had been wrecked formed the point; on three sides it rose perpendicularly, but was slightly inclined on the fourth, making a little cove, and here the boys had come ashore.

As they stood watching the lake, their attention was attracted by a dark object which was being washed by the waves against the rocks. On looking more closely, they thought it resembled a human body, and both were seized by the same apprehension: could it be poor Ibrahim?

In a flash Archag stripped off his clothes and swam out toward the object. Alas! it was no longer possible to doubt; it was the old sailor. His feet protruded from the water, and his open zouboun was floating on the waves. Archag took him in his arms and swam back to the beach where Aram was anxiously waiting. Here, he laid the body down on the sand. The poor man must have been hurled against the rocks, for his face was disfigured by a bad wound on the temple. The boys stood looking at him, dumb with terror.

“It’s all our fault,” said Aram after a while. “He wanted to go back, and we wouldn’t let him.”

“Yes,” said Archag, “we didn’t know the lake, and ought to have listened to him; but you mustn’t take his death so much to heart, Aram dear; since his hour had struck, nothing could save him.” But Aram, on his knees beside the ill-fated fisherman, was sobbing convulsively.

They carried Ibrahim to the cave and recited the prayers for the dead. Then they decided to go to the nearest village and send back some men to bury the body. It took them a good hour to reach the hamlet of Bos-Ujuk, but there they found hospitality at the house of an old servant of Boghos Effendi, Toros Ammi by name. After eating they felt better, and asked for horses, for they were still about fifteen kilometers from Van, but before leaving Archag begged his host to have Ibrahim buried, promising that his father would reimburse him for the expense. The old sailor had been alone in the world.

Boghos Effendi and his household were in a torment of anxiety. Hanna badgi had cried all night, trembling every time a violent gust of wind shook the house. Her husband tried to console her with the assurance that the boys must have spent the night at the convent, and would be at home before long, but he scarcely believed his own words, knowing how venturesome Archag was. The poor woman shook her head without reply. Gulenia and Krikor, kneeling before the picture of Sourp Krikor Lousavoritch (Saint Gregory the Illuminator), muttered prayers for sailors in distress.

Early in the morning Boghos Effendi went to town, hoping to find out something, but he had only bad news to bring home. It was reported that several boats had capsized in the storm of the previous night, and the people at the bazaar were talking of nothing else. About ten o’clock he went to town again, and met one of the Akhtamar monks, who had come over to make some purchases. This man said that the boys had spent the day at the island, but had left late in the afternoon.

Boghos Effendi stood rooted to the ground; the monk’s words had destroyed his last hope, and he knew that, but for a miracle, the luckless three must be mourned as dead.

When he reached home he had not the courage to tell his wife these sad tidings. Dinner-time came, but Hanna badgi refused all food. She had lighted two tall candles before the picture of her patron saint, believing in her simple faith that he alone could save her child. Bowed to the ground, she continued to pray fervently, and at last she seemed to feel that she had been heard, for she rose to her feet, radiant.

“They are coming, they are coming!” she cried.

All bent to listen: yes, they could hear the gallop of horses at a distance. The sound came nearer, increasing in intensity, then ceased abruptly, and the next moment Archag and Aram burst into the room.

They were received with cries and exclamations of joy. Hanna badgi was too much overcome to speak, and Archag had to tell the story of their adventure immediately. Holding his mother’s hand, he gave a full account of their return trip, accusing himself, with Aram, of having caused the death of Ibrahim, by their rashness.

Boghos Effendi had known the old sailor well; he had had many a chat with him on the shore of the lake, and was much distressed by the tale of his death.

“You are almost grown men,” said he sternly, “but you act like children. If you had listened to the poor old man, we should not be lamenting his death now. You are well punished, and I hope this accident will teach you a lesson.” The two boys hung their heads in silence, for they knew that this reproof was well deserved.

They did justice to their dinner, after which Gulenia ordered them off to bed. In vain they protested that they were feeling perfectly well; the old woman would not listen to a word, and they had to obey, half in jest, half in vexation. Gulenia had been a servant in the family of Hanna badgi, and upon the marriage of her young mistress, had gone with her to her new home. She had a heart of gold hidden beneath her sullen countenance, and always retained a partiality for Archag, whom she had once nursed through diphtheria. Hanna badgi, who was often ill, intrusted her with all the household care.

When the boys were in bed, the old woman brought them two bowls of steaming broth.

“Drink this, my lambs,” said she, “and to-morrow you will be better than ever.”

“Pouah!” said Aram, “your tea isn’t as sweet as your name2 (Rose). What is this horrid stuff you are giving us?”

“Hold your tongue, and drink it while it’s hot.”

Aram followed Archag’s example, and emptied his cup, and the old woman, after tucking them up as if they were little children, went off with an injured air. A few minutes later our two friends were snoring in concert.