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 among them, but Old Vartabed whistled and they were quiet.

“We must go quickly; the gate is not locked. You must be far away, to a place I will tell you of, before morning comes and you are missed,” Old Vartabed said as he hurried me across the yard.

When we were outside the gate, Old Vartabed wrapped his coat around me, for it was cold. Then we struck out across the plains, away from the town and toward low hills in the distance.

Old Vartabed did not talk much. He was so old he needed his strength. He was anxious that I get far away before dawn. When we came to the hills the shepherd showed me a path and told me to follow it, and go on alone until I came to the hut of a friendly Kurdish family.

“But you, Old Vartabed—are you not coming with me? Will not Ahmed Bey suspect you if you return?” I asked.

“Old Vartabed is too old to live in the desert, and then, who would care for my sheep?” the old man replied.

Poor, dear Old Vartabed! Ahmed Bey had him killed in the morning.

I ran along the path the shepherd pointed out to me until, after many hours, I came to the hut of the Kurds, of whom Old Vartabed had told me. They were shepherd Kurds, and had great respect for Old