infested its grotesque countenance; threatening brows bent inward; angry eyes rolled in apparent fury; its double gesture with sword and javelin was violent and almost humorously menacing. And Ruhannah adored it.
For a little while the child played her usual game of frightening her doll with the Yellow Devil and then rescuing her by the aid of a fairy prince which she herself had designed, smeared with water-colours, and cut out with scissors from a piece of cardboard.
After a time she turned to the remaining treasures in the wonder-box. These consisted of several volumes containing photographs, others full of sketches in pencil and water-colour, and a thick roll of glazed linen scrolls covered with designs in India ink.
The photographs were of all sorts – landscapes, rivers, ships in dock, dry dock, and at sea; lighthouses, forts, horses carrying soldiers armed with lances and wearing the red fez; artillery on the march, infantry, groups of officers, all wearing the same sort of fez which lay there in Herr Wilner’s box of olive wood.
There were drawings, too – sketches of cannon, of rifles, of swords; drawings of soldiers in various gay uniforms, all carefully coloured by hand. There were pictures of ships, from the sterns of which the crescent flag floated lazily; sketches of great, ugly-looking objects which her father explained were Turkish ironclads. The name “ironclad” always sounded menacing and formidable to the child, and the forbidding pictures fascinated her.
Then there were scores and scores of scrolls made out of slippery white linen, on which had been drawn all sorts of most amazing geometrical designs in ink.
“Plans,” her father explained vaguely. And, when pressed by reiterated questions: “Plans for military works, I believe – forts, docks, barracks, fortified cuts and bridges. You are not yet quite old enough to understand, Ruhannah.”
“Who did draw them, daddy?”
“A German friend of mine, Herr Conrad Wilner.”
“What for?”
“I think his master sent him to Turkey to make those pictures.”
“For the Sultan?”
“No; for his Emperor.”
“Why?”
“I don’t exactly know, Rue.”
At this stage of the conversation her father usually laid aside his book and composed himself for the inevitable narrative soon to be demanded of him.
Then, although having heard the story many times from her crippled father’s lips, but never weary of the repetition, the child’s eyes would grow round and very solemn in preparation for her next and inevitable question:
“And did Herr Wilner die, daddy?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Tell me!”
“Well, it was when I was a missionary in the Trebizond district, and your mother and I went–”
“And me, daddy? And me, too!”
“Yes; you were a little baby in arms. And we all went to Gallipoli to attend the opening of a beautiful new school which was built for little Mohammedan converts to Christianity–”
“Did I see those little Christian children, daddy?”
“Yes, you saw them. But you are too young to remember.”
“Tell me. Don’t stop!”
“Then listen attentively without interrupting, Rue: Your mother and you and I went to Gallipoli; and my friend, Herr Wilner, who had been staying with us at a town called Tchardak, came along with us to attend the opening of the American school.
“And the night we arrived there was trouble. The Turkish people, urged on by some bad officials in the Sanjak, came with guns and swords and spears and set fire to the mission school.
“They did not offer to harm us. We had already collected our converts and our personal baggage. Our caravan was starting. The mob might not have done anything worse than burn the school if Herr Wilner had not lost his temper and threatened them with a dog whip. Then they killed him with stones, there in the walled yard.”
At this point in the tragedy, the eagerly awaited and ardently desired shivers passed up and down the child’s back.
“O – oh! Did they kill him dead?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Was he a martyr?”
“In a way he was a martyr to his duty, I suppose. At least I gather so from his diary and from what he once told me of his life.”
“And then what happened? Tell me, daddy.”
“A Greek steamer took us and our baggage to Trebizond.”
“And what then?”
“And then, a year later, the terrible massacre at our Trebizond mission occurred–”
That was what the child was waiting for.
“I know!” she interrupted eagerly. “The wicked Turks and the cruel Kurds did come galloping and shouting ‘Allah!’ And all the poor, converted people became martyrs. And God loves martyrs, doesn’t He?”
“Yes, dear–”
“And then they did kill all the poor little Christian children!” exclaimed the child excitedly. “And they did cut you with swords and guns! And then the kind sailors with the American flag took you and mamma and me to a ship and saved us by the grace of our Lord Jesus!”
“Yes, dear–”
“Tell me!”
“That is all–”
“No; you walk on two crutches, and you cannot be a missionary any more because you are sick all the time! Tell me, daddy!”
“Yes. And that is all, Rue–”
“Oh, no! Please! Tell me!.. And then, don’t you remember how the brave British sailors and our brave American sailors pointed their cannon at the I-ronclads, and they said, ‘Do not shoot or we shall shoot you to pieces.’ And then the brave American sailors went on shore and brought back some poor little wounded converted children, and your baggage and the magic box of Herr Wilner!”
“Yes, dear. And now that is enough tonight–”
“Oh, daddy, you must first read in the di-a-ry which Herr Wilner made!”
“Bring me the book, Rue.”
With an interest forever new, the Carew family prepared to listen to the words written by a strange man who had died only a few moments after he had made the last entry in the book – before even the ink was entirely dry on the pages.
The child, sitting cross-legged on the floor, clasped her little hands tightly; her mother laid aside her sewing, folded it, and placed it in her lap; her father searched through the pencilled translation which he had written in between the lines of German script, found where he had left off the time before,
