tion of Chai had aroused them. Melikh, the rich, powerful Melikh, believed in fate—and feared it. The magistrate, Gewo, before whose decisions they trembled, like aspen leaves, was afraid of it. And the head of the church—no matter what he sermonized about—in the end reverted to the subject of fate. They were all subject to this powerful influence.
“No—I don’t believe in your fate,” repeated Chai, as he took notice of the scornful looks directed toward him. “I could prove to you all in a moment that I am right, if I did not have to go out and make the round of the village again.”
“Stay! Stay!” they called.
“Magistrate tell him to stay.”
At command of the magistrate Chai sat down again.
In that year there were ten of us—ten mad men. The Turks and Kurds called us conspirators. The Armenians called us defenders and saviors. We and the eagles became the lonely lords of the mountains. We were alike, too, in the way we swept down upon our prey. How many dogs of Turks and Kurds did we not kill! Sometimes they hunted us. Then we disappeared and they could not find us. It was not easy to find us, and when they did find us, it was not easy to meet us.
One day we were on the summit of Mount Sim, when supplies gave out. It fell to my lot to forage food. I knew where there were villages, but whether the inhabitants were destroyed or alive I did not know. In broad daylight I climbed down from our mountain
