I walked on. We were going through a lonely, uninhabited valley. The Kurd became restless, and began to look about. He kept taking the gun from his shoulder and then putting it back again. I felt that my end was near. I began to walk slower. I did not dare step in front of the Kurd. That would make him angry.
“Quick—quick! Go on!” he urged. He was constantly trying to make me walk in front of him. I made an effort to walk evenly with him. We both seemed to understand that we were fighting a silent battle for life. Suddenly I stopped. My sandal strings were untied. The Kurd came up beside me and paused. Without lifting my head I observed his position. He stood on my right, and the ivory handle of the dagger gleamed from his girdle close beside me.
“Make haste, Armenian!” he called angrily.
I lifted my head quickly, snatched the dagger from his girdle, and before he knew what had happened, I buried the entire blade in his breast. He roared like an animal, then fell to the ground. I was saved. And this is the dagger that saved me.”
Chai drew from his girdle a dagger with a handle of ivory, and held it up for his listeners to see. They fell upon their knees and examined the weapon carefully. The poor, shabby Chai had become a hero. He was a brave man who ruled his own fate. He snapped his fingers at it.
“I don’t believe in fate,” he declared again doggedly. This time his words brought forth neither laughter nor scorn. Chai took his dagger, stuck it in his girdle and
