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One of them pushed himself inside the door. Another followed, and they reached out their hands to take me. The woman, who was not Turkish, stepped in front of me. “What do you want?—Why are you here?” she asked in Turkish. “The girl — we want her. She has escaped,” they said.

The woman startled me by refusing to allow me to be taken. She told the Turks they had no authority. When the men motioned as if to take me by force she stepped in front of me and told them to remember that I was her guest. One of the men said:

“The girl is an Armenian. She has run away from the rest of her people. She has no right to be at large in the city. The Kaimakam has ordered citizens to take into custody all Christians found outside quarters set aside for them to rest in while halting on their way past the city.”

“Your Kaimakam’s orders have nothing to do with me. I shall protect the girl. You dare not harm an American!” said my new friend. The Turks, grumbling among themselves, and threatening vengeance, went out.

The young woman told me she was Miss McLaine, an American missionary. The house was the home of the American consul at Malatia, but he had taken his wife, who was ill, to Harpout. Miss McLaine kept the flag flying while they were gone. She had tried to persuade the officials to be less cruel to the