CHAPTER XI

DANGER

The return to consciousness was a painful experience. Frank's head ached violently; his nostrils stung with dust and smoke and foul gas; his ears rang with strange noises; every part of him seemed bruised. For some time he lay simply bewildered, trying to recall how he came to be on the floor, half smothered with dust and fragments of wood and stone. Two splintered beams lay criss-cross just above him: if they had not fallen one upon the other they must certainly have crushed the life out of him.

A loud bang which set the place quivering and the dust dancing about him recalled the explosion he had heard at the moment of falling. He stirred, shook off the litter half burying him, and stretched his limbs. To his joy they were sound. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the dirt from his face. It was streaked with blood.

He looked around him. The house was a mere mass of wreckage. Fragments of furniture were embedded in extraordinary positions among heaps of stone. The roof was gone, the walls had fallen in and out, forming a rampart in which here and there were chinks through which light came. He was on the level of the street.

Shaken, bruised, half-deafened, he lay staring up at the open sky. What was to be done? The bombardment had apparently ceased. He looked at his watch: it had stopped. Where was Benidin? Was the promise to stay in the house any longer binding? But he felt disinclined to move: the shock had left him listless and devoid of energy. It would be no good adventuring until he had recovered something of his strength.

Presently he heard the hum of voices outside. People were apparently moving about now that the havoc-working shells had ceased to fall. He distinguished a question, evidently from a stranger to the town.

"Whose house is this?"

"Benidin's."

"A dog of an Armenian?"

"Even so."

There was a laugh.

"Is he inside?"

"Who knows? If he is buried in the ruins, so much the better."

"A rich man? All these Armenian dogs are rich. Let us see what we can find."

Frank heard scuffling footsteps approaching, and was tempted to call for help. But the recollection that he was dressed as an Armenian checked the impulse. The men outside began to poke at the rubbish; they would discover him; he must try to evade them. At this moment there was another roar and crash close by, and the group of would-be looters scattered with shrill cries. Frank once more wiped from his face the dust which the concussion had showered upon him. A slight movement of one of the cross-beams hinted that his position was still dangerous. They protected him, indeed, from falling rubbish; but another shell, even if it spared the house, might disturb them, and cause them to settle down and crush him.

"I must get out of this," he thought. "It must be getting on towards evening, and Kopri will be back."

Wriggling out of his narrow prison, he climbed up one of the slanting beams, wrenched away some shattered woodwork, and scrambled over the jagged heaps of masonry until he reached a gap in the ruins overlooking the street. Through this he clambered, and stood amid the wreckage outside. The neighbourhood was deserted.

The bombardment had now apparently ceased, though guns could still be heard intermittently from the south. The inhabitants were beginning to reappear. Dusk was falling. Far down the hill Frank saw troops engaged in extinguishing a fire.

He was at a loss what to do. There was no sign of Benidin. His neighbours would soon be returning to their houses, and then Frank must be discovered. Yet discovery was equally certain if he made his way to the harbour, and in spite of the rehearsal in Erzerum, he felt in no condition to parry successfully the questions of some inquisitive officer who would certainly intercept him before he reached the quay. On the whole it seemed better to hang about the ruins until Benidin returned. If he did not return, Kopri would come as soon as his vessel was moored.

Frank went round to the rear of the house, where he was least likely to be seen and questioned by the returning owners of the adjacent dwellings. As he contemplated the ruins, he marvelled at his good fortune in escaping so lightly. No one who knew that a human being was in the house at the time of the explosion would suppose that he had not met his death or at least suffered hideous mutilation.

While he was standing thus, a figure came round the corner of the ruins. Though it was growing dark, Frank recognised the uniform of a Kurdish officer. His first impulse was to slip away and avoid a meeting; but he realised instantly that any sudden movement of departure might seem suspicious. Keeping his back to the newcomer, he continued to examine the wreckage, at the same time edging slowly away.

The Kurd stopped, and appeared to be interested in the scene. He came up to Frank.

"Whose house was this?" he asked.

"The house of one Benidin, a merchant of the town," Frank replied, humbly, in the reedy falsetto learnt from Joseph.

"Was he within when the shell fell?"

"No, effendim."

"You are his servant?"

"Not so, but a humble visitor."

"Then make haste and search that rubbish heap. Before the merchant returns, it may be that you will find for me some few precious things. Make haste, I say, before it grows too dark."

Frank could not refuse compliance. The Kurd was bristling with weapons, which he would not hesitate for a moment to use on a supposed Armenian. But Frank, while he stooped and made a show of turning over the rubbish, was determined not to find anything of value. His object must be to waste time in the hope of darkness putting an end to the search.

The Kurd walked up and down, a few paces in each direction, watching alternately Frank and the vicinity. Every now and then he halted for a few seconds within a few feet of Frank, who pretended to be diligently sorting over the confused heaps in the light of the sunset glow. The prolongation of one of these pauses made Frank uncomfortable. The Kurd, to whom his back had been turned, had moved to a spot where he could see his side face, and Frank was uneasily conscious of being watched with peculiar intentness. He was relieved when the officer moved away again, but next moment was filled with anxiety when he noticed that the Kurd was edging round so as to look at him from the front.

"Ahi! You find nothing? Try in this place," said the Kurd.

Frank went forward, stooping, and keeping his head downbent. He was pulling aside a broken piece of furniture when, with a suddenness that startled him, the officer demanded:

"Who are you?"

"I am Reuben Donessa, son of Aaron Donessa of the Five Wells, effendim," he said.

The sentence came from his lips pat enough, but there was a strange variation of tone between the first words and the last. In the first moment of surprise, Frank had spoken in his natural voice; but instantly remembering Kopri's instruction, he raised its pitch to a passable imitation of Joseph's voice, hoping that the Kurd had not perceived the change.

"Ahi! And what is your town?" the Kurd asked.

"Bashkala, effendim."

"Mashallah! This is a marvel, surely. Are there Five Wells in Bashkala, and does one Aaron Donessa dwell there? Stand upright, dog, so that I may behold you."

Frank realised that the game was up. For the first time he looked straight at the Kurd's face, and recognised with a shock that he was Mirza Aga's nephew, Abdi the Liar, whom he had met on that one occasion in the journey over the hills. It was clear that Abdi had penetrated his disguise. There was a look of malicious glee on the man's face.

"Mashallah! I have found you, dog of an Englishman," cried the Kurd.

His hand was moving towards one of the pistols in his belt. Frank had only the fraction of a second in which to take action. He shot out his right fist, struck the Kurd on the point of the jaw, and hurled him backward into the ruins.

When Abdi regained his senses it was dark, and the so-called Reuben Donessa had disappeared. And a revolver was missing from Abdi's belt.