Who shall describe what we saw?  Did the sahib ever hear of Armenian massacres?  This was worse.  If this had been a massacre we would have known what to do, for our Sikh creed bids us ever take the part of the oppressed.  But this was something that we did not understand, that held us speechless, each man searching his own heart for explanation, and Ranjoor Singh standing a little behind us watching us all.

There were hundreds of men, women and little children being herded by Turks toward the desert—­southward.  The line was long drawn out, for the Armenians were weary.  They had no food with them, no tents, and scarcely any clothing.  Here and there, in parties at intervals along the line, rode Turkish soldiers; and when an Armenian, man or woman or child, would seek to rest, a Turk would spur down on him and prick him back into line with his lance—­man, woman or child, as the case might be.  Some of the Turks cracked whips, and when they did that the Armenians who were not too far spent would shudder as if the very sound had cut their flesh.  How did I know they were Armenians?  I did not know.  I learned that afterward.

Some wept.  Some moaned.  But the most were silent and dry-eyed, moving slowly forward like people in a dream.  Oh, sahib, I have had bad dreams in my day, and other men have told me theirs, but never one like that!

There was a little water-hole below where we lay—­the merest cupful fed by a trickle from below the hill.  Some of them gathered there to scoop the water in their hands and drink, and I saw a Turk ride among them, spurring his horse back and forward until the water was all foul mud.  Nevertheless, they continued drinking until he and another Turk flogged them forward.

“Sahib!” said I, calling to Ranjoor Singh.  “A favor, sahib!”

He came and lay beside me with his chin on his hand.  “What is it?” said he.

“The life of that Turk who trod the water into mud!” said I.  “Let me have the winding up of his career!”

“Wait a while!” said he.  “Let the men watch.  Watch thou the men!”

So I did watch the men, and I saw cold anger grow among them, like an anodyne, making them forget their own affairs.  I began to wonder how long Ranjoor Singh would dare let them lie there, unless perhaps he deliberately planned to stir them into uncontrol.  But he was wiser than to do that.  Just so far he meant their wrath should urge them—­so far and no further.  He watched as one might watch a fuse.

“Those Kurds of this morning,” he told me (never taking his eyes off the men) “hurried off to the southward expecting to meet this very procession.  Kurds hate Turks, and Turks fear Kurds, but in this they are playing to and fro, each into the other’s hands.  The Turks drive Armenians out into the desert, where the Kurds come down on them and plunder.  The Turks return for more Armenians, and so the game goes on.  I learned all that from our Turkish officer we took this morning.”