“And you on the plains?”

“Ah!  It takes better than Osmanli to conquer the men of Zeitoon!” he gave the Turks their own names for themselves with the air of a brave fighting man conceding his opponent points.  “We heard what our wives had done.  We were encouraged.  We prevailed!  We fell back to-ward our mountain and prevailed!  There in Zeitoon we have weapons—­numbers—­advantage of position, for no roads come near Zeitoon that an araba, or a gun, or anything on wheels can use.  The only thing we fear is treachery, leading to surprise in overwhelming force.  And against these I keep watch!”

“Why should you tell us all this?” demanded Will.

“How do you know we are not agents of the Turkish government?”

He laughed outright, throwing out both hands toward us.  “Eenglis sportmen!” he said simply.

“What’s that got to do with it?” Will retorted.  He has the unaccountable American dislike of being mistaken for an Englishman, but long ago gave up arguing the point, since foreigners refuse, as a rule, to see the sacred difference.

“I am, too, sportman.  At Zeitoon there is very good sport.  Bear.  Antelope.  Wild boar.  One sportman to another—­do you understand?”

We did, and did not believe.

“How far to Zeitoon?” I demanded.

“I go in five days when I hurry.  You—­not hurrying—­by horse—­seven —­eight—­nine days, depending on the roads.”

“Are they all Armenians in Zeitoon?”

“Most.  Not all.  There are Arabs—­Syrians—­Persians—­a few Circassians —­even Kurds and a Turk or two.  Our numbers have been reenforced continually by deserters from the Turkish Army.  Ninety-five per cent., however, are Armenians,” he added with half-closed eyes, suddenly suggesting that masked meekness that disguises most outrageous racial pride.

“It is common report,” I said, “that the Turks settled all Armenian problems long ago by process of massacre until you have no spirit for revolt left.”

“The report lies, that is all!” he answered.  Then suddenly he beat on his chest with clenched fist.  “There is spirit here!  There is spirit in Zeitoon!  No Osmanli dare molest my people!  Come to Zeitoon to shoot bear, boar, antelope!  I will show you!  I will prove my words!”

“Were those six jingaan in the common room your men?” I asked him, and he laughed as suddenly as he had stormed, like a teacher at a child’s mistake.

“Jingaan is a bad word,” he said.  “I might kill a man who named me that—­depending on the man.  My brother I would kill for it—­a stranger perhaps not.  Those men are Zingarri, who detest to sleep between brick walls.  They have a tent pitched in the yard.”

“Are they your men?”

“Zingarri are no man’s men.”

The denial carried no conviction.

“Is there nothing but hunting at Zeitoon?” Will demanded.

“Is that not much?  In addition the place itself is wonderful—­a mountain in a mist, with houses clinging to the flanks of it, and scenery to burst the heart!”