As the first flecks of dawn came up over the low hills around Beirut one morning last week, a swarthy, bullet-headed Armenian trudged with leaden steps over the rough courtyard in front of the High Commissariat Building. Softly he crooned a Turkish song: "I have waited for thee, but thou hast not come." Before a crude, hastily constructed wooden structure, he halted. Above the planking, blackly outlined against the grey dawn, dangled a loose rope. Around the platform stood silent native policemen, Syrian officials. They had gathered to witness the hanging of Mejardich...
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