CHAPTER XV

THE MAN IN THE BARREL

Curtis parted the long hair carefully on Papa-Maleko's head with his fingers and looked for the wound.

"I ought to have been a doctor," he said to Panayota.

She smiled, a little, fleeting smile that was sadder than tears. Her hair, that had been wound into a great coil at the back of her head, had slipped partly loose. Even as she looked up at Curtis, the glossy rope writhed like a living thing, and a massive loop dropped down upon her temple. Though her cheeks were pale, her lips were still red--Curtis had never noticed until now how red and velvety they were.

"Is he badly hurt?" she asked.

Papa-Maleko's hair was clotted with blood, but Curtis made absolutely sure that the skull was not fractured.

"No," he replied, "it is not broken."

"Thank God! thank God!" cried Panayota.

The priest put his hand on his daughter's shoulder and shuffled to his feet. He staggered a little and caught his head in his hands.

"O papa! papa!" cried the girl, throwing her arms about his neck.

"Bah! I'm all right. I was a little dizzy, that's all."

"Nothing broken. Nothing broken," reiterated Curtis. "The blood is from the--" he did not know the word for skin, so he lifted up a little tent on the back of his left hand with the finger and thumb of his right.

"Nothing, nothing at all," said the priest. Panayota turned her eyes toward the smoky and cobwebbed rafters and crossed herself. The steel cross in the door leaped to a parallel of presented muskets, and Kostakes Effendi reappeared. Twirling his mustache, he gazed perplexedly at the group within the café, but recovered himself in a moment and advanced smiling.

"So his reverence is quite well again! I am glad to see it, very glad. I feared that his skull was fractured. A musket butt is no plaything."

The Turk assisted Curtis to the door, and into a cavalry saddle on the back of a respectable looking horse.

"It is the horse of my sous-lieutenant," explained Kostakes, "who really prefers to walk--Lieutenant Gadben, Monsieur--but I have not the honor of knowing your name."

"Curtis--"

"John Curtis, American journalist."

Half an inch of saber cut disfigured the lieutenant's left temple. Curtis wondered at first glance how far it extended under the flower pot hat. The possessor of the cut was a grizzled man of fifty, with a short pointed beard and a mustache, into the left side of which cigarettes had burned a semicircular hole. The Turkish troops were drawn up in marching order, dirty, dust-stained, faded, some of them shoeless, but there was something about them, something in the attitude of the bodies and the obedient expectancy of the countenances, that suggested the soldier.

Curtis was amazed at the amount of desolation which had been accomplished in so short a time. The ruffian hand of war had wrecked the peaceful and idyllic town as a discontented child smites a playhouse of blocks. Everything combustible had been set on fire, and even from the stone houses smoke was pouring. Doors had been torn from the hinges, windows smashed in, arbors pulled down. The fire in the square filled the nostrils with the familiar odor of burning olive oil. The houses with their denuded window holes reminded Curtis of men whose eyes had been ruthlessly gouged out.

Lieutenant Gadben brought the hilt of his sword to his forehead and said something to the Captain in Turkish. The latter glanced at his little army and Curtis followed his eye. The men involuntarily straightened up, stiff as posts.

Turning in his saddle Curtis cast a furtive glance at Panayota. She was sitting on a mule, looking sadly to earth. One white hand rested caressingly on the wrist of her father, who stood by, holding to the pommel of her high pack-saddle. She had tied a handkerchief about his wound. He was a manly and appealing, albeit extraordinary figure, as he stood there erect, his dark eyes flashing scorn and defiance. His billowy, spade-shaped beard covered his entire breast. He wore no coat and the enormous Cretan breeches and yellow boots seemed to take on added proportions for that reason. An empty cartridge belt, passed under his right arm and over his left shoulder, bore strange comradeship with the cross that hung from his neck. His dark brown hair, that any woman might have envied, fell quite to his waist and rippled in the breeze. Even as Curtis looked, Panayota gathered it in her hands and hastily twisted it into a knot. The Captain said a few words to the Lieutenant, who, turning to the ranks, pointed to four of the men nearest him and transmitted the order to them. They saluted, and stacking their muskets, ran into the café. Instantly the huge oil crock fell across the door, and breaking, gave up its inoffensive golden contents.

"Monsieur, you will destroy the café!" cried Curtis in alarm.

Over went the bar with a sound of smashing glass.

"It will take but a moment," replied the Captain, apologetically. The tables and benches were now going into the pile in the middle of the floor.

"The rascals should have saved the oil to pour on their bonfire," remarked Kostakes judicially. The sound of dull blows caused the Captain to bend and look in at the door.

"Hey! hey!" he shouted, and gave an order. "I told them not to spill the wine, but to roll the full barrels close to the fire," he explained to Curtis. "There is sure to be one or two of them filled with brandy, and their loud explosion does more execution than half a dozen axes."

Michali's barrel was fourth from this end.

"Why the devil wasn't I born with some brains in my head?" groaned Curtis, inwardly. "Why can't you think of something, blockhead?" He was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to butt his skull against the stone wall of the café. He knew that a happy thought would save poor Michali, and he realized also that undue excitement on his part would betray everything. The picture of his friend being dragged from his hiding place by his broken leg and thrust through with bayonets, leaped before his imagination.

"Monsieur," he said, "I beg grace for the café. Stop the soldiers one moment and I will explain."

Kostakes called to the four vandals and they desisted.

"I beg of you," he said inquiringly to Curtis, "but pray be brief."

"I am the correspondent of the New York Age. I am neither Greek nor Turk, I assure you. I wish to write glowing accounts of your heroism--and your magnanimity. I have a sentiment connected with the café. It is so beautiful. I have written a little poem about it. It begins thus:

"The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold."

Curtis beat off the waltz time of the meter with great energy.

"It sounds very beautiful. What a pity that I do not understand English! Monsieur's sentiment shall be respected. He shall write for his paper that Kostakes Effendi is not only a magnanimous soldier, but a patron of letters."

The four vandals took their places again in the ranks. Kostakes, waving his sword theatrically, gave the order to march, and they were off up the rocky, winding street, with the little army pattering behind. As they passed the parsonage Curtis noticed that it was in ruins, but the festal wreath of yesterday hung brave and bright above the blackened door.