CHAPTER XXI

"MY LIFE, I LOVE YOU"

Tied to a tree was one of those large black and tan mules that are stronger than any horse and tough as steel. This one, a pack animal, had been left behind in charge of the three guards. Curtis picked up the clumsy pack saddle which lay near and threw it upon the beast's back. In his excitement he bungled the unfamiliar straps, but Panayota assisted with nimble and experienced fingers. He helped her to mount, and was about to climb up, when he happened to think of the dead Turks' ammunition. Bringing a supply from the hut, he climbed up behind the girl. So they rode away, the fair Cretan sitting sidewise in the saddle, the American astride behind her. He passed an arm around her waist to steady them both, and accelerated the animal's speed by digging the butt of his musket into its side. He could not use his heels, because one foot was bare and still somewhat lame. Panayota guided the mule by flipping in its eyes, first on one side of the head and then on the other, the end of the rope that was tied about its neck. As Curtis felt beneath his arm the firm but yielding form; as the warm, strong heart throbbed against his hand, his madness became complete. He had killed two men for this girl, and she was worth it. He was ferociously happy. The very touch of her thrilled him. He knew now why he had killed the men--for the same reason that David had slain Uriah. Woman, gentle, refining, softening woman will, in an instant, blot two thousand years of civilization out of a man's nature and turn him back into a primitive savage. He held her very tight, and she made no resistance. What trifles shape our destinies! In the giddy happiness of the moment he could not have framed an original Greek sentence to save his soul, but as he leaned forward with his lips close to the girl's ear, with his face partly buried in her hair, the refrain of Byron's "Maid of Athens" sang itself in his brain, and he whispered again and again, "_Zoe mou, sas agapo, zoe mou, sas agapo_." She shivered slightly the first time that he repeated the sentence, but she did not repulse him. At last, that first keen madness of contact with her passed away, and he chattered excitedly as he urged on the ambling mule: "Don't be afraid, Panayota; they'll never catch us. I've got you now, not Kostakes. My life, I love you! Go on, you dromedary, or I'll punch a rib out of you! They must kill me before they take you again."

After they had been about an hour on the road, they began to feel uneasy.

"They must have got back by this time," thought Curtis. "I wish I had killed that other Turk, then they would have thought we were rescued," and he looked anxiously back over his shoulder. The idea came to Curtis of turning off sharply from the path and hiding in the hills, but the mountains that enclosed the long valley looked forbidding. They would certainly lose their way and perish of hunger. Besides there were Greeks ahead of them somewhere. As they began to ascend toward Galata, they could see for a long distance over the lovely plain now stretched out before them in the rays of the afternoon sun.

"It'll be time to make a break for the woods," mused Curtis, "when I see them coming." Once a cloud of dust arose far behind and he caught Panayota's arm.

"Look!" he cried. "They're coming!" But she replied:

"No, 'tis a whirlwind."

Curtis did not understand the word, but there was no mistaking the speaking gesture which accompanied it. The mule becoming tired, Panayota slid to the ground, and, throwing the rope over her shoulder, trotted on ahead.

"There's Galata!" she cried, pointing with level arm to the distant village.

"How many hours?" asked Curtis.

"About two more."

"We shall get there after dark, then?"

"Certainly."

The sun was just setting behind a mountain, as it always does in the interior of Crete. Curtis turned in the saddle and took one last long look. The white road lay very plain on the side of the low ridge over which they had come. It was in shape like a giant letter S, one end of which ended at the summit and the other among the green vineyards, climbing half way up the slope. The trees, and the deep water-ways and castles of rock on the side of the hill were indistinguishable at that distance, all blending into a general effect of soft color, but the top of the hill was sketched against the sky as distinctly as a crayon line, and on it every tree, nay, every shrub stood magnified in the parting light. There was something unnatural about this row of trees, rope-walking on a curved line swaying in the sky. As Curtis gazed at the weird effect two giant horsemen balanced on the aerial rope for an instant, and then lunged headforemost into the purple glow on the hither side. They were followed by row after row of mounted men, four abreast, that appeared and disappeared in rapid succession.

"Look, Panayota," said Curtis quietly. The girl went deadly white and crossed herself.

"My little Virgin, help us," she prayed. "The Bashi Bazouks!"

"They haven't got us yet. How far away are they?"

"An hour, may be an hour and a half."

"We'll turn off into the hills when it's a little darker. Can they see us?"

"I think not," replied Panayota. "We are now among the trees. But we'd better wait a little before we turn."

The Turkish troops had now become a long, dark quadrangle, sliding slowly down the giant S. The sun dropped behind the mountain, the white letter became black, and the quadrangle disappeared. The fleeing man and woman were in the world's amethyst shadow.

"Shall we turn now, Panayota?" asked Curtis. "I care not where, so we go together."

For answer she turned and held up her hand. He listened, but heard nothing.

"Voices," said the girl, "and footsteps. But I hear no more. They are moving stealthily."

"Is it more Turks, coming from in front?"

"God knows, but I think not."

She led the mule some distance to the side of the road into a clump of green oleander. Curtis slid to the ground and looked carefully to his rifle.

"Panayota," he whispered, hurriedly, "they shall not take us while I live. I love you. We may have but a few moments together. Let me take one kiss, the first, perhaps the last."

He put his arm about her, but she placed her hand against his breast and pushed him from her, with a cautious "hist!"

The footsteps of many men could be heard plainly, not far up the road now.

"If they would only speak," she muttered.

The words were hardly out of her mouth ere some one uttered a sharp and hurried command in a suppressed tone.

"They are Greeks!" exclaimed the girl. "Now Christ and the Virgin--"

But Curtis put his hand gently over her mouth, whispering:

"Hush! Perhaps it is a ruse."

The moon had not yet arisen, and the darkness was like ink. Some one stumbled, and a musket fell "ching!" among the rocks.

"Take care!" said an imperious voice in Greek.

"That's Kyrios Lindbohm," whispered Panayota. "I know his voice."

"Lindbohm don't know any Greek," replied her companion.

"He could not be in Crete one day without learning the word for 'take care!' I tell you it's Lindbohm. Who that has ever heard that voice could forget it? I should know it," murmured the girl, "if I heard it in my grave."

Curtis was too excited to take note of the singular remark.

The men were now passing them quite close and several of them were conversing in low tones. The girl leaned forward, listening. Then suddenly she called in a loud voice:

"_Patriotai_, where are you?"

Utter silence for several moments, broken at last by an inquiring "Eh?" and the clicking of rifle locks.

"Lindbohm!"

"Curtis, by damn! It's all right; come out!"

The American sprang eagerly forward, but stepped on a stone. Then he leaped on to the back of the mule and Panayota led the animal out into the highway and into the midst of a goodly company of armed insurgents, who forgot all discipline, and broke forth into a volley of questions.

The American and the Lieutenant were shaking each other by the hand through it all.

"I saved her!" cried Curtis. "I killed two Turks and did up another. Then we ran away on this mule. I cracked one of 'em on the head and shot another. I smashed one with my fist and took his gun away from him. Then I--"

"So you saved Panayota?"

"Yes, I saved her, I tell you. I--"

"Thank God! thank God!" cried Lindbohm, throwing his arms about Curtis' neck.

"Where is my father?" asked Panayota, in a shrill voice that pierced the bubble of questions, suddenly, awkwardly.

"Her father is dead," said the Lieutenant huskily. "We found his body. She must not know. Poor girl! Poor girl!"

"I blew a hole right through the last one and then we departed. We got here just in time, old man, for they're right behind us--the whole shooting-match."

"How many?"

"All the Bashi Bazouks--about fifty of 'em."

"Good," cried Lindbohm, "we'll ambush 'em. We'll give 'em hell!"

"We'll settle 'em, Lindbohm. We'll lick 'em out of their boots. How many men have you got?"

"Thirty."

"Why, it's a cinch. We sha'n't let one of them get away alive. We'll shoot down the Bashi Bazouks and ride away on their horses."

When, half an hour later, the great, tranquil, yellow moon looked down upon the town of Galata from a neighboring mountain top, all was seemingly peaceful in its desolate streets. Save the dreadful figure nailed to the church door, not a human form was to be seen. And yet death and hate crouched there in the shadows, for Lindbohm and his thirty men lurked in the ruined houses that surrounded the square, and whosoever looked closely might have seen here and there the dull gleam of a rifle barrel; but even then he would have suspected nothing, for the moonlight plays strange and fantastic tricks. Curtis and Lindbohm kneeled side by side at the same window, and Panayota sat on the floor in a dark corner, clasping her knees with her hands and moaning gently, "O, my father, my little father!"