CHAPTER XXXI

A GRATEFUL MAJOR

Men, still running, were disappearing into the distant hills. The Swede and the American were entirely alone. The toy ships continued to launch their polyphemian missiles.

"Are they firing at us?" gasped Curtis.

"Yudging from appearances, I should say they were," replied his companion.

Four Cretans had turned back and were running toward the ruined blockhouse. One was the color bearer of Lindbohm's company, and he was carrying the Greek flag. Straight up to the house he ran, and, handing the standard to one of his companions, he climbed upon the wall. As he stood there a shell dropped so near that he was for a moment obscured in a cloud of dust. When the air became again clear he was jamming the flagpole into the soft mortar. Then he jumped down and ran away, together with his comrades. Another shell exploded thirty feet from the four Cretans, and only three ran on.

"What killed him?" asked Curtis.

"A flying piece of rock, probably," replied Lindbohm. "When it is raining six-inch shells a man must yust take his chances."

The bombardment did not last much longer. The Greek flag was also brought down by a shot which elicited unbounded admiration from the Swede, a shell striking the corner of the house where it was planted.

Curtis realized now for the first time the peculiar sensations of a soldier of fortune. He had been risking his life for that flag, yet he saw it fired upon without the thrill of horror and rage which would have surged through his heart had it been the American emblem.

"They are shooting at the flag!" he exclaimed, noticing that the ships in the bay had become silent.

"Yust so," observed Lindbohm; "and that is why they commenced in the first place. They mistook the Turkish officer's shirt for the Greek flag. But here he comes now."

Hassan Bey was powdered as white as a great moth. He advanced with a sprightly step, the scabbard of his sword jingling among the cobblestones. Greeting Lindbohm respectfully with a military salute, he turned to Curtis and bowed low, his hand upon his heart. He spoke as one who had hastily prepared an address.

"Monsieur, in my own behalf and in that of my little band, I thank you for saving our lives. Your heroism and magnanimity do credit to the nation which you represent. I beg of you to accept this sword as a pledge of my undying gratitude." And he grasped with both hands his curved simitar in its richly mounted case and held it impulsively toward the American, who looked amazedly at Lindbohm.

"Better take it," said the latter. "Needlessly offend a brave man if you don't."

"But what for? Why the deuce should he give me his sword?"

"Very graceful act, seeing you yumped in front of the Cretan guns and saved his life."

"Did I do that? I don't remember anything about it."

"Better take it," repeated Lindbohm. "He is beginning to feel embarrassed."

Curtis accepted the simitar, but could not find appropriate words. The occasion seemed to demand a set speech.

"_Merci! Merci!_" he stammered. "My father will be glad to get this. He is fond of this sort of thing. He already has a pair of pistols and an old Turkish gun."

And he fell to examining the hilt, which was embossed with silver, and the scabbard, adorned with flowers and various animals. An awkward silence ensued, broken at last by Hassan Bey, who addressed himself to Lindbohm:

"And now, if Monsieur does not consider me a prisoner of war, I will take my leave."

Again saluting Lindbohm and salaaming to Curtis, he turned and walked away.

"What'll we do now?" asked Curtis. "Get the band together again?"

"To hell with the band!" exploded Lindbohm. "I'm sick of them. They fight all right, but there's no way to enforce discipline. I think I'll go to America. There should be some beautiful fighting between the Americans and Spaniards," and he looked dreamily across the sea.

"We weren't fighting Kostakes, after all," mused Curtis.

Lindbohm came to earth with a start and glanced sharply after the slender, erect figure of the departing Turk, whose body was now cut off below the arms by a ledge of rock.

"Monsieur!" shouted the Swede, and started in pursuit. The Turk turned slowly and waited.

"Monsieur will pardon me," said Lindbohm, when he had overtaken Hassan Bey. "I wish to ask a question on behalf of my friend here, which you will use your own discretion in answering."

Hassan bowed gravely.

"My friend is interested in a young Cretan girl, Panayota Nicolaides, whom Kostakes Effendi has abducted. We have been following Kostakes, but he has disappeared. Do you know anything of him or the girl?"

"I know it all. He and the Bashi Bazouks passed by here with the girl, who is now locked up in Kostakes' harem at Canea. He has gone wild over her. That is why he was not here to-day with his band to support the blockhouse as he promised. He cannot be depended on. He passes half his time laying siege to the affections of a girl who is already in his power. Bah! Kostakes is no good. He is only half a man--he is half Greek."

Hassan had grown suddenly voluble. Kostakes, with his incomprehensible doings, was evidently a thorn in his flesh. Rage, indignation, pity, swooped down upon Curtis like a flood, now hot, now cold, as he thought of Panayota, restrained in the house of that square-jawed, cruel, supercilious Turk, subject to his vile solicitations.

"You do not think he would dare to do her violence?" he cried, as the thought that he knew where Panayota was and might yet save her, seemed almost to lift him from the ground.

"And why not?" demanded Hassan. "But, bah! It is the Christian blood in him, I tell you. He wants her to love him--bah!"

Curtis' face was flushed and he was trembling with eagerness. Lindbohm, pale as death, was leaning against a rock, biting his lip. A bugle sang out sweet and clear, in the distance.

"It is the Cretan trumpeter," remarked the Turk. "So, once more _au revoir_, and a thousand, thousand thanks."

"I am done with the troop," said Lindbohm. "I cannot control them, and I am a soldier. I will not fight where discipline is impossible. My friend and I wish to go to Canea. We--we--desire to take ship and leave the island."

"Then, come with me," cried Hassan gaily. "I will pass you through the lines, and I may be able in some way to prove my gratitude to this gentleman who has saved my life. _Voilà_, we are comrades!" and, stepping between Curtis and Lindbohm, he grasped each by the arm. Again the bugle sounded.

"They can fight," mused the Swede sadly, stooping and looking back over his shoulder, "but no discipline, no discipline! _Allons_, Monsieur!"