A CRITICAL MOMENT
Curtis did not find it easy to express his feelings in French to this
smiling officer with the straight, large nose, dazzling white teeth and
cordial manner, who wore an inverted red flower pot for a hat. French
is no language for a self-respecting man to swear in, any way.
Besides, one does not, in Ollendorf, learn a vocabulary suitable to
critical occasions. All Curtis could think of was "_lâche_," "_sacré
bleu_" and "_caramba_." The first did not seem appropriate, the second
lost its force by translating itself in his mind into English and he
was not certain whether the last was French, Spanish or Italian, so he
asked:
"Is this lady a prisoner of war?" And Kostakes answered:
"Monsieur is as gallant as he is brave. I give you my word of honor
that neither the lady nor her father shall come to any harm. Is that
sufficient?"
It had to be, so Curtis, being anything but a fool, replied:
"A gentleman's word of honor is always sufficient."
"And now," continued Kostakes, "being a non-combatant, you are at
perfect liberty to follow your own wishes. Will you remain here or go
with us? We shall be charmed, I assure you, charmed to have your
society."
"How long will you stay here?"
"About an hour. Just long enough to collect any spoils of war and burn
the town."
"Burn the town?"
"Certainly, this is war, and war, even for a nation as highly civilized
as Turkey, consists in doing your enemy as much harm as possible."
Curtis glanced uneasily at the row of barrels in the cave. Here was a
new dilemma. Should he give up the brave Cretan and appeal to
Kostakes' manliness and chivalry? He looked at the Turk shrewdly.
Somehow he did not have confidence in him.
Besides, Michali could understand French. If he were conscious, he
could call out and give himself up, if he thought it were safe.
"I would stay here," thought Curtis, "and ask him to leave me the café
as a shelter. But there's Panayota, I mustn't desert her."
The firing had ceased and the looting had begun. Turks darted by the
door in the abandoned glee of destruction, or passed more slowly,
dragging bedticks, doors, pieces of furniture and other inflammable
articles, which they were casting upon a great bonfire in the square.
A wave of ribald laughter, that started somewhere in the distance and
ran nearer and louder, splashed into the open door. A soldier danced
in with an _eikon_ of the Holy Virgin, and held it up for the guard to
spit upon. Then he tossed it into the fire. The priest, who was
sitting on the floor, supported by the kneeling Panayota, covered his
eyes with his hands and shuddered with horror. The trellis for the
demarch's grape arbor came down with a crash and was wrenched loose
from the grip of the despairing vines. The benches whereon the gossip
shepherds had sat and sipped their coffee, bore company in the fire
with the only rocking chair in the village, in which a very old lady
used to sway to and fro and sing lullabies of her forgotten childhood.
A soldier seized one of the tables within the café and tossed it
through the open door. Then he dragged out a long bench, that scraped
and spluttered on the floor of hard beaten earth. Two others braced
themselves between the wall and the oil crock. An inspiration flashed
through Curtis' mind.
"Stop! stop!" he shouted. "It is full of oil--the lady on the floor."
"_Mais, certainement_," cried Kostakes, and he sent the soldiers from
the room.
"The same argument will apply to the wine barrels," reflected Curtis.
"They would have been at them in a minute more."
"Does Monsieur elect to stay with us, or with the Greeks?" asked the
Captain. "We must leave here immediately, before the Greeks return
with reinforcement and seize the ravine."
"If I might be permitted to go with you? But I am lame; I have hurt my
foot."
"I regret greatly to hear it. Not seriously, I hope?"
"No, I stepped on a--a--thorn," he did not know the French word for sea
urchin.
"I will give a horse--my own, if necessary. I shall be charmed,
charmed. And now, perhaps you will excuse me one moment while I
marshal the force? Perhaps, also, you will look at the priest's head.
I regret that our surgeon was killed in the attack."
Rising, he said a few words in Greek to Panayota, bending deferentially
with his hand on his heart. His tones were musical and earnest and
Curtis understood him almost perfectly. He spoke high Greek very
distinctly. He expressed regret for Papa-Maleko's hurt, and assured
the girl of his undying love.
"You are the cause of all this ruin, fair creature," he murmured
earnestly. "My love for you brought me here. Have no fears. You
shall be treated like a queen. Not a hair of your head nor of your
father's shall be harmed. All I ask is a little love in return."
She made no reply. She did not even look up. Curtis felt a great
spasm of rage contract his heart, and a queer sickness swoop down upon
him. He wanted to kill Kostakes, he did not know exactly why. The man
certainly had a right to love the girl; it is any man's inalienable
right, established from the beginning of the world, to love any girl;
and the protestations of protection were exactly what Curtis wanted,
but somehow they made him sick and mad. In the midst of all this
killing, why couldn't he do a little for himself? Then Kostakes bent
lower, and attempted to lift Panayota's hands to his lips. She threw
his arm from her with horror, and, shrinking back, with doubled fists,
looked at him with such an ague of open-mouthed, staring disgust as no
Duse or Bernhardt ever dreamed of. Curtis felt almost friendly toward
Kostakes, who bowed solemnly, with hand upon heart, and strode from the
room. Two sentinels took their places just inside the open door, and
closed the entrance with crossed bayonets.