IN THE TRACK OF WAR
It did not require a trained eye to see that the Greeks had defended
themselves stubbornly and had inflicted much more injury than they had
suffered. Curtis counted twenty-five dead Turks in the defile. The
continual dread that his horse should step on them kept him in a state
of nervousness. But the animal evidently was possessed of as keen
sensibilities as his temporary master, for he avoided the corpses with
the most patent aversion. At a turn in the pass, behind a jutting
rock, lay two Greeks. Curtis fancied this must have been the place
where Michali had received his wound. It was evident that a
well-organized and desperate stand had been made here, because in the
narrowest part of the pass, only a few yards distant, lay seven Turks
in a heap. Glancing back at the two dead Greeks, under the impression
that he recognized one of them, the American beheld a sight at once
noble and disgusting. The priest had lingered and was leaning toward
his slain compatriots, making the sign of the cross with solemn
gestures, the while he cried in tones sorrowful and defiant.
"I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he
were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me
shall never die."
Panayota, her glorious eyes streaming with tears, her white hands
clasped to her bosom, was looking to heaven and silently praying.
Curtis felt his soul uplifted. The narrow walls of the ravine changed
to the dim aisle of a cathedral; he seemed to hear a grand organ
pealing forth a funeral march.
"Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O
grave, where is thy victory?"
When he opened his eyes he found himself in hell. Two or three Turks,
grinning with diabolical hate and derision, were spitting at the dead
Cretans. The soldier directly behind Papa-Maleko was jabbing him in
the back viciously with the butt of his musket, while another touched
him playfully between the shoulders with the point of a bayonet. The
priest shrank from the steel with a gasp of pain, but turned back as he
stumbled along chanting:
"Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through Jesus Christ,
our Lord, amen!"
A little farther on they came upon a sight which made Curtis reel in
his saddle--the bodies of the seven peasant girls who had leaped over
the cliff: Four lay together in a heap. Of the remaining three, one
had fallen face down upon a rock, and her long hair, shaken loose,
rippled earthward from the white nape of her neck. Another was
sleeping the last sleep peacefully, her head upon her outstretched arm,
a smile upon her lips; and still a third lay upon her back. This one
seemed to have suffered, for there was a look of terror in the staring
eyes. Again the priest lifted his voice.
"I am the resurrection and the life," but the solemn chant was this
time interrupted by a shriek from Panayota. Curtis, who had resolutely
turned his face from the scene of fascinating horror, looked back
quickly at the sound. A slender young girl had arisen upon her elbow,
and was stretching her hand imploringly toward the priest. The hand
was brown and chubby, but the arm from which the flowing sleeve had
slipped away, was very white and shapely. She was dying even then, but
the blessed words of her mother's faith and her mother's tongue had
pierced her swooning ears and she had paused at the very threshold of
death for the priest's benediction. A Turkish soldier thrust her
through the neck with his bayonet, and her head dropped softly upon the
bosom of a dead fellow.
"But this is barbarous," cried Curtis. "The civilized world shall know
of this. Barbarous, I say, uncivilized--you an officer? A gentleman?
Bah!"
"But Monsieur is too violent and hasty," replied Kostakes.
"Irregularities happen in all armies. The man shall be punished."
"If he is to be shot," said the American, "please put me in the firing
squad!"
Emerging from the pass, they came to a steep, wooded ravine, and their
path led through an aisle of tall pine trees. The feet of the soldiers
made no noise on the carpet of fallen spines. They found four more
dead Turks and picked up two that were wounded. After about an hour of
forced marching the ravine spread out into a beautiful sunlit valley,
whereon the new plowed ground lay in patches of rich brown, terra-cotta
and black loam. The vines were just putting forth their pale green
sprouts. The laborers had been surprised in the act of heaping conical
mounds about the roots, and an occasional discarded mattock betokened
hasty flight. Poppies lifted everywhere their slender-stemmed, scarlet
beakers--such glasses in shape as are fit to hold the vintage of the
Rhine. The little slopes were set thick with candelabras of the
ghostly asphodel, whose clusters of pale-pinkish, waxen flowers seemed
indeed to belong to regions where the dear sun is but a memory.
Scattering fruit trees, in the full revel and glory of their snowy
bloom called to each other with perfume.
It was some time after noon now, but they stopped neither to eat nor
rest. Curtis' foot began to pain him fearfully, but he made no sign.
In the midst of such desolation, he felt pain to be a trivial thing.
The vines were here, but where were the toilers? The pear trees were
in bloom, but where were the laughing children, the wives and maidens
with wine and bread for the midday feast? Once they passed a
shock-headed boy of fourteen, or possibly younger, lying dead in a
vineyard, with his mattock beside him, and later in the day they came
upon a plow in the unfinished furrow. One of the oxen was dead, and
the other great beast had struggled to his feet and stood patiently
beside the body of his mate.
After that their path led for a way through a field of half-grown
wheat. Around nearly every shoot the sweet wild-pea had twined its
graceful spiral, bravely lifting the pretty blue of the flowers among
the pale green of the grain. When the wind swept over the field it
looked like changeable silk.
Toward sunset they came within seeing distance of a white village on a
mountain side. A vast olive orchard surrounded it and a dozen or more
dark green cypress trees pointed heavenward among the houses, like
spires.
"_Voilà_, Monsieur," cried Kostakes, gaily. "There we shall rest
to-night, and shall find time to eat. Are you hungry?"