Curtis was completely carried away with revulsion and horror. The words, "In the name of God! In the name of God!" beat in his brain with the regular strokes of a triphammer, and he fancied that he heard someone shouting them. An insurgent threatened him with a bayonet and another, with an outburst of expostulation, seized the threatener's gun. Then a third Cretan leaped upon him, and attempted to push him to one side of the room. Curtis, now completely crazed with rage, dropped the gun which he was unable to use at such close quarters, and snarling an oath, exclaimed, "I'll choke the life out of you!" as he danced with hooked hands at his adversary's throat. Strong as a gorilla, he had nothing to fear. He dodged between the sinewy arms of his opponent, and, arching his back against the python embrace which now tightened upon him, felt for the Cretan's throat, when--there was a great crunching and trembling sound, and in the air, that had suddenly turned milky and pungent, Cretans and Turks were leaping like imps. Curtis stood for a moment in stupid wonder, his mouth open, his hands still convulsively twitching. He was gazing at a great heap of debris and a triangle of wall with one ragged side. Men were scrambling over the rubbish, working their arms as though they were trying to fly. Something like an electric shock--it was fear--smote the American, and his stomach swooped as when one goes down in a swing. He leaped among the fleeing crowd and gained the open. Without looking to see where he was going, he struck out instinctively for the hills. Once or twice he fell down, but was on his feet again in an instant. As he ran, his fear grew. Some one shouted to him in a familiar voice, but he did not stop. Lindbohm seized him firmly by the arm and held him. Curtis struggled for a moment, and then he felt weak. He could run no farther. He tried to speak several times, but was entirely out of breath. At last he managed to gasp: "What? What? What?" The Swede was standing on a little eminence, with one hand in his pocket; hair, face and clothing were dusted miller-white with powdered lime. He was gazing toward the sea, and there was the ghost of a smile in his childlike blue eyes. "Six-inch shell," he replied. Curtis looked. There was a spurt of flame from one of the toy ships in the duck pond, followed by a muffled detonation, and a sound such as the wind sometimes makes at sea. An explosion threw up a great cloud of dust about thirty yards beyond the blockhouse--or what remained of it. "French!" said Lindbohm. Another flash, again the sound of the wind, again the explosion--this time about twenty yards short. "German, I think. They lowered too much, because the others fired high." The third shell from yet another ship clipped away the white flag that was still standing on the corner of the building. "English! That's great work!" Lindbohm's interest was entirely professional and impersonal. CHAPTER XXXI