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!"