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!" CHAPTER XXXII A VIOLENT WOOER Kostakes had something of importance to say to Panayota--something unpleasant, to judge from his perturbed appearance. The door to her room failed to open at the first turning of the key; the lock was old and worn and the bolt did not always respond. But Kostakes did not calmly try again. He threw his weight pettishly against the unyielding barrier and kicked noisily at the panels. Having thus given vent in a slight degree to his boiling passion, he again tried the key, swearing to himself meanwhile in Greek--that language being in every way more satisfactory than Turkish in a crisis demanding profanity. Almost falling into the room, he brought himself up with a jerk and stood glaring at the unhappy girl. To Panayota, who had always seen him hitherto in a gentle and persuasive mood, he was as a man who had put off a mask. Somehow he did not frighten her, for his looks now corresponded with her idea of his real character; that scowling brow, those glaring eyes, that protruding under jaw trembling with rage, well befitted the murderer of her father and the despoiler of her home. If Kostakes should come into her room some time when he was drunk! But now he was only angry, seemingly speechless with rage. She had been peering through the grating of her window watching a rat that was running to and fro in the sunless court below; he was so fat and his legs were so short that he seemed to be sliding over the pavement like a toy mouse. When she first heard Kostakes' key in the lock she grasped the iron bars to keep herself from falling and, leaning against the wall, stood looking at the door. And thus she stood now, a smile of scorn faintly curling her pale lip. Kostakes strode across the room and, seizing her wrist wrenched her hand loose from the iron bar.