"What is it? What is it?" the watchers asked, hoarsely, looking at one another with pale faces. Again "Oo-hoo! Oo-hoo!" nearer. At last footsteps were heard, as of one running and stumbling among loose rocks, and at length little Spiro Kaphtakes staggered up to the group and stood panting before them. His trousers were torn, and blood was flowing from his legs. The women and the old man stared at him open-mouthed for a long minute, and then, pouncing upon him, began to shake him. "What is it? what news?" "Is my Petro safe?" "How goes it with my Yanne?" Others ran up out of dark alleys and from the doorways of distant houses, and soon twenty or more surrounded the poor boy, gesticulating, screaming. They could not wait for him to get his breath. His tongue lolled out like that of a Chinese idol, and he swallowed the air instead of breathing, rolling his eyes about helplessly the while. At length, with a supreme effort, he gasped: "Yanne!" The woman with the babe reeled as though the earth were slipping from beneath her-feet. A neighbor caught the child and the mother fell limply to the ground. Then, while friends dashed water upon her face and rubbed her hands, the boy talked rapidly, shrilly, flinging his arms about with loose-elbowed gestures. The woman opened her eyes and two of the men helped her to her feet. She tottered for a moment, disheveling her hair with despairing hands and whispering hoarsely: "Yanne! Yanne! What shall I do? What shall I do?" But suddenly the brave woman-soul asserted itself and her frail body straightened, tense, defiant, ready for any effort. Clasping the babe to her breast she kissed it tenderly many times. Holding it for a moment at arm's length, she looked at it hungrily, and then turned her eyes away. A neighbor took the child. "Come!" said the mother, and she ran lightly up the ravine, followed by the boy. The babe bleated "Mama! mama!" like a frightened lamb, but the woman did not look back. Hopping two or three steps from the doorway, Curtis seized a woman by the arm. "Killed?" he asked in Greek. "Eh?" "Killed?" Unfortunately, everybody understood, and all commenced talking at once. "I don't understand," shouted Curtis. "Silence! Killed? killed?" "Silence!" cried the old man with the musket, raising his right hand in a commanding gesture above the heads of the too-willing talkers. "No," he replied to Curtis, slowly and distinctly, "not killed. Badly wounded." "Thanks," replied the American. "Thanks, thanks, I understand." Just before sunrise Michali, with his leg broken, was brought in on a donkey. CHAPTER XI AN AMATEUR SURGEON They laid the wounded Cretan on the lounge in the parsonage. He was pale as death from loss of blood, and kept snapping at his under lip with his teeth, but he did not groan.