"It will take but a moment," replied the Captain, apologetically. The tables and benches were now going into the pile in the middle of the floor. "The rascals should have saved the oil to pour on their bonfire," remarked Kostakes judicially. The sound of dull blows caused the Captain to bend and look in at the door. "Hey! hey!" he shouted, and gave an order. "I told them not to spill the wine, but to roll the full barrels close to the fire," he explained to Curtis. "There is sure to be one or two of them filled with brandy, and their loud explosion does more execution than half a dozen axes." Michali's barrel was fourth from this end. "Why the devil wasn't I born with some brains in my head?" groaned Curtis, inwardly. "Why can't you think of something, blockhead?" He was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to butt his skull against the stone wall of the café. He knew that a happy thought would save poor Michali, and he realized also that undue excitement on his part would betray everything. The picture of his friend being dragged from his hiding place by his broken leg and thrust through with bayonets, leaped before his imagination. "Monsieur," he said, "I beg grace for the café. Stop the soldiers one moment and I will explain." Kostakes called to the four vandals and they desisted. "I beg of you," he said inquiringly to Curtis, "but pray be brief." "I am the correspondent of the New York Age. I am neither Greek nor Turk, I assure you. I wish to write glowing accounts of your heroism--and your magnanimity. I have a sentiment connected with the café. It is so beautiful. I have written a little poem about it. It begins thus: "The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold." Curtis beat off the waltz time of the meter with great energy. "It sounds very beautiful. What a pity that I do not understand English! Monsieur's sentiment shall be respected. He shall write for his paper that Kostakes Effendi is not only a magnanimous soldier, but a patron of letters." The four vandals took their places again in the ranks. Kostakes, waving his sword theatrically, gave the order to march, and they were off up the rocky, winding street, with the little army pattering behind. As they passed the parsonage Curtis noticed that it was in ruins, but the festal wreath of yesterday hung brave and bright above the blackened door. CHAPTER XVI TO NO AVAIL The priest strode by his daughter's side, his hand still lying upon hers. As the cavalcade started he shuddered, and, looking at Panayota, sobbed: "Oh, my daughter! Would to God you were in your grave beside your mother!" She put out her white arm, and laid it around his neck. "I am my mother's child," she replied, piously, "I shall find death somehow sooner than dishonor."