"Well, you see this is both love and war. I have possession of Panayota, and I mean to treat her so well that she shall love me. Not a hair of her head shall be touched until she marries me of her own free will." "But your wives?" asked Curtis. "How many have you of them?" The Captain shrugged his shoulders. "Three," he replied. "Dumpy, silly creatures. A Mohammedan has not much difficulty in getting rid of his wives." Curtis arose. "If you will help me to the house," he said, "I will try to get a little sleep." Kostakes sprang to his feet. "Lean on my shoulder," he said. "So, so, how is the leg?" "Bad, very bad. I'm really worried about it. Do I bear down on you too heavily?" CHAPTER XX FOUR AGAINST ONE The sound of a reveille awoke Curtis, and he looked out into the dim, dewy morning. The wigwams of muskets had disappeared, and the little army had already fallen in. Several horses, saddled and bridled, stood by the village fountain. One, a young and sleek charger, was impatiently pawing the earth and another was drinking. Kostakes was sitting at a table, giving some orders to his second in command, the veteran with the scar. A sword attached to a leather belt kept company on the cloth with a pile of eggs, a loaf of bread and a pot of steaming coffee. "_Bon jour_," cried the Captain gaily, springing to his feet, as he espied the American. "How have you slept, and how is the foot?" "I got a little sleep, despite the pain, but the foot seems no better. I am getting very anxious to see that doctor of yours." "To-morrow, I promise you without fail. And now for breakfast, as we must be off." The Captain and his Lieutenant ran to the American, who put an arm about the neck of each and hopped to the table, groaning ostentatiously. After the hurried breakfast, Panayota was summoned. She came forth, pale as death, a beautiful, living statue of despair. Kostakes offered to help her, but she repulsed him with loathing, and climbed into her saddle as a refuge from his attentions. There were dark circles under her swollen eyes. As she looked about her, as though in hopeless search for the missing dear one, her features trembled on the verge of tears. Groaning: "Ach, my God!" She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and stared into vacancy. Her beautiful hair was disheveled and her long white cuffs were wrinkled and soiled. The chivalry in Curtis' nature prompted him to speak and comfort her, although the words sounded hollow and false to his own ear. "Take comfort," he said, "your father is surely alive. Believe me, he has escaped." She smiled sadly. "You do not know the Turks," she replied. "Did I not tell you, my darling?" cried Kostakes eagerly, "of course he has escaped." She did not even look at him, but murmured: "Murderer! perjurer!" Kostakes shrugged his shoulders, as who would say, "See!" and turning to Curtis cried: "But Monsieur speaks Greek famously!"