"Bah! What a fool I am!" he thought, and hopped boldly into sight, holding up his lame leg by passing his hand under it while he leaned against the jamb. The guards faced about and disappeared, putting the house between themselves and Curtis on their backward march to the other end of their beat. "I could pot one of them, and then--but no, I might miss, and then I'd be in a pretty mess. And even if I did hit one, the other would have me at a disadvantage." There was a sound of kicking against the boards at the fireplace. He sprang to the spot, rifle in hand, and tore up the plank. The man was lying upon his back with his eyes open. A great light broke in upon Curtis--an inspiration. He had thrust the Turk out of sight through instinct. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "they can't both leave Panayota. If I call to them, may be one will come out of curiosity, and I'll do this thing right over again. But what'll I tie him with?" He cast his eyes about the room. The inevitable chest, studded with brass nails stood against the wall. He opened it. "Cleaned out, by Jove!" He went again to his victim, and taking a large jackknife from his pocket, deliberately opened it. The man turned as white as veal, his jaws worked convulsively on the gag as he made a vain effort to plead for mercy, and a pitiful noise, a sort of gurgling bleat, sounded in his throat. "What the devil ails you?" asked Curtis. "O--I see," and he added in Greek: "No kill. Cut your clothes--see?" [Illustration: The American thought of the Turk, and looked out] And stooping, he slitted the Turk's sleeve from wrist to shoulder. Following the seam around with the blade, he pulled away the large rectangular piece of cloth. Seizing the other sleeve, he was about to slash into it, when he thought he heard footsteps among the stones and gravel outside the hut.