Curtis worked himself to his feet, and sat upon his heels. The nightingales were singing in full chorus, and he wondered how anybody could hear anything in that infernal racket. The water in the fountain of Petros Nikolaides hissed and gurgled, and crashed like the waters of Lodore. Curtis' new attitude became more painful than a spiked chair, and he slid back on his knees again. He sat down for awhile, but the desire to peep over the window sill was irresistible. Finally, just as his knees had become boils, the Swede touched him upon the shoulder, and he forgot them. The screeching of the nightingales, the hurtling of the fountain, were swallowed up in the dull and distant pounding of horses' hoofs. "They're yust coming right into it," said Lindbohm, in his natural tone. "Kostakes, he's too mad to be careful. Have you got a bayonet?" "No, I forgot to take it. He was wearing it for a sword." "Here, take this Gras and give me the Mauser. You'll yust get all tangled up with that. The Gras is simpler, and the bayonet, in the hands of a man who doesn't know how to use it, is a terrible weapon. Give me your ammunition. Thanks. Here's my cartridge belt." Lindbohm was gay, with the gaiety of a child. He was about to play his favorite game, to indulge the innocent impulse of boys and of untutored men. The clatter came nearer, grew louder. "Do you know the orders?" he asked. "No." "Each man is to pick out his mark and aim, but nobody is to shoot until I do. I shall take Kostakes." "I, too, to make sure of him. He needs killing." "All right--now, ready!" The galloping changed into the chug! chug! chug! of men sitting upon trotting horses. The moon had risen and had filled the trees and about half of the square with its silver snow. The battered features of Petros Nikolaides, the benefactor, were those of a frozen corpse. The horses could now be heard plainly staggering through the narrow, stony street. Now was the time when Lindbohm was cool. No detail escaped him. "Your gun is already cocked," he whispered. "Aim just above the saddle--shoot when I say 'three.'" "I'll hit him," replied Curtis. "I'm an old squirrel hunter, I am." Kostakes trotted into the square, and, jerking his horse nearly to its haunches, whirled about to face his Lieutenant and the Bashi Bazouks who debouched from the mouth of the street in twos and threes--a wild, motley, terrible throng. Curtis aimed first at the Captain's breast and then at his head. The intended victim was evidently in a vile temper, for he kept twitching viciously at the bridle rein, causing his tired animal to rear and throw its head in the air. The American was one moment aiming at the horse's neck and then at the marble corpse of Petros Nikolaides.