The attacking party spread out into a line with distances of ten feet or more between the men. Lindbohm held out his hand to Curtis. "_Au revoir_, my friend," he said, fixing his innocent blue eyes upon the American. "You better stay here. This is a little dangerous, and you got a mother, you know." The men were lying upon their stomachs; Lindbohm's left elbow rested upon the ground, his chin supported by the left hand. As he spoke, he pushed out his right arm toward Curtis and the two men clasped hands. The American was thrilled by a great revelation of affection for the Swede--his eyes were so childlike, his voice so tender, and his smile so sad and sweet; he had lost the handkerchief that had been tied about his head, and his pompadour had fallen down in spots, like a wheat field upon which fragments of wind have dropped here and there. He was very much in earnest now, as nervously he swept one end of his great blonde mustache between his teeth with the tip of his tongue, and inquired: "Eh? Is it not so? We must remember the little mother." "Do you think I'd go back on a friend in a time like this?" asked Curtis indignantly. "But, see here, Lindbohm, since you're uneasy about me, you'll find my address in my pocket. If anything happens to me, write to my folks. And--and, about Panayota--" Lindbohm dropped the hand that he was holding, and the color faded out from beneath the dust and grime upon his face. "About Panayota?" "Tell her I meant what I said to her that day, every word of it. I--I--, she'll understand." Lindbohm made no reply, but still resting upon his left elbow, he slid his face down into his great soft hand, and remained silent for so long a time that an Italian called impatiently from a little distance: "_Parati, signor!_" Then he looked up suddenly and again seized Curtis by the hand. "You are not going," he said sternly. "I am in command here, and I order you to stay back." Before the American had a chance to reply half a dozen guns roared from a covert near by, a dozen more followed as rapidly as the sound of a boy trailing a stick along a picket fence, and then for a full moment the firing continued as capriciously as the explosions of a bunch of fire crackers. It ceased, and Lindbohm, bending low, was running toward the blockhouse. He had not got more than ten yards away before the others were darting after him.