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Title: Modern trends in financial engineering : optimal mean reversion trading mathematical
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when she was cursing me. It is true that I am part Greek by extraction, and
that I was baptized into the Greek church, and that I have become a Turk.
But what is religion compared with love? Panayota is all the heaven I want.
I am willing to turn Greek again and have a Christian wedding, if she would
take me."

"Aren't you conducting your courtship in rather a violent manner?"

asked the American. "In my country your conduct would be thought, to say
the least, irregular."

"Have you in English the proverb, 'All things are fair in love and war?'"

"Certainly."

"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!"

"Only a few words and those with much difficulty."

"Mais non! On the contrary I find your Greek very perfect. And now
allons!"

They pushed briskly up the narrow street, through a scene of utter

desolation. The whirlwind of war had struck the town and wrecked it. As
they turned a corner a long-legged, half-grown fowl broke for cover and
tilted away, balancing its haste with awkward, half-fledged wings. They
came unexpectedly upon a little Orthodox church and a putrid odor assailed
Curtis' nostrils. Their path led them around to the front door.

"My God!" he gasped. A sight had met his eyes that was destined to thrill
him with sickness and horror to the latest day of his life, as often as the
black phantom of its recollection should arise in his mind. The village
priest, an old, gray-bearded man, had died about a month before and had
been buried in his robes. There was the body, hanging to its own church
door, like the skin of a great black bat. Nails had been driven through the
clothing at the shoulders, and the weight of the carcass, sinking down into
the loose garment, had left it pulled up above the head into the semblance of
joints in a vampire's wings.

From a bonfire of bones, half-decayed corpses and sacred eikons—the

last named gathered from the houses and the church—a disgusting odor
arose and filled the air. The Turks broke forth in derisive laughter as their
eyes fell upon the horrid spectacle.

"My rascals have eluded my vigilance, I see," observed Kostakes, "and

have been having a little fun in their own way."

"Different nations have different ideas about a joke," gasped Curtis

through his handkerchief.

Emerging from the town, they picked their way through a large patch of
freshly felled olive trees. The sound of the nocturnal chopping was now
explained. About eleven o'clock they stopped for dinner in a small, deserted
hamlet. During the progress of the meal a wounded Bashi Bazouk rode into
the town and up to the table where Curtis and Kostakes were sitting. The
man wore a red turban, which gave to his pallid face a tint similar to that of
the underside of a toadstool. His soft shirt had sagged into a little bagful of
blood, that dripped out like the whey from a sack of cottage cheese, upon
his yellow sash and blue breeches. He said a few words with mouth wide
open, as though his under jaw had suddenly grown heavy, and then, reeling,
was caught by two soldiers, dragged from the saddle and carried into a hut.

"I must ask you to excuse me for several hours," said Kostakes, rising.
"My Bashi Bazouks, whom I left with certain commissions to execute, are
being defeated at Reveni, about an hour's march from here. How fifty Bashi
Bazouks can find any difficulty with a little place like Reveni is more than I
can understand! But I shall soon put a new face on affairs when I arrive!"

"God help the poor people," prayed Curtis, inaudibly.

"I shall leave three of my men behind to look after your wants and those
of the young lady. I shall explain to the one I leave with you that he is your
servant—that he must bring you anything you ask for. He speaks Greek, so
you will be able to get along with him."

Five minutes afterward Kostakes was riding away at the head of his
troop. He turned once in the saddle and waved his hand to Curtis. The
American picked up his hat from the table and swung it in the air.

"Au revoir, Kostakes," he cried. "The devil confound you and your
whole crew of cutthroats—I wonder if this beggar speaks English?"

He glanced suspiciously at the tall, sallow-faced Turk who stood a short

distance away, leaning upon his musket.

"No, I guess not. He'd give some sign if he did."

Two other Turks, with musket on shoulder, were pacing back and forth
before the door of the hut where Panayota was imprisoned. Curtis could feel
his heart thumping against his breast. He struck the place with his doubled
fist.

"Keep still, curse you," he muttered, "and let me think. Here is the
opportunity—but how? how?"

The army was crawling along a white road that streamed like a ribbon
athwart the foot of a hill. The ribbon fluttered as the dust rose in the wind.
The bayonets twinkled in a dun cloud.

"Four against one," mused Curtis. "Four Turks against one Yankee trick
—but how?"

Kostakes plunged into the hill and disappeared, and the blazing
bayonets, line after line, were extinguished in a billow of green thyme. The
American looked back over his shoulder at the door of a stone hut—the one
into which the wounded Bashi Bazouk had been carried.

"Hey!" he called, "you there, hey!"

The Turk left ostensibly as Curtis' servant, but actually as his guard,
stepped briskly forward, and, taking in his own the American's extended
hand, pulled him to his feet.

"Help me into the house," said Curtis. "Now bring me that bench."

The man complied, after which he went to the door, and, leaning against
the jamb, looked wistfully at his fellows. At one end of the room was a
fireplace, filled with ashes and charred pieces of log. It was a primitive
concern, the only vent for smoke being a hole in the roof directly overhead.
Board platforms on each side the fireplace served as couches for the family.
On one of these, flat on his back, lay the wounded man.

"I wonder how badly he's hurt," mused Curtis. "There isn't strength
enough left in him to put up a fight, but there's enough left to pull a trigger
if I tackle the other chap. Hello, he's got the hiccoughs; why, that's queer."

The man became quiet, and again Curtis relapsed into thought, to be
disturbed a second time by the sound of knocking on boards. Looking
around, his eyes fell directly upon the eyes of the Bashi Bazouk, and he felt
as though he heard some one crying for help when no help was near. The
man was resting upon his back and both elbows. For a moment those
bloodshot, praying, awful eyes were fixed upon Curtis; then they swept the
dingy hut and went out like panes of glass when the light is extinguished in
a room. The man fell backward, fluttered on the hard planks and was still.
Curtis shuddered.

"That wasn't nice," he muttered, "but this is no time for sentiment."

The other Turk stood by the body of his dead comrade, looking down at
the ghastly, upturned face. Curtis pinched the muscles of his own right arm
with the fingers and thumb of his left hand, and moved his doubled fist
tentatively up and down.

"Where shall I hit him?" he mused. "In the chin or back of the ear? He
must never know what struck him."

Bending over, he untied the long strip of cloth about his foot and
unwound it. Taking it in his hands he pulled several times on it, to test its
strength.
 "Strong as a hemp rope. You could hang a man with that."

It was Panayota's blue homespun.

"Hey!" he called to the Turk. "You there. Say, look at this foot of mine,
will you, and see what you think of it."

The man kneeled. Curtis drew back his arm, but realized that he could
not get sufficient swing in a sitting posture.

"O, hold on a minute. Let me try the foot on the ground and see how it
goes."

They rose to their feet together, and the unsuspecting soldier reeled
backward, stunned by a vicious punch on the temple. But he did not fall,
and Curtis, maddened by a great fear lest he bungle his opportunity, sprang
forward and delivered a swinging, sledgehammer-like blow upon his
victim's ear, throwing into it the entire strength of his body. The Turk
dropped like an ox under the butcher's hammer. Then Curtis hastily bound
him, hand and foot, with Panayota's bandage, and, tearing the lining from
the man's coat, stuffed it down his throat. Pulling up a plank from the
platform by the fireplace, he thrust the limp form out of sight and closed up
the opening.

"I hope I didn't kill you," he muttered; "but, as old Lindbohm says, 'you
must yust take your chances!'"

He walked once or twice the length of the hut. The foot gave him
considerable pain, but it was possible to step on it.

"What'll I do with the other two?" he mused.

He picked up the gun lying on the floor and examined it. It was a Mauser
and charged with five shells. He peeped cautiously through the doorway at
Panayota's prison, concealing his body. The two guards appeared at the
corner and looked curiously in his direction.
 "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?"

 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.

"My God!" he cried, in a hoarse whisper, and jumped into the corner
beside the door, just as one of the other two Turks walked boldly into the
room. Without a moment's thought Curtis brought the barrel of his rifle
down upon the man's head, who dropped his own gun and pitched
sprawling upon his face. For fully a minute, which seemed an hour, the
American stood motionless, breathless, in the attitude which had followed
the blow. Every muscle was set to knotted hardness; he held the rifle in both
hands, ready to throw it suddenly to his shoulder. He did not breathe, and he
listened so intently that he could hear his own heart beating, and the
breathing of the man at the fireplace. Suddenly his muscles relaxed like an
escaping spring, and he looked nervously about for the detached sleeve.
Picking it up, he stooped over the second Turk, when the latter moved his
left arm several times with the palm of the hand down, feebly suggesting an
effort to rise. Then the arm dropped and the hand beat a faint tattoo on the
earthen floor. There was a great shiver of the whole body, a twitching of the
muscles, a queer rattle in the throat, and—silence. Curtis stared with open
mouth and dilated eyes, and a great, inexplicable horror came over him.
"Ah!" he gasped, and, dropping upon his knees, he ran his fingers over the
skull. The hair was matted with blood, and a deep, ragged-edged dent bore
witness to the terrible force with which the rifle barrel had fallen.

"I've killed a man," he whispered, in an awestruck voice, rising to his

feet. Staring fixedly at the silent thing lying there before him, he repeated
the sentence over and over again:

"I've killed a man—I've killed a man!"

Then all at once a great change came over him, the joy and fierceness of
the lust for blood, and he laughed hysterically, gloating over the dead man
before him, as the victorious heroes used to do in the old barbaric ages.

He thought of the other Turk, and looked out of the door just in time to
see him turn at the hither corner and disappear as he walked back on his
beat. Curtis made a dash for an olive tree about eight rods distant, and,
skulking behind it, peeped between the high gnarled roots. When the guard
had again appeared and turned back, he ran to a rock and threw himself
down behind it, instinctively using tactics by which he had sometimes crept
up on a diving duck. He was now within listening distance. The next run
brought him to the side of the house, and he had just time to throw his gun
to his shoulder when the guard stepped into view. He might have taken him
prisoner, but the thought did not occur to him. He had tasted blood.
Panayota came to the door and looked wonderingly out. The American ran
to her with the smoking musket in his hand and seized her by the wrist. It
was the natural act of the savage who has won his woman in fight.

"Come, Panayota!" he cried, "you are free. They are all dead!"

And he started down the hill, pulling the girl with him. She came without
a word.

CHAPTER XXI

"MY LIFE, I LOVE YOU"

Tied to a tree was one of those large black and tan mules that are
stronger than any horse and tough as steel. This one, a pack animal, had
been left behind in charge of the three guards. Curtis picked up the clumsy
pack saddle which lay near and threw it upon the beast's back. In his
excitement he bungled the unfamiliar straps, but Panayota assisted with
nimble and experienced fingers. He helped her to mount, and was about to
climb up, when he happened to think of the dead Turks' ammunition.
Bringing a supply from the hut, he climbed up behind the girl. So they rode
away, the fair Cretan sitting sidewise in the saddle, the American astride
behind her. He passed an arm around her waist to steady them both, and
accelerated the animal's speed by digging the butt of his musket into its
side. He could not use his heels, because one foot was bare and still
somewhat lame. Panayota guided the mule by flipping in its eyes, first on
one side of the head and then on the other, the end of the rope that was tied
about its neck. As Curtis felt beneath his arm the firm but yielding form; as
the warm, strong heart throbbed against his hand, his madness became
complete. He had killed two men for this girl, and she was worth it. He was
ferociously happy. The very touch of her thrilled him. He knew now why he
had killed the men—for the same reason that David had slain Uriah.
Woman, gentle, refining, softening woman will, in an instant, blot two
thousand years of civilization out of a man's nature and turn him back into a
primitive savage. He held her very tight, and she made no resistance. What
trifles shape our destinies! In the giddy happiness of the moment he could
not have framed an original Greek sentence to save his soul, but as he
leaned forward with his lips close to the girl's ear, with his face partly
buried in her hair, the refrain of Byron's "Maid of Athens" sang itself in his
brain, and he whispered again and again, "Zoe mou, sas agapo, zoe mou,
sas agapo." She shivered slightly the first time that he repeated the
sentence, but she did not repulse him. At last, that first keen madness of
contact with her passed away, and he chattered excitedly as he urged on the
ambling mule: "Don't be afraid, Panayota; they'll never catch us. I've got
you now, not Kostakes. My life, I love you! Go on, you dromedary, or I'll
punch a rib out of you! They must kill me before they take you again."

After they had been about an hour on the road, they began to feel uneasy.

"They must have got back by this time," thought Curtis. "I wish I had
killed that other Turk, then they would have thought we were rescued," and
he looked anxiously back over his shoulder. The idea came to Curtis of
turning off sharply from the path and hiding in the hills, but the mountains
that enclosed the long valley looked forbidding. They would certainly lose
their way and perish of hunger. Besides there were Greeks ahead of them
somewhere. As they began to ascend toward Galata, they could see for a
long distance over the lovely plain now stretched out before them in the
rays of the afternoon sun.

"It'll be time to make a break for the woods," mused Curtis, "when I see
them coming." Once a cloud of dust arose far behind and he caught
Panayota's arm.

"Look!" he cried. "They're coming!" But she replied:

"No, 'tis a whirlwind."

Curtis did not understand the word, but there was no mistaking the
speaking gesture which accompanied it. The mule becoming tired, Panayota
slid to the ground, and, throwing the rope over her shoulder, trotted on
ahead.

"There's Galata!" she cried, pointing with level arm to the distant village.

"How many hours?" asked Curtis.

"About two more."

"We shall get there after dark, then?"

"Certainly."

The sun was just setting behind a mountain, as it always does in the
interior of Crete. Curtis turned in the saddle and took one last long look.
The white road lay very plain on the side of the low ridge over which they
had come. It was in shape like a giant letter S, one end of which ended at
the summit and the other among the green vineyards, climbing half way up
the slope. The trees, and the deep water-ways and castles of rock on the side
of the hill were indistinguishable at that distance, all blending into a general
effect of soft color, but the top of the hill was sketched against the sky as
distinctly as a crayon line, and on it every tree, nay, every shrub stood
magnified in the parting light. There was something unnatural about this
row of trees, rope-walking on a curved line swaying in the sky. As Curtis
gazed at the weird effect two giant horsemen balanced on the aerial rope for
an instant, and then lunged headforemost into the purple glow on the hither
side. They were followed by row after row of mounted men, four abreast,
that appeared and disappeared in rapid succession.

"Look, Panayota," said Curtis quietly. The girl went deadly white and
crossed herself.

"My little Virgin, help us," she prayed. "The Bashi Bazouks!"

"They haven't got us yet. How far away are they?"

"An hour, may be an hour and a half."

"We'll turn off into the hills when it's a little darker. Can they see us?"

"I think not," replied Panayota. "We are now among the trees. But we'd
better wait a little before we turn."

The Turkish troops had now become a long, dark quadrangle, sliding
slowly down the giant S. The sun dropped behind the mountain, the white
letter became black, and the quadrangle disappeared. The fleeing man and
woman were in the world's amethyst shadow.

"Shall we turn now, Panayota?" asked Curtis. "I care not where, so we
go together."

For answer she turned and held up her hand. He listened, but heard
nothing.

"Voices," said the girl, "and footsteps. But I hear no more. They are
moving stealthily."

"Is it more Turks, coming from in front?"

"God knows, but I think not."

She led the mule some distance to the side of the road into a clump of
green oleander. Curtis slid to the ground and looked carefully to his rifle.
 "Panayota," he whispered, hurriedly, "they shall not take us while I live.
I love you. We may have but a few moments together. Let me take one kiss,
the first, perhaps the last."

He put his arm about her, but she placed her hand against his breast and
pushed him from her, with a cautious "hist!"

The footsteps of many men could be heard plainly, not far up the road
now.

"If they would only speak," she muttered.

The words were hardly out of her mouth ere some one uttered a sharp
and hurried command in a suppressed tone.

"They are Greeks!" exclaimed the girl. "Now Christ and the Virgin—"

But Curtis put his hand gently over her mouth, whispering:

"Hush! Perhaps it is a ruse."

The moon had not yet arisen, and the darkness was like ink. Some one
stumbled, and a musket fell "ching!" among the rocks.

"Take care!" said an imperious voice in Greek.

"That's Kyrios Lindbohm," whispered Panayota. "I know his voice."

"Lindbohm don't know any Greek," replied her companion.

"He could not be in Crete one day without learning the word for 'take
care!' I tell you it's Lindbohm. Who that has ever heard that voice could
forget it? I should know it," murmured the girl, "if I heard it in my grave."

Curtis was too excited to take note of the singular remark.

The men were now passing them quite close and several of them were
conversing in low tones. The girl leaned forward, listening. Then suddenly
she called in a loud voice:
 "Patriotai, where are you?"

Utter silence for several moments, broken at last by an inquiring "Eh?"

and the clicking of rifle locks.

"Lindbohm!"

"Curtis, by damn! It's all right; come out!"

The American sprang eagerly forward, but stepped on a stone. Then he

leaped on to the back of the mule and Panayota led the animal out into the
highway and into the midst of a goodly company of armed insurgents, who
forgot all discipline, and broke forth into a volley of questions.

The American and the Lieutenant were shaking each other by the hand
through it all.

"I saved her!" cried Curtis. "I killed two Turks and did up another. Then
we ran away on this mule. I cracked one of 'em on the head and shot
another. I smashed one with my fist and took his gun away from him. Then
I—"

"So you saved Panayota?"

"Yes, I saved her, I tell you. I—"

"Thank God! thank God!" cried Lindbohm, throwing his arms about
Curtis' neck.

"Where is my father?" asked Panayota, in a shrill voice that pierced the

bubble of questions, suddenly, awkwardly.

"Her father is dead," said the Lieutenant huskily. "We found his body.
She must not know. Poor girl! Poor girl!"

"I blew a hole right through the last one and then we departed. We got
here just in time, old man, for they're right behind us—the whole shooting-
match."
 "How many?"

"All the Bashi Bazouks—about fifty of 'em."

"Good," cried Lindbohm, "we'll ambush 'em. We'll give 'em hell!"

"We'll settle 'em, Lindbohm. We'll lick 'em out of their boots. How many
men have you got?"

"Thirty."

"Why, it's a cinch. We sha'n't let one of them get away alive. We'll shoot
down the Bashi Bazouks and ride away on their horses."

When, half an hour later, the great, tranquil, yellow moon looked down
upon the town of Galata from a neighboring mountain top, all was
seemingly peaceful in its desolate streets. Save the dreadful figure nailed to
the church door, not a human form was to be seen. And yet death and hate
crouched there in the shadows, for Lindbohm and his thirty men lurked in
the ruined houses that surrounded the square, and whosoever looked closely
might have seen here and there the dull gleam of a rifle barrel; but even
then he would have suspected nothing, for the moonlight plays strange and
fantastic tricks. Curtis and Lindbohm kneeled side by side at the same
window, and Panayota sat on the floor in a dark corner, clasping her knees
with her hands and moaning gently, "O, my father, my little father!"

CHAPTER XXII

THE AMBUSH

Interminably they waited, listening for the sound of galloping horses.

Curtis' extreme tension passed away, and the situation suddenly assumed an
unreal aspect in his thoughts. His knees began to feel bruised on the hard
floor. He was strongly tempted to rise up and ease them.

"Pshaw!" he said to Lindbohm, "I don't believe they're coming, after all.
I guess I'll go out and take a look."

"Keep still!" replied the Swede. "Don't you stir on your life, and don't
you speak a word aloud," and a moment after he added more pleasantly:

"They may send scouts on foot."

Panayota had fallen asleep. They could hear her deep but troubled
breathing, as her frame continued to vibrate with the sorrow that for the
moment she had mercifully forgotten.

"Michali was burned alive," said Curtis, in a low tone, after another
stretch of waiting, during which his knees had become the most important
portions of his entire anatomy.

"I tried to save him, but Kostakes—"

Lindbohm seized him impatiently by the arm and whispered:

"Tst, be quiet, can't you? Do you want to spoil the whole thing? No, we
rescued Michali."

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.

"Will Lindbohm never shoot?" he asked himself every time that the
Turk's form swung squarely in line with his gun. The Bashi Bazouks
continued to pour into the square, sitting very straight, resting their short
guns over their shoulders or on the necks of their horses.

"Hup!" cried Kostakes, flourishing his sword in the moonlight, and

giving an order in Turkish. The men began to fall into line, eight abreast.

"One!" whispered Lindbohm. Curtis glued his cheek to the rifle barrel,
and aimed full at the breast of Kostakes, who was now sitting quietly upon
his horse.

"I've got you, I've got you," he said in thought.

"Two!" he tightened his finger on the trigger, when "bang!" went the gun
of an impatient Greek on the other side of the square, and one of the Bashi
Bazouks pitched from his saddle. Lindbohm sprang to his feet, with a roar
of rage that was cut in two by the terrific clatter of the rifles that were now
spitting fire from more than a dozen doors and windows. One sound had
wailed out between the first shot and the volley, as vivid as a lightning flash
between thunder claps,—Panayota, fatigued beyond human endurance, had
fallen asleep as soon as she found herself again in the hands of her friends,
and the sound of the gun, breaking in upon her overwrought nerves, had
drawn from her a long piercing shriek.

There was now a maelstrom of horses in the square, and a pandemonium

of yelling men. Curtis could not distinguish Kostakes. He had, in fact,
forgotten all about him. He stood in the door laughing and swearing and
shooting into the whirling, plunging, snorting, yelling, scrambling mêlée.
But the maelstrom period was brief, for there were three streets that gave
into the square, and the outside horses broke for safety. They were hurled
like mud from a wagon wheel into these exits, and went clattering away,
with or without their riders, until at last only one maddened beast was left,
dragging over the ground a Turk whose foot was caught in the stirrup. The
terror of the animal was something pitiful to see. He ran blindly into a
house. He plunged into the fountain, slipped, fell and scrambled to his feet
again. His master's clothing caught on a sharp rock, and he left the saddle
behind, with the dead Turk still attached. Then he found the opening of a
street, and disappeared with a mad clatter of hoofs. The Greeks darted from
the houses and scurried after the Turks, loading and firing as they ran.
Curtis shot into a last tangle of horses, wedged together at the mouth of a
lane. They slipped loose and plunged through, scraping off one of the Bashi
Bazouks, who bounded to his feet uninjured, and, whipping out a long,
curved sword, came toward Curtis. He was a big man, bare-headed and
hairy as an ape. Curtis threw the Gras to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.
He had forgotten to reload it. The Turk laughed. Curtis lowered the gun,
and, presenting the bayonet, tiptoed about his foe in a semi-circle. The Turk
revolved as on a pivot, squat, alert, weapon deftly advanced. Suddenly, to
Curtis' surprise, his enemy turned and ran. The American bounded after, and
then, for the first time during the fray, he remembered that he had a sore
foot, and that that foot was bare. Panayota came to him. She carried a rifle
that she had picked up in the square.

"Bravo! Panayota!" said Curtis. "Two to one frightened him away. But
why didn't you shoot?"

"I wanted to get close and make sure," replied the girl, "and then, when
he ran, you were in the way."

Slipping a fresh shell into his Gras, Curtis picked his way through the
stones toward a distant spot where he heard continued firing. Panayota
attempted to follow, but he stopped her with a wave of the hand.

"I'll be right back," he shouted, "as soon as I get another shot. You're safe
here."

He left her standing in the deserted square, among the dead Turks. The
moon shone full upon her there, leaning toward him, holding her gun by the
extreme muzzle, the butt trailing behind on the ground. Her hair blew into
her eyes, and she tossed a great brush of it over her shoulder. A wounded
horse rose to its haunches near her and threw its fore feet dangerously
about. Then it pitched over on its side with a groan.

Curtis had gone some distance up the narrow street, when he heard again
the clatter of horses' hoofs. He stepped behind a tree that grew close against
a wall and waited. A Greek ran by and darted under a house. He was
followed by the Bashi Bazouk, who had run from Panayota's rifle. He was
trotting by the side of a mounted comrade, holding to the stirrup-strap. One,
two, three, four, five, horsemen followed. The firing continued in the
outskirts of the town.

"My God! Panayota!" It flashed over Curtis in a moment. The Greeks

had scattered too much and the Turks, getting together in small parties,
were returning to the attack. While he was still in the crooked lane, making
frantic haste toward Panayota, he heard a shot in the square. His heart stood
still for one moment with terror, which instantly gave way to fury. A
woman's scream, mingled with brutal laughter, told him that the girl had
again been made a prisoner. When he at last reached the square, the six
Bashi Bazouks had gone, taking her with them.

CHAPTER XXIII

A FRIEND WORTH HAVING

Curtis sat down upon the edge of the fountain. There was a faint smell of
powder in the air. He heard a shot now and again in the distance. A bugle
sounded. Fortunately no more of the Bashi Bazouks passed through the
square.

"Gone!" said Curtis; "gone!"

 The Greeks began to come in, talking excitedly and gesticulating like
madmen. They seemed to be in high spirits. They gathered about Curtis,
and, pointing at the dead bodies, all talked at once. They enraged him. He
could hardly resist the desire to jump up and lay about among them with the
butt of his musket. Lindbohm pushed his way through the crowd. Holding
his gun in his left hand, he brought the right to his forehead, saluting gaily
with the imaginary sword.

"Well, my friend, we had a little fun with them, didn't we? The ambush,
however, would have been more of a success had the men obeyed my
orders. If I had my way I would yust shoot a soldier who disobeyed orders.
Still, we taught them a lesson. We have killed, let me see how many, one
two, three—

"Hell!" interrupted Curtis, rising suddenly.

"What!" said Lindbohm, turning upon him, "what's the matter?"

"She's gone."

Lindbohm clutched at the shoulder of a bystanding insurgent.

"Panayota!" he gasped.

"Huh! Where were you? Eh? Where were you? Here they came, six of
'em, right down here, and the girl and I all alone. What could I do, one
against six? You're a healthy soldier, you are—scatter all over the country!
Lindbohm, you're to blame for this. You've got to answer to me—
somebody's got to settle for this." Flinging his rifle down among the stones,
he turned his back contemptuously and limped toward one of the houses. A
kindly insurgent sprang to his assistance.

"Right up through there they went, carrying her with them. Four men
could have stopped 'em. Where were you, damn you?" and, pushing the
insurgent from him, he shook his fist in his face. "Get out of my sight, get
out!" he cried.
 Lindbohm was sitting on the side of the basin, his face buried in his
hands. He was sobbing and talking to himself in Swedish. Those who stood
near heard the word "Panayota." Reason returned to Curtis as speedily as he
had lost it. His blind rage passed away, and in its place came a resolve to
recover Panayota and to settle with Kostakes according to the present debt
and all that might accrue. The spirit of Crete had taken thorough possession
of him. He had been wronged by the Turk, he lived only for vengeance. His
eye fell upon a Cretan in the act of pulling a boot from a dead Turk's foot.
He was tugging with all his might. All at once he flew over backwards with
the boot in his hands. His comrades broke into laughter. Lindbohm did not
look up.

"They don't feel this thing about Panayota as badly as Lindbohm and I
do," soliloquized Curtis. "Poor old Lindbohm! I'll tell him I'm in love with
Panayota, and then he'll see how foolish it is for him to take on so. He ought
to stand it if I can."

The insurgent detached the other boot and brought the pair to him.

"Will those fit?" he asked. "Good boots."

Curtis took the boots and went over to the drinking fountain. He patted
Lindbohm on the back. "Cheer up, old man," he said. "They can't get away
from us. There's another day coming."

It was impossible to get the boot upon the sore foot, so one of the
insurgents cut it off at the ankle and slit it down nearly to the toe. Then he
punched a number of holes, and Curtis was able, by means of a string, to
lace on this improvised shoe. As the leather was soft, it proved very
comfortable. Lindbohm staggered to his feet, stretched himself like a man
awakening from sleep, and ran his finger through his blonde pompadour.

"That's right, old man," said Curtis; "we must brace up. Of course, you
feel bad because we sort of fumbled the thing. But consider what my
feelings must be. Lindbohm, I love that girl."

The Swede started violently.

 "You have made court to her?" he asked.

"Why, I told her that I loved her—yes, yes, several times."

"And, pardon me, she said that she loved you?"

"Now that you ask me, I don't believe she did. No, she didn't. But I didn't
have much time, you see."

Lindbohm held out his big, soft hand, and, as Curtis grasped it, said:

"We will not turn back; we will find Panayota. And if Kostakes has
insulted her we will punish him, though he flee to the ends of the earth."

"Old man, you're a friend worth having," cried Curtis, wringing the hand
which he held. "I'll never forget this till the last day of my life."

One of the insurgents, a former resident of Canea, spoke some French. It

was through the medium of this man that Lindbohm had communicated
with his troop thus far. He called him now and told him to get the men
together, as they must march. He feared lest Kostakes, surmising the
smallness of their numbers, might return to the attack.

So they set forth in the moonlight, taking with them the arms and other
spoils of the dead Turks, of whom the number proved to be eight. Their plan
was to conceal themselves somewhere in the fields and get some sleep. But
half a mile out of Galata they encountered a band of fifty Cretan insurgents,
young men of the region, armed to the teeth, and thirsting for vengeance.
These, learning that Lindbohm was a foreign officer of approved mettle, put
themselves also under his leadership. Thus reinforced he returned and
camped in Galata. The next morning he pushed on vigorously after
Kostakes—a pursuit that was destined to last several weeks, and that was
prosecuted with a continually increasing band. Several encounters took
place, and three Turkish villages were destroyed, by way of reprisal. They
did not succeed in capturing Kostakes, but two wounded Turks that fell into
their hands at different times, told them that Panayota was in his camp.
 CHAPTER XXIV

A GLITTERING ESPLANADE

Europeanism, that bubbles up in the tailor shops of Regent Street, and

pours its thin coating of dull color on the heels of the ever advancing British
musket, has not yet washed over the island of Crete. The Akoond of Swat
has donned a sack-coated suit of blue serge and a straw hat; the cousins of
native princes go down to the government offices with brown linen on their
backs and Buddha in their hearts; Fuzzy-Wuzzy is cutting his hair—his
Samson locks—and buying cork helmets. And the missionary is picking his
way through the corpses left in the trail of the machine gun, bringing Christ
and calico to the survivors. They are putting pantaloons on the bronze
statues of the desert, and are sending the piquant apples of the Tree of
Knowledge wrapped up in bundles of mother hubbards, to the naked
maidens of the South Sea Isles.

But Crete, beautiful Crete, is the one corner of the globe which the dull,
tame wave of European fashion has not yet touched and commonized. The
esplanade of Canea to-day, fronting the harbor, is the most picturesque,
fantastic, kaleidoscopic spot on earth. Here commingle, swarm, interweave,
huddle, scatter, pass and repass, costumes from the Greek islands, from the
provinces of Asia Minor, from the oases and nomad tents of Africa, from
Persia and the farthest East. The traveler's first view of Canea, from the
rowboat that takes him ashore, is a half moon of white houses, splashed
with red, terra cotta, yellow and striped awnings, and beneath, a squirming,
ever-changing mass of bright turbans and sashes, fluttering black and
yellow robes, naked limbs and chests—and donkeys; moth-eaten donkeys
laden with sacks, goatskins of honey and cheese, huge panniers of green
vegetables. There on the right, in letters that can be read a mile away, is the
name of a café dedicated "Au Concert Européen." This is a bait for the
foreigners attached to the half-dozen steel hulks floating out yonder in the
sea, pointing ever shoreward their great guns that seem to whisper:

"Be good. Don't kill each other, or we'll kill you all."

All Europeans are supposed to speak French. Several of the cafés

announce their business in more than one tongue: Greek, Turkish, English,
Italian. Under the awning of one sits a group of elderly Mohammedans,
smoking their bubbling narghiles and reading the tiny local sheet; these are
stout gentlemen in fezzes, pillars of Islam, faithful husbands of harems.
They have kindly faces and are really good-hearted men whom no
provocation, save that of religion, could induce to cut your throat. You sit
down and a bare-legged waiter, whose fez and braid-trimmed jacket are
sadly faded, "zigzags" among the chairs, like a fly through raindrops, and
stands at your side, the very incarnation of silent and respectful inquiry. You
are tired and you say:

"Some cognac and brown soda." The waiter looks distressed, puzzled.

"Cognac," you repeat, "cognac and cold water, then."

He casts his eye over the group of pillars, and one of them, the fattest
and most benevolent appearing, carefully wipes the mouthpiece of his
narghile and hands the tube to his nearest neighbor. The latter accepts the
trust with a grave bow; it is his duty now to give the pipe an occasional pull,
that it may not go out during his friend's absence.

The proprietor of the café, for it is he, approaches you. He bends low,
with a sign as though pressing his hand upon the earth, then, straightening,
he touches his heart, his lips, his forehead. It is a most graceful and
courteous salutation; it is the greeting of the very heart of the East—the
salaam.

"We have no cognac nor any intoxicating liquor," he explains in tolerable

French. "This is a Mohammedan café. You can get spirituous drinks yonder
at the Greek café."
 "Ah, but we have no desire to change. We are thirsty. Surely he has
something to quench thirst?"

"Certainly, many things, as for instance, cherry water, lemonade, almond

water. A cup of Turkish coffee or a piece of loukoumi with a glass of cold
spring water, are also good things to quench the thirst."

You decide upon cherry water, an excellent drink made from stirring a
quantity of preserved sour cherries into a glass of cold water, and mine host
returns to his narghile.

The kaleidoscope keeps turning, presenting new combinations, new

colors, new effects. At times the whole square is crowded, and again the
mass of humanity breaks up and drifts away, as sometimes happens to a
dense cloud. Then some grotesque or sublime figure or group of figures is
sure to straggle across the rift. You sip your cooling drink and look up.
There go two Greek priests, in flowing dark robes and high, black hats.
They are tall men with red, swarthy cheeks and luxuriant beards. They wear
their hair long, neatly done up in Psyche knots. They walk with dignified
strides, their hands crossed upon their stomachs and hidden in voluminous
sleeves. They both carry strings of large beads of polished wood. The crowd
closes in behind them, to open out again good-naturedly, as a Cretan in soft
red fez, shirt sleeves, blue breeches with a seat that drags upon the ground
and high, yellow boots, swings a long crook to right and left and shouts
frantically to his flock of scurrying turkeys. The birds dart in and out among
the throng with an action that reminds one of a woman lifting her skirts and
stepping through the mud. He is assisted by a boy of ten, an exact
reproduction of himself in miniature.

A priest of Islam passes; he, too, in a graceful robe that falls to the
ground from his shoulders. A thick turban encircles his brow. He is tall and
slender one moment, corpulent the next, according as the wind inflates his
robe or escapes and allows it to collapse.

What a feast of color! And you notice that somehow these changing
combinations always result in harmonies. One feels the same effect as
though he were listening to a clash of barbarous instruments in a sweet,
wild melody of the desert.
 There goes a chocolate-colored Nubian, in a terra cotta tunic, carrying a
shining copper kettle under each arm. His glistening feet and legs are bare.

That bronze-skinned Arab yonder in the white turban must be a very old
man, for his beard and hair are as white as the wool on a sheep that is newly
washed and ready for the shearer; yet he is straight and lithe as a figure on a
French clock, and his skin is exactly the same color. He wears a bright red
sash about his waist and walks with a staff as tall as himself. Red fezzes
everywhere and turbans of all bright hues.

But we must have another cherry water—vicinada—and move into the

shade.

Now, who are these somber-looking creatures, coming across the

square? If there were any such thing on earth they would be agents of the
Spanish Inquisition. But that horror does not exist even in Turkey. Through
the warm yellow sun they move, slowly, silently, muffled all in black, with
black umbrellas above their heads—shapeless, sepulchral figures. On the
black veil that covers each face are painted white eyes, a nose and a mouth;
or a palm tree or other device. They stroll by us talking in whispers, but a
silvery girlish laugh, stifled almost in its birth, betrays them. Ah, sweet
demons, we know you now! These are nuns of love, houris of the harem.
Who knows what sweet faces, merry eyes, red lips, warm and yielding
forms masquerade in those forbidding garments? We know you now; not all
the disguises ever invented by fanaticism and jealousy can cover the
roguish features of love. That one little, stifled laugh conjured up more
poetry and romance than could be read in a summer's holiday—the Arabian
Nights, Don Juan, and the vision of Dudu; the song of the bulbul in old
gardens, dangerous trystings in the shadow of the cypress trees; Tom Moore
in a city office, dreaming of camel bells and the minarets of Ispahan.

Donkeys. Out from under the low stone arches they come, or down the
straggling narrow street, slipping and staggering over the greasy
cobblestones, yet never falling. There is one driven by a Cretan boy, another
by a jet black Nubian, with thick lips and shell-white teeth, another by a
shuffling Greek monk in dirty robe. Each in his own outlandish way curses
and threatens his animal, but the stick falls with the same rattling thwack on
the bony ribs, whether wielded by Christian or Turk. Look at the loads
which the donkeys bear in their immense, squeaking baskets, and you will
gain some idea of the fertility of this garden spot of the world, harried
though it be by oppression and bloodshed. We see borne by or arranged in
heaps yonder on the pavement, great quantities of cucumbers, artichokes,
beans, cauliflower, garlic, tomatoes, courgets, eggplant, medlars, apricots,
cherries, and those various wild greens which are so delicious, but which
cannot be bought in the cities of America for love or money. If you ask the
price of any of these crisp, tender vegetables or fruits dewy fresh, you will
find that one penny will go as far as twenty-five would among the stale,
withered and niggardly exhibits of Chicago—the emporium of the great
Mississippi valley and the hub of a hundred railroads. But there is no
cabbage trust in Crete, and the donkey route has no board of directors to fix
the price of freight.

It is evident that the sea is no less prodigal of her riches here than the
land, for ragged urchins dart by every few moments carrying fine catches of
fish, strung upon strands of tenacious reed; mullets that gleam like gold in
the sun, silvery mackerel, still quivering with life and glittering with
dripping brine, baskets of white-bait, leaping upon a bed of green sea-grass;
echini and huge lobsters without claws.

But alas! this seeming plenty is naught more than the crumbs from
nature's table—harpy war has seized the feast. Above all the hum of
tongues, the braying of donkeys, the rattle of shod feet on the cobbles, rings
out at intervals the bugle's wakening call. Turkish soldiers lounge about the
streets, squat, greasy, ungroomed, cruel. There is a slight smell of smoke in
the air, as the wind drifts over from the smouldering ruins of the Christian
quarter, burned during the latest outbreak. Possibly there is a charred body
or two among the cinders, but pshaw! you cannot smell that. It is only
imagination. And here comes a foreign military demonstration. They are
Italians, immaculate in brown linen, with tufts of long blue feathers rustling
spitefully in their Garibaldi hats. Down the street they swing at double
quick, and through the crowded quay they plunge, while the lazy Orientals
scramble out of the way. How these Italians glitter! There is a bugle corps
in front, with shining instruments, and an Adonis of an officer at the side
with flashing, drawn sword; a bayonet slants skyward from every shoulder
in the squad, dancing and blazing in the tropic sun. They are gone and the
throng closes in again, like water in the wake of a ship.

Such is Canea, below its many colored awnings. Cast your eye above
them and you see the square white houses of a Greek town. Look higher up,
and there is the Grecian sky, the same sky that looked down upon the birth
of Jove and the giving of Cretan law, upon the flitting sail that brought the
yearly tribute of youths and maidens from Athens, upon the knightly
vengeance of Theseus, striding down the labyrinth, all clad in ringing mail.
Centuries of oppression may drag their slow length along, the children of
the desert may come and go as they will, but that chaste sweet sky is
patiently waiting above. And beneath it is Greece.

CHAPTER XXV

THREE WIVES

A Turkish woman, closely veiled and carrying a black umbrella, was

walking along the Spladjia, or principal street of Canea. A nondescript
urchin, bare-footed, with a tuft of black hair shooting straight up through a
rent in his straw hat, followed with a string of red mullets and a sheaf of
Italian lettuce. As the mysterious woman passed the little group of men
sitting under the awnings, they turned their heads discreetly to one side, not
even casting a furtive glance at the dainty, embroidered slippers, that now
and then peeped out from under the black robe. Turning down a narrow
street, she tiptoed along beneath the projecting upper stories of the houses,
with that motion peculiar to women whose slippers are so constructed that
they fall off if the toe is not shoved into them at each successive step.
Stopping for a moment, she drew a handkerchief from her bosom, and,
passing it under her veil, wiped her face.
 "Whew!" she said, "it's hot." Then, raising her head, she sniffed the air
sharply, eagerly.

"Allah be praised!" she exclaimed. "I believe that Ayesha is roasting

coffee."

The thought accelerated her footsteps to such an extent that the rapid
sliding of her slippers on the path sounded like the preparatory steps of a jig
dancer in the sand box.

"Yes, that's from our court, surely. I do hope it's nearly ready to grind.
What's so delicious as a cup of fresh coffee and a glass of cold water when
one is hot and thirsty?"

The aroma certainly proceeded from a garden which the Turkish woman
was now approaching, and as she arrived at the massive gate in the high
adobe wall the sound of a coffee roaster in motion could plainly be heard
within. Souleima gave the boy a penny, whereupon he set up such a loud
and voluble protest that she was obliged to give him five paradhes more,
with a threat to open the gate and let out an imaginary dog of fearful biting
powers if he did not instantly depart. The boy out of the way, Souleima
knocked upon the gate and cried.

"Ayesha, Ferende! let me in!"

"Go open the gate, it's Souleima," said a voice within.

"Go yourself. When did I become a door opener?"

"Bah! Don't you see I can't leave the coffee? It'll burn."

The sound of a rattling chain, and a woman peeped out, holding a black
veil over the lower part of her face. Souleima entered, shutting and locking
the gate after her.

"Whew!" she exclaimed, pulling off her veil with the finger and thumb
of the hand that now held the sheaf of lettuce.
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