“We’re getting very close to it now,” I answered. I turned to our prisoner with the broken leg. “How is your leg this morning, my man?”
“Very painful, but better,” he replied after a pause.
“Did you sleep, or did you hear anything in the night?”
“I slept all through the night. I was asleep when you came in just now.”
“Then it ought not to be so painful. I’ll have a look at it.”
“No, no,” he cried, putting up his hands to ward me off. “Don’t touch me. You have touched the accursed blood.”
“Do you believe in it, too?” and I looked keenly at him.
He crossed himself earnestly and spat on the floor.
“Stay, stay. You’re a Turk! why do you cross yourself with the cross of the Christians? I won’t touch you against your will, but I must see how your leg is doing. Lift him up, Gartski,” and I pointed to a bench. They hesitated. “Do as I say; and smartly, too. You know me,” I cried sternly.
The man objected and protested with many oaths, and cursed me volubly. But I insisted; and the others did not dare to disobey me. Karasch himself plucked the man’s rug off, and the other two lifted him.