If so, the wounded Turk was beyond his skill. They heard those around him saying he was dead. At the same time Melkon's voice reached their ears. He could do no good now, he pleaded, entreating the Turks to let him go about his business, which was urgent. He had a serious case to attend to—a Mussulman Effendi.
No; he must stay, and certify to the cause of death. Barkev and Jack followed the crowd, which streamed into the Government House—an open court, where they could see all that passed.
They saw the body laid on a divan, and they saw Melkon approach to examine it. The Turkish officer stood beside him, a drawn sword in his hand.
"This man has been killed by the blows of sticks or bludgeons," he said, in a loud voice. Melkon stooped over the body; the officer stooped also, and whispered something in his ear.
Almost instantly Melkon stood up, his face pale as that of the dead man who lay before them. For once the noisy, chattering Eastern crowd kept a profound silence. Melkon's low, firm voice reached every ear,—
"This man has died of wounds inflicted by the bayonet."
"No case against us," Barkev said.
But Melkon had sealed his own death warrant, and he knew it. For one moment he faced the crowd—
"I can die, but I cannot lie," he said.