A question was on the Capsina's lips, but at that moment a Turk came by within a yard of the door of the hut, and seeing a comrade lying opposite, spoke to him. The Capsina had drawn Suleima into a corner, but stood herself opposite the door. She saw the wounded Turk raise his head feebly and point at the door of the hut where she was, and on the instant the other put up his musket in act to fire. But the Capsina was the quicker—had the man passed by, she would not have risked a shot, for she and Suleima were alone there, but she guessed what that pointed finger meant—and while yet the man's musket was but half way to his shoulder, he fell, shot to the heart.
She handed back the pistol to Suleima, with her case of powder and bullets, while the child crowed with delight at the flash of the fire.
"Give me your pistol," she said, "if it is loaded, and load mine again if you know how. That child should be a soldier some day."
She stepped swiftly out of the hut, and without a quiver of a muscle pointed the pistol at the wounded Turk's head.
"I should have shot you at once," she said, and then with the smoking pistol in her hand stepped quickly back into the hut, leaving the thing fallen forward like a broken toy, thinking only of her unasked question.
Still she could not frame her lips to it, and Suleima having loaded the pistol handed it back to her.
"You have save my life and that of the littlest and dearest," she said. "I kiss your hand for it, and thank you from my heart."
But the Capsina drew her hand quickly away.
"I could do no less," she said, shortly, "but I want to ask you—"
Suddenly the child broke out into a little wailing cry, and Suleima turned to it.