"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!"