Curtis accepted the simitar, but could not find appropriate words. The occasion seemed to demand a set speech.
"Merci! Merci!" he stammered. "My father will be glad to get this. He is fond of this sort of thing. He already has a pair of pistols and an old Turkish gun."
And he fell to examining the hilt, which was embossed with silver, and the scabbard, adorned with flowers and various animals. An awkward silence ensued, broken at last by Hassan Bey, who addressed himself to Lindbohm:
"And now, if Monsieur does not consider me a prisoner of war, I will take my leave."
Again saluting Lindbohm and salaaming to Curtis, he turned and walked away.
"What'll we do now?" asked Curtis. "Get the band together again?"
"To hell with the band!" exploded Lindbohm. "I'm sick of them. They fight all right, but there's no way to enforce discipline. I think I'll go to America. There should be some beautiful fighting between the Americans and Spaniards," and he looked dreamily across the sea.
"We weren't fighting Kostakes, after all," mused Curtis.
Lindbohm came to earth with a start and glanced sharply after the slender, erect figure of the departing Turk, whose body was now cut off below the arms by a ledge of rock.
"Monsieur!" shouted the Swede, and started in pursuit. The Turk turned slowly and waited.