At last he stopped so abruptly that the Turk, who was directly behind, nearly knocked him over.
"I say!" said Curtis, whirling around and choking a stream of fluent apologies with a vehement question:
"Do people who are not lepers ever go into that village? To see their friends, you know, or to stop over night, or anything of that sort?"
"Impossible. You have seen the disease. Do you think any one would run the risk of catching it?"
Curtis strode on and became again immersed in thought, vaguely hearing the Major's explanation of the fact that nearly all the lepers of Crete were Greeks.
At each side of the gate of Canea stood an English marine, in red jacket and cork helmet. A business-like "Halt!" woke Curtis from his abstraction.
"I am Peter Lindbohm, Lieutenant of cavalry in the Swedish army," said Lindbohm in English, pulling an immense portfolio from the breast pocket of the Prince Albert. "Here is my card."
One of the marines took the proffered pasteboard, glanced at it solemnly, and saluted.
"And here's mine," said Curtis. "I'm an American. And this gentleman is a Turkish officer. We were coming across the country on foot, and he said we were in danger of being massacred, so he took us to his house and kept us there till the English landed, and here—here's my passport, too, if you can manage to read it. It's been in the water."
"What do you want to do now, sir?"