"Silence!" cried the old man with the musket, raising his right hand in a commanding gesture above the heads of the too-willing talkers.
"No," he replied to Curtis, slowly and distinctly, "not killed. Badly wounded."
"Thanks," replied the American. "Thanks, thanks, I understand."
Just before sunrise Michali, with his leg broken, was brought in on a donkey.
CHAPTER XI
AN AMATEUR SURGEON
They laid the wounded Cretan on the lounge in the parsonage. He was pale as death from loss of blood, and kept snapping at his under lip with his teeth, but he did not groan.
"We are a pair of storks now," he said, smiling at Curtis, and then he fainted away. Curtis cut the trouser from the wounded leg. A ball had struck the shin.
"It's not badly splintered, old man," said the American, as Michali opened his eyes again. "I don't know anything about surgery, but I should think the proper thing would be to wash it, support it with some splints and bind it up tight. Shall I try it?"
"What you need?" asked Michali.