"Our God is a very present help—courage, my children!"
"My left arm is broken. The Turks got on top of the hill, where the girls were, but the girls all jumped off, laughing. All killed, Paraskeve, Elene, Maria—"
The speaker's voice was drowned in a pandemonium of shrieks and sobs.
But again the priest was heard, reverently, distinctly, firmly, like the voice of Christ calming the waters.
"They are with Christ in paradise. Still I say unto you, courage. Since God is with us who shall stand against us?"
"Panayota was with them, but her dress caught in a thorn bush, and before she could tear herself loose the Turks had her."
Every eye in the church was riveted upon the priest. The cross rattled to the floor, and his arm dropped to his side. His lips were white and there was a terrible look in the large brown eyes.
"Panayota! Panayota!" he called hoarsely. His voice sounded far away now. Suddenly he tore off his sacred vestments and flung them in a heap on the floor. Striding to the wounded shepherd, he snatched the gun from his hand. Looking from the window, Curtis saw him running toward the hills, his long hair streaming on the wind. The flock poured out after him and the American was sitting in the deserted house of God, gazing at a pile of sacred robes and muttering stupidly:
"Panayota! Panayota!"