CHAPTER XIII
THE BRAVE THING TO DO
"Hark!" said Curtis, who was sitting in the door of the parsonage. "What's that?"
"I didn't hear anything," replied Michali.
"I did. I believe it was a gun. It was a faint throb in the air. There it goes again. There they go!"
No mistake was possible this time.
"They're coming through," said Michali, rising upon his elbow. "The Turks will be here pretty quick, now, I think."
"Hello," cried Curtis, "there comes the demarch. There he goes into that house. Now he comes out—there he goes into another—what's up, I wonder? Here he comes!"
Kyr' Nikolaki looked in at the door. His face was flabby with fatigue and his under lids had drooped perceptibly, enlarging the red pits beneath his eyes into semicircles.
"What is it? what is it?" asked Curtis, who had not clearly understood the few hurried words addressed by the demarch to Michali.
"They're nearly out of cartridges. They can't hold the pass over an hour longer. They're going to send the flocks and the women and children down to the sea. The village owns a lot of caiques there. Then the men will retreat last, fighting, shooting all the time."