Curtis parted the long hair carefully on Papa-Maleko's head with his fingers and looked for the wound.
"I ought to have been a doctor," he said to Panayota.
She smiled, a little, fleeting smile that was sadder than tears. Her hair, that had been wound into a great coil at the back of her head, had slipped partly loose. Even as she looked up at Curtis, the glossy rope writhed like a living thing, and a massive loop dropped down upon her temple. Though her cheeks were pale, her lips were still red—Curtis had never noticed until now how red and velvety they were.
"Is he badly hurt?" she asked.
Papa-Maleko's hair was clotted with blood, but Curtis made absolutely sure that the skull was not fractured.
"No," he replied, "it is not broken."
"Thank God! thank God!" cried Panayota.
The priest put his hand on his daughter's shoulder and shuffled to his feet. He staggered a little and caught his head in his hands.
"O papa! papa!" cried the girl, throwing her arms about his neck.
"Bah! I'm all right. I was a little dizzy, that's all."