"There's a wounded man in that building. A wounded man, I tell you, and he'll burn up alive!"
Kostakes shrugged his shoulders.
"It cannot be helped," he replied, "in war, what is a man more or less? But we must not delay. Allons, Monsieur."
And he spurred his horse to a brisk walk, while a stout Turk, throwing the bridle rein of Curtis' animal over his shoulder, trotted along after.
The American looked back.
"I'll slip off and run to the café," he thought, "foot or no foot—damn the foot, anyway!" But another soldier with a loaded musket was following close behind. In his despair, the thought of his passport occurred to him. He pulled it from his pocket with feverish haste. It was badly damaged by water, but it held together and the big seal was still there. Urging his horse forward, he flourished the document in Kostakes' face and shouted:
"I am an American citizen. Do you see that? Voilà! If you do not let me go you suffer for it."
But all to no avail. He was hustled along by order of the smiling and affable Kostakes, and the last thing his eyes rested upon as he plunged into the ravine was a cloud of smoke pouring from the front door of the demarch's café.