"You do not know the Turks," she replied.
"Did I not tell you, my darling?" cried Kostakes eagerly, "of course he has escaped."
She did not even look at him, but murmured:
"Murderer! perjurer!"
Kostakes shrugged his shoulders, as who would say, "See!" and turning to Curtis cried:
"But Monsieur speaks Greek famously!"
"Only a few words and those with much difficulty."
"Mais non! On the contrary I find your Greek very perfect. And now allons!"
They pushed briskly up the narrow street, through a scene of utter desolation. The whirlwind of war had struck the town and wrecked it. As they turned a corner a long-legged, half-grown fowl broke for cover and tilted away, balancing its haste with awkward, half-fledged wings. They came unexpectedly upon a little Orthodox church and a putrid odor assailed Curtis' nostrils. Their path led them around to the front door.
"My God!" he gasped. A sight had met his eyes that was destined to thrill him with sickness and horror to the latest day of his life, as often as the black phantom of its recollection should arise in his mind. The village priest, an old, gray-bearded man, had died about a month before and had been buried in his robes. There was the body, hanging to its own church door, like the skin of a great black bat. Nails had been driven through the clothing at the shoulders, and the weight of the carcass, sinking down into the loose garment, had left it pulled up above the head into the semblance of joints in a vampire's wings.