"I have hit him in the shoulders," he said, modestly. "If I had not let him fire first, for old friendship's sake, I should have killed him."
"Fire? Kill who? What does it all mean?"
"Oh, it is the brother of Stefanos, and he has sworn to kill me, because the Greek priest did kill his brother Stefanos, and he thinks I helped. Now we will hold you on the white pony, and you shall ride him like one Cyclops."
Van Heidsteyn presumably meant a centaur, but I was too tired to argue the point. He leaped into the saddle, and, with the aid of the kavasse, hauled me up behind him. A stout strap was passed round our waists and the ends securely buckled together. Oscar had already reloaded his rifle. A nondescript animal, which he informed me was a splendid hound for wild-boar (it did not look it), ran sniffing ahead on the right-hand side of the track; and Tomasso, the kavasse, ancient matchlock in hand, went off in advance on the left.
"W-what's all this for?" I gasped.
Oscar steadily started the old pony. "I make myselfs to sit in fronts," he cheerfully explained. "If the brother of Stefanos has one pot shots at me the bullet will not go through us both, and you will be all rights. Courage, mon ami! It is only two miles to my father's, and when we get there you shall have ever so much more to eats."
It seemed to me that if the brother of Stefanos, whoever that mysterious and bloodthirsty individual might be, succeeded in carrying out his murderous intentions, there would not be any necessity for me to "have ever so much more to eats." However, I was too weak to do anything except to lean limply over Van Heidsteyn's shoulder as we splashed through a brook and descended into the plain below.
"There are not many trees," said Van Heidsteyn, reassuringly. "We shall soon get to my father's tchiftlik all right. Then I will tell you all about the brother of Stefanos."
I was too tired and done up to remember much about the rest of the journey. The brother of Stefanos might have shot us a dozen times without disturbing me. The smooth pace of the pony gave a rhythmical swing to my body, and I fell into a state of dreamy indifference, from which I was roused by the animal suddenly coming to a stop. When I looked up we were in a great yard filled with cows and excited dogs, one of which was endeavoring to hang on to my leg.
Tomasso, driving away the dog, gently unbuckled the belt, and lifted me off the pony in his great brawny arms. He said something musical to me in Greek, with the cooing softness of a dove, and I felt that his exterior had belied him. So mild and gentle mannered a man had doubtless been endowed by nature with his fierce mustachios as a means of protection. I was not surprised, when bedtime came, to find Tomasso hovering round me with a sponge and hot water. He even undressed and carried me to bed as easily as if I had been a child. Then he benevolently tucked me up, put some biscuits in a dish by the side of the bed, and recited a prayer to keep off the evil eye, moving about the room the while, in spite of his huge bulk, as noiselessly as a cat. Whenever I woke in the night, there was Tomasso sitting by the wood fire, watching me with friendly solicitude.