"STILL I SAY UNTO YOU, COURAGE"
"Hello! What's that for?" asked Curtis.
Michali shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?" he replied.
Curtis hopped to the door, unlocked it and looked out. The church
stood across the road on the top of a big, flat rock. Though small, it
boasted a Byzantine dome. The bell hung in a frame erected over the
porch, and the rope was tied about a wooden pillar, to prevent its
being blown out of reach by the wind.
"Why, it's Papa-Maleko himself," cried the American.
The priest gave the rope two or three more decisive jerks, and then,
leaving the end dangling, started for the house. His stately black
robe was rent down the front, and the wind blew the pieces out behind,
exposing his voluminous Cretan breeches and his yellow boots. His long
hair had writhed loose from its fastenings and had fallen down his
back. It was beautiful and reminded Curtis of Panayota. His tall hat
was battered at the side, so that the roof looked as though it were
slipping off. He spoke a few words to Michali, and then, opening the
trunk studded with brass nails, he took out and donned his sacerdotal
vestments, a sleeveless cloak with a cross in the middle of the back
and a richly embroidered stole. Running his fingers through his long,
glossy hair and shaking it out as a lion shakes his mane, he strode
back to the little church, into which the people were already excitedly
pouring.
"It looks bad," said Michali; "he is about to ask for God's help."
"I'm going across," said Curtis.
"Can you walk so far?" asked Michali.
"O, yes; with this crutch I can get over there all right."
Though the church was crowded, there was absolute, solemn silence.
These simple people believed that they were in the very presence of
God. Kindly hands seized Curtis and assisted him into one of the
high-backed, narrow seats ranged along the walls. Two tall candles
threw a flickering light on a crude St. George and the Dragon, of
mammoth size, painted on the screen. Every new comer kissed the face
of a florid virgin that looked up out of a gaudy frame, reposing on the
slanting top of a tall stand near the door. Numerous _eikons_ in
gilded frames hung about the wall, and a silent throng of forgotten
saints, painted on the dome above, peered dimly down upon the
worshippers. The windows were narrow, but enough sunlight straggled in
to give a ghostly look to the candles, lighted here and there.
Papa-Maleko's voice was musical and tender. He commenced chanting in a
low, pleading tone, but as the glorious words of the litany gradually
took possession of his soul, the melodious, full-voweled Greek
syllables rolled more and more confidently from his tongue. The poor,
frightened mothers and children of his flock raised their faces and
sniffed the wholesome incense that now pervaded the building. The
spirit of the scene carried Curtis away. He was awed and mysteriously
refreshed, as one who, in a noisome cavern, feels the cool, sweet air
blowing upon him from the darkness. He found himself beating the arm
of his seat and chanting inaudibly, again and again, the sublime words,
"_Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott._"
"Ah, yes, God will protect us! He is our very present help in time of
trouble."
And now, Papa-Maleko is blessing his flock, one by one. Down the aisle
he passes, holding a little cross to the eager lips, speaking words of
comfort.
"Courage, courage, my children," he says; "when God is with us who can
be against us? Christ is fighting for us and the Holy Virgin and all
the saints. Courage, courage."
They seized his hand and kissed it. Women sobbed in an exaltation of
faith. Mothers pressed the cross to the lips and foreheads of their
wondering babes.
"The Virgin is our helper," they said.
"Christ and the Virgin be with you," responded the priest.
So he stood, his left hand lifted in blessing, his right extending the
cross; stately in his flowing robes, calm in the dignity of his exalted
message.
"Have courage, my children," he repeated, smiling benignly. "It came
to me there in the mountains, like a voice from God. 'Ye are
Christians; why do ye not call upon the God of hosts?'"
"Papa-Maleko!"
In an instant the whole congregation had turned and were looking
towards the door. There stood a tall shepherd with a rifle in his
hand. His face was blackened with powder and he seemed covered with
blood.
"What is it? what is it?" shrieked a dozen voices.
"There is a terrible fight. Loukas and Spiro are killed--"
The words of the priest rang out clear and strong:
"Our God is a very present help--courage, my children!"
"My left arm is broken. The Turks got on top of the hill, where the
girls were, but the girls all jumped off, laughing. All killed,
Paraskeve, Elene, Maria--"
The speaker's voice was drowned in a pandemonium of shrieks and sobs.
But again the priest was heard, reverently, distinctly, firmly, like
the voice of Christ calming the waters.
"They are with Christ in paradise. Still I say unto you, courage.
Since God is with us who shall stand against us?"
"Panayota was with them, but her dress caught in a thorn bush, and
before she could tear herself loose the Turks had her."
Every eye in the church was riveted upon the priest. The cross rattled
to the floor, and his arm dropped to his side. His lips were white and
there was a terrible look in the large brown eyes.
"Panayota! Panayota!" he called hoarsely. His voice sounded far away
now. Suddenly he tore off his sacred vestments and flung them in a
heap on the floor. Striding to the wounded shepherd, he snatched the
gun from his hand. Looking from the window, Curtis saw him running
toward the hills, his long hair streaming on the wind. The flock
poured out after him and the American was sitting in the deserted house
of God, gazing at a pile of sacred robes and muttering stupidly:
"Panayota! Panayota!"