YE WHO ENTER HERE
Panayota was part of the flight and of the panic, but she was not, even
in the moment of her greatest fear, a part of the Turks. Her one
thought as she repeated the name of the Virgin beneath her yashmak and
crossed herself with her hands hidden within the loose black robe, was
to get away from the Mohammedans. Let the heavens fall and the earth
yawn, so she escape from Kostakes and his kin! The ever-increasing
stream of humanity ran, scrambled, and, as it grew denser, fought its
way on to the city gate, through which it poured into the dusty road
beyond. Once outside the city a momentary feeling of relief possessed
the throng, as though they had arrived at a place of safety. They did
not cease to run, but there was a lull in the frightened chatter. A
woman seized Panayota by the arm and addressed to her a voluble
question in Turkish, between gasps for breath and hysteric sobs. The
Cretan, not understanding a word, plucked away her sleeve and struggled
toward the edge of the human stream. The woman, following, again
seized her by the arm and repeated the question in a voice of shrill
querulousness. In the midst of Panayota's new terror--that of
betrayal--sounded the boom of another gun and the crash of near-by
walls. Her tormentor screamed and clutched both hands into the back of
a tall Turk, in whom fear had proved a stronger passion than lust or
fanaticism, and who was fighting a way to safety through his weaker
neighbors. Panayota, suddenly released, fell clear of the human stream
against the corner of a hut that stood by the roadside. She ran to the
end of the building and looked back. It was absolutely certain that no
one of all that hysterical, panic-stricken flock of human sheep saw
her. She stepped behind the building and reeled for a moment against
the rough mud wall, hands upon it high up, face between them. She felt
faint, but the Virgin answered her prayers with strength. An opening
in a hedge of aloes invited her. Through this she stepped and,
stooping, ran for a long distance, keeping the hedge between her and
the fleeing Turks. She came at last to a little building, long and
low, standing by the side of a cross road. She pushed the door open
and gave a cry of joy. The tall stand, with its circular top, covered
with spikes for holding candles, the curtained recess at the farther
end of the room, the crude earthen censer in the window--all told her
that she had taken refuge in a Christian church, which, strange to say,
had neither been damaged nor defiled. On the wall beside the curtain
was a tiny shelf, and upon this stood a bit of board about four inches
square, bearing on its hither surface the dim resemblance of an
oval-faced woman and chubby, naked child.
"Ah, the dear Panayeia!" cried Panayota, transported with delight.
Tearing her Turkish garments from her, she threw them to the earth with
a "Na!" and spat upon them. Then she turned to kiss the _eikon_, but
ere she did so it occurred to her that the place was defiled by the
clothing which she had just removed. She therefore gathered the pile
up and peeped from the door. Seeing no one, she hid the clothing in
the hedge and returned to light one of the yellow candles which she
found upon the stand. She took it as a good omen that half a dozen
matches, evidently left by a previous worshiper, were scattered about
among the candles. Panayota had no money with her, not a _lepton_, not
a _para_, so she took a thin gold ring from her finger, once given her
by her father, kissed it and laid it among the few copper coins on the
stand. Wonderful peace and comfort came to her. The sanctuary of the
Most High seemed pervaded by the divine presence. Save for the flicker
of the beeswax candle, she was almost in darkness. It was nearly
sunset and the only light of day that entered came through a narrow
slit in the thick wall. She went to the door frequently and listened,
whenever she heard excited voices and footsteps of people hurrying
along the road, but all the passers-by were Turks. The world seemed
full of Turks.
Just at dusk three men stopped opposite the door and fell into a
dispute. After wrangling for a few moments they came directly toward
the church. Panayota ran to the curtain and then drew back in
superstitious terror. Should she enter the Holy of Holies, even to
save her life? A hoarse laugh at the very door decided her. The men
entered. She heard their exclamation of surprise at the burning
candle, though she could not understand what they said. She looked
about her, impotent with terror, her white lips moving mechanically in
prayer. In the end of the church above her head was a narrow slit to
admit the light. Even as she stared a swallow flitted in and out.
Fainting with fear, she seemed to feel herself dragged by rough hands
from her hiding place, as she stood there with closed eyes behind the
thin curtain. A fearful scream, the scream of a woman in the last
extreme of fright and horror, did not at first arouse her. It seemed
perfectly natural for a woman to be screaming. Then, all at once, the
consciousness that she was saved flashed upon her--saved through
another's misfortune, but saved. She pulled the curtain back and
peeped out. The stand had been kicked over, the candle was out, but
the room was empty. Still those dreadful screams continued, mixed with
bestial chuckling and laughter. A Christian girl was hysterically
shrieking for mercy. Suddenly the shrieks ceased, and then broke forth
again at a greater distance, as though some ruffian were holding his
hand over the poor girl's mouth as she was being dragged away.
Panayota turned sick with pity and terror--pity for the unknown and
unseen victim, and terror at her own narrow escape. A long period of
silence ensued, at the end of which Panayota plucked up courage to pull
the door open a trifle and peep out. It was now nearly dark. She
heard distant voices, but could see no one. The church had become to
her an abode of fear. Mohammedans might enter it at any moment to
commit sacrilege. The hedge was near by. If she could only reach that
unobserved she could flit along in its shadow toward the open country.
Then she could run all night. Several times she nerved herself for the
start, but found her courage insufficient. Once, when she had really
pushed the door open wide enough to let herself out, she heard men's
footsteps. She drew back, and again suffered that dreadful
apprehension that they were coming into the church. They were two
Turkish soldiers, and they went right on. As soon as their footsteps
had died away in the night, Panayota crossed herself, and, stooping
low, ran to the hedge. She stole by it for some distance until it was
cut in two by a gray streak of road that dimly threaded the darkness.
"I cannot follow the hedge all night," she reasoned. "If I get out
into the country, it must be by the road."
Again commending herself to the Virgin, she started down the highway,
walking as quietly as possible and stopping every few minutes to
listen. She had not gone far before she became aware of gruff voices
and she stole a little way into the field and crouched among the vines.
"Perhaps they are Christians," she mused, and the mere possibility
thrilled her with pleasure. So greatly did she wish it to be so, that
she actually fancied that she heard Greek words. Resting upon one
knee, with her hands pressed tight to her fluttering heart, she leaned
forward in the darkness, a smile flickering upon her lips. She was
almost ready in her confidence to cry out:
"Eh, fellow countrymen!" when the voices undeceived her.
"O, Mother of God!" she moaned, "are there, then, no more Christians in
thy world?"
More cautiously than before she stole along the faint, slate-colored
ribbon of road that unfolded before her, a few feet at a time in the
dimness of the great stars; and at last she beheld a light that
flickered and went out several times and then burned feebly but
steadily.
As she stole along, undecided whether to make a wide detour or to trust
to the darkness and pass by near the light, two men seemed to rise from
the very ground at her feet. Panayota saw them first and managed to
slip by them, but her foot hit a stone and sent it rolling down the
bank. One of the men called after her in Turkish. She did not dare to
run, but, lifting her skirts, tiptoed away with long steps. The men
made a sudden rush for her, and she flew down the road on the wings of
fear, screaming once, "Help! Help! _Panayeia!_"
As her pursuers heard the feminine voice and the Greek, they shouted
"Ho! Ho! A Greek pullet!" and came stumbling after; but Panayota was
a Sphakiote maiden and not so easily caught. On, on, she ran, with the
sound of those heavy footsteps and that satyr laughter ever in her
ears, and, as it seemed to her, nearer, nearer. She came to a place
where the roads forked, and, by some instinct, followed the right
branch toward that tiny, flickering beacon that seemed to beckon her in
the darkness. All at once her pursuers stopped, burst into a hoarse
guffaw and went back. Panayota could not for the moment believe it.
She feared they were simply torturing her; that they would turn again
in a moment and resume the chase. She staggered on, too faint, almost,
to stand, yet not daring to stop. She was passing a row of small
houses. They were square patches of bluish gray, and the doors were
long holes where the dark came through. Here was absolute silence, as
though it were the city of the dead, and the walls of the dwellings
were giant tombstones. But here at last was the house of the light.
Panayota stood on the opposite side of the road and looked into the
open door.
"A Christian at last!" she cried. "Now God be praised!"
A bare little room she beheld, with a floor of beaten earth, and
containing only a couple of chairs and a pair of barangas, or platforms
of plank on each side of the fireplace. Upon the wall hung an _eikon_
of the dear, blessed Virgin, and upon a shelf beneath sat a tumbler of
olive oil upon whose surface floated a burning wick. A woman stood
before the _eikon_, crossing herself rhythmically and praying with a
silent motion of the lips.
But while Panayota stood in the door, before she could open her mouth
to speak, her fleeting joy gave place to the old terror. This was but
a woman, after all, with whom she was about to take refuge, and the
Turks were just behind her and all about.
Panayota seized the door jamb to keep herself from falling, and her
head drooped against her arm.
"Woman," she gasped, "are you not crazy? Why do you not run? The
Turks! The Turks!"
The woman looked around. She was young and comely, with an oval face
from which the black hair was neatly brushed back, low down over the
ears. Her eyes were large--unnaturally large and dark--and there was
in them an expression which awed Panayota. Their utter fearlessness
was uncanny at such a time, and back of it was a depth of accepted
despair that has tasted all grief and hence knows no further fear.
"You are in no danger from the Turks here," said the woman. Her voice
was infinitely calm. It came into Panayota's world of fire, massacre,
outrage, like a voice from another sphere.
Then all at once light seemed to break in upon Panayota's mind as she
stood there bewildered.
"She is dazed with fear or some great misfortune," she thought. "She
is losing her mind," and, springing forward, she seized the woman by
the arm, crying in her ear:
"Come away, sister--the Turks! the Turks!"
But the woman shook her off and shrank from her and motioned her back
with outstretched arms and uplifted palms, saying:
"Do not touch me!"
"But the Turks are upon you!"
"We who live in this village are not afraid of the Turks. Who comes
here runs a greater danger than that of the knife."
"Yes, I know. Violence," whispered Panayota, turning her face toward
the door and listening.
"Who would offer violence to a leper?"
If there is any horror in a Cretan girl's mind equal to that of
dishonor it is the horror of leprosy--that hideous sore on the body of
the loveliest siren isle that floats in any sea. Panayota, in her
vigorous and life-giving mountain home, had heard leprosy spoken of as
a curse of God. She had always classed it with the punishments of
hell--something to be shuddered at even when mentioned; but the
possibility of coming into contact with it had never entered her mind.
She turned to flee again into the darkness, when she heard in the
street, almost before the door, the sound of footsteps, and husky,
gargling voices talking Turkish. Panayota sank to the floor senseless.
Two Mohammedan lepers, who lived farther down the street, passed by on
their way home. They did not look in because Aglaia, stepping quietly
over the prostrate form, had closed the door.