THE PRIZE
BY
SYDNEY C. GRIER
AUTHOR OF ‘THE HEIR,’ ‘THE PATH TO HONOUR,’
‘THE HERITAGE,’ ETC.
(_Third in the Balkan Series II._)
_WITH FRONTISPIECE BY A. PEARSE_
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1910
[IMAGE: images/img_000.jpg
CAPTION: DANAË.]
CONTENTS.
I. DANAË PLAYS THE EAVESDROPPER
II. THE LADY
III. THE LITTLE LORD
IV. THE GIRDLE OF ISIDORA
V. THE BRAND OF CAIN
VI. THE SPY
VII. THE EDUCATION OF KALLIOPÉ
VIII. ROOTED IN DISHONOUR
IX. ON THE TRACK
X. THE PORTRAIT
XI. THE RETURN OF PETROS
XII. MISSING
XIII. THE CULPRIT
XIV. A RESCUE EXPEDITION
XV. THE ACME
XVI. _J’ACCUSE_
XVII. THE USE OF FRIENDS
XVIII. EXPELLED FROM PARADISE
XIX. _PATRIA POTESTAS_
XX. GREEK AND GREEK
XXI. MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE
XXII. _IN FORMÂ PAUPERIS_
XXIII. GUESTS OF HONOUR
XXIV. THE TALLY
XXV. THE MASTER OF THE SITUATION
XXVI. THE FAIR PRIZE WON
THE PRIZE.
CHAPTER I.
DANAË PLAYS THE EAVESDROPPER.
The scene was a picture in itself. Sea and sky vied with one another
in the depth of their unruffled blue, and in the glorious sunshine and
clear air the cliffs were vividly, even startlingly, white. All round
the island they presented an inhospitable front to the voyager save at
one point, where advantage had been taken of a steep ravine running
down to the sea to find room for a number of white-walled, red-roofed
houses, which seemed to cling precariously to successive steps in the
rock, from the primitive harbour at its foot to the rude fortress at
the summit. On the land side, grey olive-trees came so close to the
fortress walls that either of the girls lounging in a shady spot on
the ramparts and lazily nibbling sunflower seeds could have touched
the upper branches with her hand by leaning over the parapet. In the
palmy days of Strio, when her pirates were the terror of the
surrounding waters, the rulers of the isle would have seen in the
olive-grove so near their walls merely a cover for probable enemies,
and would have swept it ruthlessly away. But these were peaceful
times, and the head of the Christodoridi was more concerned to wring
the last drachma from his rocky acres than from the reluctant hands of
seafarers.
The Despot of Strio (both Prince Christodoridi and his subjects clung
proudly to the ancient title) was a very great person--in Strio--and
was wont to talk familiarly of his sovereign, the King of Morea, as of
an equal whose state was bound to his by ancestral treaties. On the
mainland, however, and still more in what both Striotes and Moreans
called respectfully “Europe,” people were apt to laugh at the
pretensions of the island potentate, when they were not irritated by
them. Very wisely, therefore, Prince Christodoridi preferred to remain
where his authority was undisputed, and bestrode his rock, glorying in
the fact that not a woman within its confines could read or write.
Five years ago, his elder daughter Danaë, visiting her mother’s
relatives in a neighbouring island, had been swept with her cousins
into the “vacation school,” established in her holidays by an
energetic American lady teacher from the mainland, aghast at the
ignorance which surrounded her. But before the school had been a week
in session, Prince Christodoridi stalked grimly into the awed circle
and carried off his daughter, favouring the foreigner with his opinion
of her proceedings in language so exceedingly plain that it was well
she did not understand it. In that week Danaë had earned the
reputation of a terror with her schoolmistress, and a cause of awful
joy to her schoolfellows, but she resented bitterly the dramatic close
of her education. In a day or two more she would have possessed a
Frank dress--she was learning to make it--which she could have
flaunted proudly before the eyes of her mother and the other Striote
ladies, who still wore the embroidered skirt and apron and voluminous
girdle, the long coat and loose vest, of the days before Independence,
the poorer women replacing the skirt by wide trousers. Prince
Christodoridi was, supreme in sumptuary matters, as in all else, and
“Frank clothes” were anathema in his eyes.
Stretched upon the sun-warmed stones of the rampart, the parapet just
shielding them from the rays of the declining sun, Danaë and her
sister Angeliké squabbled noisily over the heap of sunflower seeds
between them. Danaë ate fair, taking one seed at a time, but
Angeliké had a greedy habit of selecting four or five of the plumpest
at once, and keeping them in her hand till they were wanted. She
always did it, and it always led to bickering, but this never occurred
to her as a reason for leaving it off. The handsome childish faces of
both girls were flushed with resentment, for as usual on these
occasions, grudges in no way connected with the matter in hand had
been brought up on either side. Their household tasks were finished,
and what had they to do but quarrel, until the happy hour should come
when Prince Christodoridi, having duly locked his family in, would
swagger down to the coffee-house to ruffle it among his subjects, and
his daughters would slip out, by ways best known to themselves, to
join the other girls of the place, who, shrouded in their dark shawls,
flitted ghostlike down back alleys and over roofs, to visit one
another and exchange the gossip of the day?
The heap of sunflower seeds was finished, though a remnant was still
left within the shelter of Angeliké’s fingers, when footsteps below
caused Danaë to look down into the courtyard. She withdrew her head
hurriedly. “It is our father and Petros!” she whispered, with
repressed excitement.
“There is nothing interesting about Petros,” said Angeliké, yawning
with disappointing indifference.
“Owl! does he not come from Therma?” demanded Danaë. “If our brother
has sent any message, he will give it now.”
“Owl yourself! There will be no message. My lord Romanos cares nothing
about us. When he was made Prince, you said he would send for us to
his court and give us kings for husbands, but he has never taken the
slightest notice. He cares no more about establishing us than he did
about our fighting for him.” Angeliké sneered unpleasantly.
Danaë flushed. “You never wanted to fight for him,” she said.
“I should think not! What good is it to us that he was chosen Prince?
And even if he had sent for us to Therma,” with a sudden change of
ground, “would there have been any pleasure in it? We don’t know
European ways, we can’t even speak French. People would have laughed
at us. If I can once get a husband and escape from Strio, that is all
I want, and you may be quite sure our father would never let us marry
Europeans.”
“I suppose a husband like Narkissos Smaragdopoulos would satisfy you?”
sneered Danaë in her turn.
“Of course he would. You can be nasty about him if you like. Everyone
knows that he never speaks to you since you upset the coffee over his
kilt in handing it to him.”
“And do they know who told him that I did it on purpose?”
“If they don’t, they probably think you told him yourself. It would be
just like you. What are you going to do?” as Danaë began to crawl
along the rampart in the direction taken by her father and the
handsome ruffianly fellow, half guard, half servant, who swaggered
after him.
“Hush!” said Danaë angrily. “I am going to hear what they are saying,
of course.”
“Then I shall tell our father that you listened.” The offensive and
defensive alliance against those in authority on the part of the two
girls was always liable to an interruption of this sort, when one of
the malcontents deserted temporarily to the side of power and brought
punishment upon the other.
“Then I shall tell our mother of the sweets that made you ill on the
vigil of Hagios Jakōbos, when she thought the fasting had been too
much for you,” Danaë flung back, and saw, as she expected, that
Angeliké had no answer ready. Satisfied with having thus protected
herself, she crawled on, until she found herself exactly above the two
men as they sat on one of the rude flights of steps that ran up to the
ramparts. Just here there was no parapet in whose shadow she might
shelter herself, but they had their backs to her, and were far enough
below not to see her, even if they turned round, when she was lying
flat on the wall. Listening anxiously to discover whether any
interesting topics had already been discussed, she was relieved to
find that her father was apparently still leading up to some important
point on which Petros seemed to be in no hurry to afford him
information.
“My son is too young to know his own best interests,” said Prince
Christodoridi, with dignity.
“His Highness is not exactly a boy,” growled Petros.
“And therefore his elders must do their best to save him from the
consequences of his youthful mistakes,” went on the Prince, as though
his sentence had not been interrupted.
“Then let his elders do their own work themselves, so that his
Highness may know to whom his gratitude is due,” was the surly
response.
“Miserable dog!” cried Prince Christodoridi in a fury. “Is it for this
I have maintained you close to my son’s person, charging you to keep
me acquainted with all that touches one so dear to me, from whose side
I am kept by my responsibilities here?”
“Some folks say it is his Highness’s own wish that keeps you here, O
my Prince--that since you refused to aid him with a single drachma in
gaining his position, he does not see why you should expect to derive
any benefit from it.”
“Thickhead! why should I spend money in championing the cause of God
and the saints? Is their power not sufficient? Has the cause not
triumphed? Yet my son, who derives from me the rights which are now
fully recognised, expresses no desire for my presence at his side.”
“Perhaps his Highness thinks less of his rights than you do, my
Prince.” Petros was keenly enjoying the inconsistency of his lord’s
last two utterances. “I have heard him say that he owed his success to
the intrigues of the Powers, and that right was altogether on the side
of the Englishman, him of Klaustra.”
“And after that you still think my son is able to take care of
himself?” asked the Prince pathetically. “I tell you, Petraki, he will
be his own ruin. Come, earn your wages, and let us save the misguided
one from the destruction that threatens him.”
“I take his Highness’s wages too, and I don’t know what he will think
about my earning them,” grumbled Petros. “If the Lady had not
distrusted me and tried to turn the Lord Romanos against me----”
Danaë raised her head a little, and bent forward, so as to make sure
of not missing a word. There was nothing revolting to her in the idea
that her father should employ her brother’s confidential servant as a
spy upon him, for it was of a piece with the methods which she saw in
operation around her every day, and it was only natural that he should
wish to participate in the good fortune of the son he had banished and
wished to disinherit. Romanos Christodoridi, elected Prince of Emathia
by the free vote of the inhabitants, under the auspices of the Powers
of Europe, ought to have been a gold mine to his relatives, and Danaë
felt no reluctance to subject the brother whose indifference had so
deeply disappointed her to a little interference with his plans.
Besides, “the Lady” sounded interesting.
“I did not ask for your reasons, friend Petros,” said Prince
Christodoridi, disposing, with a snap of his fingers, of the belated
scruples of conscience which were troubling his instrument. “I ask for
obedience and truth. What of this woman, then? Who is she?”
“They call her ‘the Lady’ in Therma, O my Prince,” Petros spoke
doggedly. “She lives in a retired house outside the city, and never
goes out, and receives no one but his Highness.”
“She is perhaps old enough to be his mother?” asked the Prince
sarcastically.
“Nay, my Prince, she is young and very beautiful. Also she is a Latin,
and she calls his Highness her husband.”
Prince Christodoridi laughed ferociously. “Husband, indeed! and she a
Latin! How do you know these things, Petros?”
“His Highness takes me to guard him when he visits the house, my
Prince, and I alone have been permitted to pass within the gates.”
“Then if you are able to enter, you must do what has to be done.” The
words came with lightning swiftness.
“Nay, my Prince, the gate can only be opened from within. His Highness
says some word which I have not heard to the old woman who keeps the
door.”
“And you are too feeble to climb a wall, my poor Petraki?”
“O my Prince, the wall is guarded on the outside. It is through the
sentries that the common people have learnt to laugh and jest about
the Lady.”
“Then this disgrace is a matter of common talk--at a moment when the
Emperor of Scythia is offering his daughter as a bride to my son?”
“I think it is his cousin, my Prince. The Emperor’s daughters are all
very young, they say.”
“His daughter,” repeated Prince Christodoridi firmly. “Anything else
would be an insult only to be washed out in blood. And is this fair
prospect for Emathia and our ancient house to be destroyed for the
sake of a Latin woman?”
“That is for you to say, my Prince. I have no love for the Lady. Why
should I, when the Lord Romanos desired to leave me to guard her, and
she refused, saying that she disliked my looks and did not trust me?
Had she accepted my services, I must have defended her to the death,
but now I should not be sorry to see her dealt with as she deserves.”
“Then who was left to guard her in your place?”
“No one, my Prince. The Lady refused to have anyone with her but her
women-servants, saying that the guards outside were sufficient.”
“I think the Lady has consulted our convenience rather than her own,”
smiled Prince Christodoridi. “Come, friend Petros, will you venture to
tell me now that it is impossible to reach her?”
“Impossible unless one had a confederate inside the gates, my Prince.
The door must be opened, as you see.”
“Then introduce a confederate, by all means. Holy Michael! does this
fellow call himself a Striote?”
“And who is the confederate to be, my Prince? For I have no wish to
put my neck in jeopardy over this--removal, nor do I think that you
have. _Kyrie Eleēson_! look at that, lord!”
Crossing himself hastily, he clutched at the Prince’s wrist with a
trembling hand, and pointed to the shadow of the rampart on the ground
in front of them. Fully evident in the treacherous beams of the
sinking sun was the outline of a human figure on the summit of the
wall, with head raised to listen greedily to what was said.
“Thickhead! why speak of it?” Prince Christodoridi was up the stairs
in a moment, with an agility highly creditable to his sixty years, and
had Danaë’s wrists in an iron grasp and a hand over her mouth, before
she could even move. “Take her feet, fool! and bring her here.” They
were inside one of the deserted towers in an instant, and before
Danaë realised fully what had happened, she was bound hand and foot
with the sash which Petros stripped off at his lord’s sharp command.
Prince Christodoridi chose out deliberately a long thin dagger from
the armoury in his belt, and dangled it before his daughter’s
horrified eyes.
“How much have you heard, wicked one?” he demanded.
“Everything, lord.” The words would hardly make themselves audible.
“What were we talking about?”
“About my brother Romanos--how he has given himself over to an evil
witch of a Latin woman, who has made him forget his own house and his
duty to it.”
“But what affair is it of yours?” Prince Christodoridi was puzzled by
the warmth of personal feeling in the answer.
“Is it not the affair of all when one of us disgraces himself, lord?”
Danaë was regaining her courage now that discovery had not been
followed by instant death.
“No, insolent one! Has your mother not taught you yet that it is no
affair of a woman what any of her men choose to do? Then you will have
time to learn it in solitude here while Petros returns to his master.”
Danaë grew pale, for there were dreadful tales of the dungeons under
the tower, but she answered undauntedly, “So be it, lord. If the
guilty one is punished, I shall but rejoice.”
“And what would you do to the guilty one?” asked her father curiously.
Her eyes flashed. “Lord, I would tear her from that fair house whither
she draws my brother to his destruction, and she should never see it
again.”
“So the woman is the guilty one!” said Prince Christodoridi with grim
amusement. “And what then, my lady?”
“I would bring her here, lord, and cast her into a dungeon from which
she should never escape. But when her beauty was gone, and her face as
evil and ugly as herself, I would summon my brother and bid him behold
her, that he might laugh at his own foolishness, and go his way.”
“And that you would account sufficient punishment?”
“Surely, lord, for her it would be worse than death, and she deserves
it. But my brother has been led away.”
“Worse than death?” said Prince Christodoridi meditatively. “But not
so safe, daughter--not so safe. Still,” he stopped and cut the knots
in the sash with his dagger, and allowed Danaë to rise from her
cramped position on the floor, “you are a worthy child of the
Christodoridi, I believe. Would you help in carrying out this
vengeance, little one?”
“Try me, lord! This fellow needs a confederate, does he? Let me go. I
will enter the woman’s household as the meanest of her servants, and
wait patiently until I can deliver her bound into his hands to be
brought hither. Then I will dance for joy above her dungeon.”
“But what has she done to you?” asked Prince Christodoridi, still
moved entirely by curiosity, and not by any disapproval of his
daughter’s sentiments.
“She has bewitched my brother, lord. Is it not enough for you that she
has bewitched your son?”
“Lady Danaë knows nothing of the matter. She is too young to do what
has to be done, and I will not risk discovery by taking her with me,”
growled Petros.
“Friend Petros, the women of the Christodoridi are never too young to
do what the head of their house commands,” said the Prince.
“And you know, lord, whether any weakness of mine would lead to
discovery,” cried Danaë eagerly. “I have risked much for my brother
already--even your displeasure.”
This reminder was a bold stroke, for Danaë had suffered severely at
her father’s hands when, warned secretly by Angeliké, he had
instituted a search of the fishing-boat in which a band of volunteers
from Strio were going to the help of Prince Romanos and his insurgent
companions in Hagiamavra, and had discovered among them his elder
daughter dressed in boy’s clothes. She had been brought back with
ignominy, and cruelly beaten, but the incident had given Prince
Christodoridi a certain reluctant respect for her. Moreover, she had
promptly repaid the faithless Angeliké by revealing her gratified
acceptance of the serenades addressed to her by a young Striote who
had travelled as far as Alexandria, and in so doing had rubbed off
some of the awe with which his lord and his lord’s family should
properly be regarded. Prince Christodoridi was nothing if not
impartial, and Angeliké’s shoulders vied with Danaë’s in the bruises
they exhibited for many weeks, while she had the added sting of
knowing that her father considered Danaë had far the best of the
fray.
“There is no question of displeasure here,” said Prince Christodoridi
pointedly. “Successful, you may return. Unsuccessful, no one must know
that you belonged to the Christodoridi.”
“Be it so, lord. I go under a false name to deliver my brother from
his enchantment. If I succeed, the girls will sing of me in the dance;
if I fail, I disappear. What is a woman more or less when the hope of
the house is concerned?”
“All-Holy Mother of God! I could wish you had been my son, Danaë,”
cried the Prince, with unwonted enthusiasm, “instead of that popinjay
Romanos! But make no mistake,” he added repressively, “I send you
merely because I would not reveal to any other the disgrace that
threatens us. You will swear to obey the worthy Petros as if he were
myself, since he will answer to me for your failure or success.”
“I am putting my neck in a noose,” grumbled Petros.
“Promise me first, lord, that you will wait to see if I succeed, and
not suffer my sister to be married before me,” said Danaë, greatly
daring. Her father frowned heavily.
“Would you make conditions with me, insolent one? Is a younger sister
ever married before her elder? You will obey Petros in everything, and
he has my authority to take any steps that may be necessary with
regard to you.”
“The old woman at the Lady’s house said they wanted a girl to look
after the child,” said Petros, with a slow grin. “I said I might be
able to bring a niece of mine back from the islands. If Lady Danaë
will be my niece, and obey me in all things, I will take her, but not
otherwise. Holy Antony! if the Lord Romanos knew what was plotting
against his love”--Prince Christodoridi glanced at him
sharply--“perpetual imprisonment, no less--my life would not be worth
a drachma, and I desire to continue in his service until he enters
Czarigrad in triumph as Emperor.”
“Peace! you talk too much. Lady Danaë will obey you, and you will be
responsible for her,” said Prince Christodoridi sharply. “Come, girl!”
and with a hand on Danaë’s shoulder he marched her down the steps,
across the courtyard, and into the room where her mother, roused by
his approach from an unlicensed nap, looked up with eyes not unlike
those of a comfortable but apprehensive cow.
“What has Danaë been doing now?” she asked feebly.
“She is ill brought up. I have often asked you why you did not train
her better,” replied Prince Christodoridi, mindful of discipline. “I
am going to send her to be educated where she will learn obedience.”
Princess Christodoridi had never defied her husband, nor even
disappointed him, save in failing to provide the son who was to have
supplanted Romanos, but at this extraordinary betrayal of past
convictions she ventured a mild protest.
“But, lord, you have always said----”
“May I not do what I will with my own daughter?” cried the Prince
furiously. “The girl goes to-morrow.”
Princess Christodoridi collapsed, and Angeliké, from a sheltered
corner, made signs of derision. But Danaë had provided beforehand
against any undue elation on Angeliké’s part, and was content.