CHAPTER I

THE VINTAGE

_A Romance of the Greek War of

Independence. By_ E. F. BENSON

_Author of "Limitations" "Dodo"

"The Judgment Books" etc._

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

"And the wine-press was trodden without the

city, and blood came out of the wine-press"

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

1898

[Illustration: "'COME AND SIT DOWN'"]

THIS ROMANCE

DEALING WITH THE REGENERATION OF HER PEOPLE

IS DEDICATED BY PERMISSION

TO

HER MAJESTY

OLGA

QUEEN OF THE HELLENES

CONTENTS

PART I

THE VINEYARD

I. The House on the Road To Nauplia

II. The Coming of Nicholas Vidalis

III. The Story of a Brigand

IV. The Midnight Ordeal

V. Mitsos Picks Cherries for Maria

VI. The Song from the Darkness

VII. The Port Dues of Corinth

VIII. The Mending of the Monastery Roof

IX. The Singer from the Darkness

PART II

THE EVE OF THE GATHERING

I. Mitsos Meets His Cousins

II. Mitsos and Yanni find a Horse

III. Mitsos Has the Hysterics

IV. Yanni Pays a Visit to the Turk

V. The Vision at Bassae

VI. Three Little Men Fall Off their Horses

VII. Mitsos Disarranges a House-roof

VIII. The Message of Fire

PART III

THE TREADING OF THE GRAPES

I. Te Deum Laudamus

II. Two Silver Candlesticks

III. The Adventure of the Fire-ship

IV. The Training of the Troops

V. The Hornets' Nest at Valtetzi

VI. The Entry of Germanos

VII. The Rule of the Senate

VIII. The Song from Tripoli

IX. Private Nicholas Vidalis

X. The Fall of Tripoli

XI. Father and Daughter

XII. The Search for Suleima

XIII. Nicholas Goes Home

XIV. The House on the Road to Nauplia

ILLUSTRATIONS

"'COME AND SIT DOWN'"

"'I AM FATHER ANDRÉA,' HE SHOUTED"

"HALF CARELESSLY SHE THREW INTO THE BOAT THE ROSES SHE HAD PICKED"

"SHE KISSED HIM LIGHTLY ON THE FOREHEAD"

"MITSOS SURVEYED HIM WITH EASY INDIFFERENCE"

"YANNI WAS STRUGGLING IN THE GRASP OF TWO MEN, THE GREEK AND THE TURK"

"KATSI AND A FINE SELECTION OF COUSINS ACCOMPANIED THE TWO"

"AFTER SUPPER MITSOS EXPOUNDED"

"IN THE CENTRE OF THE GREAT CHAMBER STOOD ONE WHOM IT DAZZLED HIS EYES

TO LOOK UPON"

"'AH, BUT IT IS GOOD TO BE WITH YOU AGAIN'"

"MITSOS TORE UP GREAT HANDFULS OF UNDERGROWTH AND THREW THEM ON"

"MIXED WITH THE NOISE OF THE SINGING, ROSE ONE GREAT SOB OF A THANKFUL

PEOPLE BORN AGAIN"

"BOTH THE BOYS, SEIZING THEIR OARS, ROWED FOR LIFE"

"CASTING HIMSELF DOWN THERE, IN AN AGONY BITTER SWEET, HE PRAYED"

"MITSOS, FLYING AT HIM LIKE A WILD-CAT"

"BORNE IN A CHAIR ON THE SHOULDERS OF FOUR MONKS"

"HE HAD CLAMBERED UP AND DROPPED DOWN ON THE OTHER SIDE"

"UNBUCKLING HIS SWORD, HE LAID IT ON THE TABLE"

"YANNI WAS BY HIM WITH A BRILLIANT SMILE ON HIS FACE"

"'WOULD YOU SLAY ME, FATHER?' SHE CRIED AGAIN"

"BY AN EFFORT HE RAISED HIMSELF ON HIS ELBOW"

"'SULEIMA!' CRIED MITSOS"

THE VINTAGE

Part I

THE VINEYARD

CHAPTER I

THE HOUSE OF THE ROAD TO NAUPLIA

Nauplia, huddled together on the edge of its glittering bay, and

grilled beneath the hot stress of the midsummer noon, stood silent as a

city of the dead. Down the middle of the main street, leading up from

the quay to the square, lay a scorching ribbon of sunshine, and the

narrow strips of shadow, sharp cut and blue, spoke of the South.

Along one side of the square ran the barracks of the Turkish garrison

of occupation, two-storied buildings of brown stone, solid but airless,

and faced with a line of arcade. These contained the three companies of

men who were stationed in the town itself, less fortunate in this oven

of heat than the main part of the garrison who held the airier fortress

of Palamede behind, overlooking the plain from a height of five

hundred feet. Down the west side stood the quarters of the officers,

and opposite, the prison, full as usual to overflowing of the native

Greeks, cast there for default of payment to the Turkish usurers of

an interest of forty or fifty per cent. on some small loan; for these

new Turkish laws of 1820 with regard to debt had made the prisons more

populous than ever. A row of shops and a couple of cafés along the

north struck a more domestic note.

A narrow street led out of the square eastwards, and passing the length

of the town, burrowed through the wall of Venetian fortification in

the manner of a tunnel. On the right the outline of the gray fortress

hill, precipitously pitched towards the town in a jagged edge like

forked lightning, rose steep and craggy, weathered by the wind in

places to a tawny red, and peppered over with sun-dried tufts of grass.

Along the base of this the road ran, cobbled unevenly in the Turkish

fashion, and after passing two or three villas which stood white and

segregate among their gardens of flowering pomegranate and serge-clad

cypress, struck out into the plain. Vineyards and rattling maize fields

bordered it on one hand; on the other, beds of rushes and clumps of

king-thistles, which peopled the little swamp between it and the bay.

The spring had been very rainless, and these early days of June saw the

country already yellow and sere. The clumps of succulent leaves round

the base of the asphodels were dried and brown; only the virile stems

with their seeding sprouts remained green and vigorous.

The blinding whiteness of the forenoon gave place before one of the day

to a veiled but unabated heat, and sirocco began to blow up from the

south. Furnace-mouthed, it raised mad little whirlwinds, which spun

across the road and over the hot, reaped fields in petulant eddies,

and powdered all they passed with fine white dust. Two or three hawks,

in despair of spying their dinner through this palpable air, and being

continually blown downwind in the attempt to poise, were following

the example of the rest of the world, and seeking their craggy homes

on the sides of Palamede till the tempest should be overpast. A few

cicalas in a line of white poplars by the wayside alone maintained

their alacrity, and clicked and whirred as if sirocco was of all airs

the most invigorating. The hills of Argolis to the north were already

getting dim and veiled, and losing themselves in an ague of heat.

By the roadside, a mile from the town, stood a small wine-shop, in

front of which projected a rough wooden portico open to the air on

three sides, and roofed with boughs of oleander, plucked leaf and

flower together. A couple of rough stools and a rickety table stood

in the shade in order to invite passers-by to rest, and so to drink,

and the owner himself was lying on a bench under the house wall in

wide-mouthed sleep. A surly-looking dog, shaggy and sturdy, guarded his

slumbers in the intervals of its own, and snapped ineffectually at the

flies.

Directly opposite the wine-shop stood a whitewashed house, built in

a rather more pretentious style than the dwellings of most Greek

peasants, and fronted by a garden, to which a row of white poplars

gave a specious and private air. A veranda ran around two sides of

it, floored with planks, and up the wooden pillars, by which it was

supported, streamed long shoots of flowering roses. A low wooden

settee, cushioned with two Greek saddle-bags, stood in the shade of the

veranda, and on it were sitting two men, one of whom was dressed in the

long black cassock of a priest--both silent.

Then for the first time a human note overscored the thundering of

the hot wind, and a small gray cat scuffled round the corner of the

veranda, pursued by a great long-limbed boy, laughing to himself. He

was dressed in a white linen tunic and tight-fitting linen trousers;

he had no shoes, no socks, and no hat. He almost fell over the settee

before he saw the two men, and then paused, laughing and panting.

"She was after the fish," he explained, "and I was after her. She shall

taste a slapping."

One of the two men looked up at the boy and smiled.

"You'll get into mischief if you run about in the heat at noonday

without your cap on," he said. "Come and sit down. Where are your

manners, Mitsos? Here is Father Andréa."

Mitsos knelt down, and the priest put his hand on the boy's rumpled

black hair.

"God make you brave and good," he said, "and forgive all your sins!"

"Now sit down, Mitsos," said his father. "Who is going to taste a

slapping?"

The boy's face, which had grown grave as he received the priest's

blessing, dimpled into smiles again.

"Why, my cat, Psepséka," he said. "The greedy woman was going down to

the cellar where I put the fish, and I went after her and caught her by

the tail. She spit at me like a little she-devil. Then she scratched

me, and I let go. But soon I will catch her again, and she shall pay

for it all twice over, Turkish fashion. See!"

He held out a big brown hand, down which Psepséka had scored three red

lines.

"What a fierce woman!" said his father. "But you're overbig to run

about after little cats. You're eighteen now, Mitsos, and your uncle

comes here this evening. He'll think you're a boy still."

The boy looked up from his examination of his hand.

"Uncle Nicholas?" he asked.

"Yes. Go and wash your hand, and then lay the table. Put some eggs to

boil, and get out some bread and cheese, and pick some cherries."

Mitsos got up.

"Will the father eat with us?"

"Surely; and put your shoes on before you come to dinner."

And without waiting the boy was off into the house.

The priest looked up at Mitsos' father as he disappeared.

"He is full young yet," he said.

"So I think, and so perhaps Nicholas will think. Yet who knows what

Nicholas thinks? But he is a good lad, and he can keep a secret. He is

strong too; he walked from here to Corinth last week, and came back

next day, and he grows like the aloe flower."

The priest rose and looked fiercely out over the garden.

"May the God of Justice give the Turks what they have deserved!" he

cried. "May He send them bitterness to eat and death to drink! May

their children be fatherless and their wives widows! They had no mercy;

may they find none! The curse of a priest of God be upon them!"

Mitsos' father sat still watching him. Eleven years ago Father Andréa

had been obliged to make a journey to Athens to settle about some plot

of land belonging to his wife, who had lately died, and, if possible,

to sell it--for under the Turkish taxes land was more often an expense

than a revenue. He had taken with him his only daughter, a girl of five

or six years of age, pretty even then, and with promise of wonderful

beauty to come. On his way home, just outside Athens, he had been

attacked by some half dozen Turks, and, after a desperate, hopeless

resistance, had been left on the road more dead than alive, and his

daughter had been carried off, to be trained, no doubt, to the doom of

some Turkish harem. He must have lain there stunned for some hours,

for when he awoke again to an aching consciousness of soul and body,

the day was already reddening to its close, and the shadow of the

hills of Daphne had stretched itself across the plain to where he lay.

Wounded and bleeding as he was, and robbed of the money he had got

for the land, he had dragged himself back to Athens, and stayed there

for weeks, until his hope of ever finding his Theodora again had faded

and died. For it was scant justice that was given to the Greeks by

their masters, who treated them as a thoughtless man will scarce treat

an animal that annoys him. Rape, cruelty, robbery was their method of

rule, and for the unruly a noose.

Since that time one thought, and one only, possessed his brain, a

thought which whispered to him all day and shouted to him in sleep--the

lust for vengeance; not on one Turk alone, on those who had carried

Theodora off, but on the whole of that race of devils. For eleven years

he had thought and schemed and worked, at first only with nothing more

than wild words and bloody thoughts, but of late in a soberer belief

that his day would come; for organized schemes of throwing off the

Turkish rule were on foot, and though they were still things only to be

whispered, it was known that agents of the Club of Patriots were doing

sure and silent work all over the country.

Father Andréa was a tall, finely made man, and, to judge from his

appearance, the story that he would tell you, how he and his family

were of pure Greek descent, had good warrant. He came from the

southwest part of Argolis, a rough, mountainous land which the Turks

had never entirely subdued. His father had died five years before, but

when Andréa went home after the capture of his daughter, the old man

had turned him out of the house and refused to see him again.

"A child is a gift which God has given the father," said he; "it were

better for him to lose himself than lose God's gift; and now we, who

are of the few who have not mixed with that devil-brood--we are fallen

even as others. You have brought disgrace on me, and on our dead, and

on our living, and I would sooner have seen you dead yourself than hear

this from your lips!"

"They were six to one," said Andréa, "and they left me for dead. Would

to God they had killed me!"

"Would to God they had killed you," said his father, "and her too."

"The fault was not mine. Will you not forgive me?"

"Yes, when the fault is wiped out by the death of Theodora."

"Of Theodora? What has she done?"

"She will grow up in shame, and mate with devils. Go!"

Five years passed before they met again. But one day Andréa's father,

left lonely in his house, moved by some vague desire which he hardly

understood himself, saddled his mule and went to Nauplia, whither

Andréa had gone. He was very old and very feeble in body, and perhaps

he felt that death could not be far from him; and to Andréa's cry of

welcome and wonder--"I have come to you, my son," said the old man,

"for otherwise we are both alone, and--and I am very old."

Day by day he used to sit looking up and down the road for Theodora.

There was a bend in it some quarter of a mile farther up, and

sometimes, when the spring days were warm to his bones, he would hobble

up to the corner and sit waiting for her there, where he could command

a longer stretch of country. But Theodora came not, and one evening,

when he came back, he sank into a chair without strength and called

Andréa to him.

"I am dying," he said, "and this is no season to waste idle words. When

Theodora comes back"--he always clung to the idea that she would come

back--"tell her that I waited for her every day, for I should have

loved to see her again. And if you find it hard, Andréa, to forgive

her, forgive her for my sake, for she was very little and the fault was

not hers; nor is it yours, and I was hard on you; yet if I had loved

you not, I should have cared the less. But if, when the day comes,

you spare your hand and do not take vengeance on the Turks to the

uttermost, then may my ghost tear you limb from limb, and give you to

the vultures and the jackals."

The old man rose from his chair.

"Vengeance!" he cried; "death to man, woman, and child. Smite and spare

not, for you are a priest of God and they are of the devil. Smite,

smite, avenge!"

He sank back in his chair again, his head fell over on to his shoulder,

and his arms rattled against the woodwork. And with vengeance on his

lips, and the desire of vengeance in his heart, he died.

From that day a double portion of his spirit seemed to have descended

on Father Andréa. One hope and one desire ruled his life--to help in

wiping out from Greece the whole race of Turks. To him innocent or

guilty mattered not; they were of one accursed brood. But though the

longing burned like fire within him, he kept it in, choking it as it

were with fresh fuel. He was willing to wait till all was ready. For

a year or two large organizations had been at work in North Greece

collecting funds, and, by means of secret agents, feeding and fanning

the smouldering hate against their brutal masters in the minds of the

people. Soon would the net be so drawn round them that escape was

impossible. And then vengeance in the name of God.

Mitsos had encouraged a small charcoal fire to heat the water, and he

went to fetch the eggs. Two minutes of puckered brow were devoted to

the number which he was free to boil. His father usually ate two, the

priest--and he cursed his own good memory--never ate more than one, and

he himself invariably ate as many as he could possibly get. He looked

at the basket of eggs thoughtfully. "It is a hungry day," he said to

himself, "and the hens are very strong. Perhaps father might eat three,

and perhaps Father Andréa might eat two. Then I am allowed three, a

tale of eight."

Mitsos drew a sigh of satisfaction at this liberal conclusion, and his

eyes began to smile; his mouth followed suit, and showed a row of very

white teeth.

"It is such a pity that I am always hungry," he said to himself; "but

when Uncle Nicholas measures me he will see I have grown."

And putting the eight eggs into the pot, he ran off to pick the

cherries.

For the last year both Constantine, Mitsos' father, and the boy had

worked the little land he owned, like common laborers. Two years before

a Turkish pasha, Abdul Achmet by name, in passing through the country

had been struck by the Avilion climate of Nauplia, and had built a

house on the shore of the bay. The land belonged to Constantine, and

the Turk had promised him a fair price for it, feeling that a less

scrupulous man would have taken it off-hand. At the same time he

intimated that if he would not take a fair price for it, he would

get no price at all. The money, of course, was still owing, and on

Constantine's old vineyard stood the house, now finished. Abdul Achmet,

who was Governor of Argos, took up his quarters here permanently,

with his harem; for it was within easy distance of Argos, and on warm

evenings the women were often seen in the garden looking over the

sea-wall which separated it from the bay, a wall some ten feet high,

over which creepers sprawled and flamed. Abdul himself was a fat,

middle-aged Turk, slow of movement and sparing of speech. In temper of

mind he was a Gallio, and his neglect to pay Constantine the money he

owed him was as much due to negligence as to the usual Turkish method

of dealing with Greeks, which was not to pay at all. His harem, for the

years had long since quenched the ardor of his body, were given a good

deal of freedom, and were allowed to wander about the garden, which was

walled off from the country road, as they pleased.

Constantine had applied several times for payment, but had already

given up hopes of securing any equivalent for the land seized. He was a

Greek of the upper peasant class--that is to say, of the first class of

the country--who lived on their own land and employed labor. Like his

race, he was thrifty and industrious; but now, between the loss of his

vineyard and the iniquitous increase in the last year's taxes, which

promised to grow indefinitely, he found it difficult to do more than

make a sparing livelihood. He and Mitsos worked all the spring with

the laborers in the harvest-field, and in the autumn, when they had

finished making the wine from a half-acre of vines still left them, as

laborers in the neighboring vineyards.

Constantine felt the change in his position acutely. Instead of being

a man with men under him, he was himself obliged to work for his

bread, and, what was an added bitterness, it was by gross injustice,

and through no fault of his own, that he was thus reduced. Every year

the taxation became more and more heavy; only six months before he had

been obliged to sell his horse, for a new tax was levied on horses, and

all that remained were an acre or two of ground, a pony, his house,

and his boat. But of late he seemed to have taken up a patient,

uncomplaining attitude, which much puzzled the growling Greeks whom he

met at the cafés. While others grumbled and cursed the Turks beneath

their breath, Constantine would sit with a quiet smile on his lips,

looking half amused, half indulgent. Only two nights before a neighbor

had said to him, point blank:

"You have suffered more than any of us, except perhaps those who have

daughters. Why do you sit there smiling? Are things so prosperous with

you?"

The question was evidently prearranged, for the two or three men

sitting round stopped talking and waited for him to answer.

Constantine knocked the ashes out of his chibouk before replying.

"Things are not prosperous with me," he said; "but I am a man who can

hold his tongue. This I may tell you, however: Nicholas Vidalis comes

here in three days."

"And then?"

"Nicholas will advise you to hold your tongues, too. He will certainly

tell you that, and it may be he will tell you something besides. I will

be going home. Good-night, friends."

And now, when Father Andréa was cursing the Turks in the name of God,

though Constantine crossed himself at that name, he watched him with

the same smile. Then he said:

"Father Andréa, I ask your pardon, but Nicholas does not like too much

talk. He says that talking never yet mended a matter. You know him--in

these things he is not a man of many words, save where it serves some

purpose."

The priest turned round.

"You are right and wrong," he said; "Nicholas is a man of few words;

but I have made a vow that for every time the sun rises, and at every

noonday and every sunset, I will curse the Turk in God's name. That vow

I will keep."

Constantine shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Well, here is Mitsos. Do not curse before the boy. Mitsos, is dinner

ready?"

Mitsos wrinkled up his forehead till his eyebrows nearly disappeared

under his curly hair.

"Yes, it is ready; but for me, I can find one shoe only."

"Well, look for the other."

"I have looked for it," said the boy, "but it is not, and I ache for

emptiness."

He raised his eyes appealingly to his father, but Constantine was firm.

"You must find it first," he said. "Come, Father, let us go in."

Father Andréa followed him, leaving Mitsos half-shod and disconsolate.

CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF NICHOLAS VIDALIS

An hour later, Mitsos, having found his shoe and eaten his dinner in

decency, was curled up in the shady corner of the veranda fast asleep.

He had been out fishing most of the night before, and as the harvest

was over there was no work on hand except to water the vines when the

sun was off the vineyard, which would not be before four. He slept, as

his father said, like a dog--that is to say, he curled himself up and

fell into a light sleep, from which any noise would arouse him--as soon

as he shut his eyes.

He was an enormous boy, of the Greek country type, close on the edge

of manhood, with black, curly hair coming down onto his shoulders,

straight, black eyebrows, long, black eyelashes, and black eyes. His

nose was short and square-tipped, his mouth the fine, scornful mouth

of his race, quick to reflect the most passing shades of emotion.

His hands and face were of that inimitable color for which sun,

wind, and rain are the sole cosmetic--a particularly soft, clear

brown, shading off a little round the eyes and under the hair. As he

slept, with his head thrown back, there showed on his neck the sharp

line where the tanning ended and the whiter skin began. He had that

out-door appearance which is the inheritance of those whose fathers

and grandfathers have lived wholesomely in the open air from sunrise

to sunset all their lives, and who have followed the same course of

life themselves. He had kicked off his shoes again, and his hands were

clasped behind his head, and what would at once characterize him to any

one who was acquainted with the Greek peasant race was that both hands

and feet were clean.

He slept for a couple of hours, and was awakened by the pale,

dust-ridden sunshine creeping round the corner of the veranda and

falling on his head. At first he rolled over again with his face to the

wall, but in a few moments, realizing the uselessness of temporizing,

he got up and stretched himself lazily and luxuriously, with a

cavernous yawn. Then he went round to the stone fountain which stood at

the back of the house and plunged his head into the bright cool water

to finish the process of awakening, and, seeing that the tall shade of

the poplar had stretched its length across the vineyard, took up his

spade and went off to his work.

The stream, which passed through their garden and out into the bay

below, ran for some half-mile along a little raised aqueduct, banked up

with earth to keep it to its course. It passed between small vineyard

plots on each side, so that the water could be turned into them for

irrigation, and Mitsos went out of the garden gate straight into their

vineyard, which lay just above.

Each of the vines stood in its several little artificial hollow dug in

the ground, and he first cleared the water-channels in the vineyard of

all accumulated rubbish and soil, so that, when he let the stream in,

it might flow to all the trees. Having done this, he went back to the

aqueduct and removed a spadeful of earth from the bank, which he placed

in the bed of the stream itself, stamping it down to keep it firm, so

that the whole of the water was diverted into the vineyard. Standing,

as he did, a few feet above the surface of the vines, he could see when

the water had reached them all, and then, hooking out his temporary dam

from the bed of the stream, he replaced it, so as to again send the

water back into its channel; then, jumping down, he hoed away round

the roots of the vines, so that the water might sink well in close to

them, for there had been no rain for weeks, and they must be thoroughly

watered.

The sun was off the land, but it was still very hot, for the sirocco

had increased in violence and was sweeping over the fields like the

blast from the pit. On the windward side of the trees the dark rich

green of the vine-leaves was powdered over with the fine white dust

driven up from the bare, harvested fields. Mitsos stopped now and then

to wipe the sweat off his forehead, but otherwise he worked hard and

continuously, singing to himself the peasant song of the vine-diggers.

His work was nearly over when he saw his father coming towards him. The

latter stood for a moment on the edge of the bank, looking at what the

boy had been doing.

"Poor little Mitsos," he said, "you have had to work alone to-day! I

was obliged to go into Nauplia. You have watered the vines very well.

You have finished, have you not?"

"There are three more vines here," said Mitsos, "which are yet to be

dug. But it won't take long."

His father stepped down into the vineyard.

"You can go and rest," he said. "I'll finish those."

Mitsos threw down his spade.

"Oh, it is hotter than hell!" he said. "Uncle Nicholas will be roasted

coming across the plain."

"He will want a bath," said Constantine. "Do you remember his making

a bath last year out of those spare planks? I suppose it holds water

still?"

"I wish it didn't hold so much," said Mitsos; "it holds six cans."

Constantine laughed.

"And Mitsos' back will ache, eh?"

"I hope not; but it is a great affair to carry six cans of water from

the fountain."

Constantine worked on for half an hour or so, while Mitsos looked on.

"There, that is finished," he said, at last. "You won't go fishing

to-night, will you? The wind is too strong."

"It may go down at sunset," said Mitsos; "but there are enough fish for

to-night and to-morrow night, unless this hot weather turns them. But I

put them in the cellar in water, and I expect they will keep."

They walked back together, but as soon as they got onto the road they

saw that three mules were standing opposite the house. Constantine

quickened his pace.

"Nicholas must have come," he said. "He was ever quicker than a man

could expect. Come, Mitsos."

The veranda was full of boxes and rugs, and the two went through into

the house. A man was sitting on a low chair by the window. As they came

in he got up.

"Well, Constantine," he said, "how is all with you? I have just come.

And Mitsos, little Mitsos is growing still. I will give you a hundred

piastres when you are as tall as your father. It is the devil's own

day, Constantine, and I am full inside and out of this gritty wind. Man

is not a hen that he should sit all day in the dust. May I have a bath

at once? Mitsos, we made a bath together. The mule men will help you to

fill it."

He laid his hand on Mitsos' shoulder.

"You look fitter than a mountain hawk," he said. "Get me plenty of

water, and give me ten minutes of scouring, and then we will talk

together while I dress."

Mitsos left the room, and Constantine turned to his brother-in-law.

"Well?" he asked.

"He is a fine boy," said Nicholas; "I must see if he can be trusted."

"A Turk would trust him," said his father, eagerly.

"Ha! we shall not require that. But in the face of fear?"

Constantine laughed.

"He does not know what fear is."

"Then he has that to learn," said Nicholas, "for the bravest men

learn that best. No one can be brave until he has known the cold fear

clutching at the stomach. However, we shall see."

Nicholas was dressed like Constantine, in Albanian costume, with a

woollen cloak thrown over one shoulder, a red embroidered jacket, cut

very low and open, showing the shirt, a long fustanella and white

leggings, tied with tasselled ends. He was tall and spare, and his face

seemed the face of a man of forty who had lived very hard, or of a man

of fifty who had lived very carefully. In reality he was nearly sixty.

He was clean shaven and very pale in complexion, as one who had never

lived an out-door life; but you might have been led to reject such a

conclusion, if you remarked the wonderful clearness and freshness of

his skin. His eyes looked out from deep under a broad bar which crossed

his forehead from temple to temple; they were large and dark gray in

color, and gathered additional depth from his thick black eyebrows.

His nose was finely chiselled, tending to aquiline, with thin, curved

nostrils, which seemed never still, but expanded and contracted with

the movement of the nostrils of some well-bred horse snuffing some

disquieting thing. His mouth was ascetically thin-lipped, but firm and

clean cut. His hair, still thick and growing low on his forehead and

long behind, was barely touched with gray above the temples. His head

was set very straight and upright on a rather long neck, supported

on two well-drilled shoulders. In height he could not have been less

than six feet three, and his slightness of make made him appear almost

gigantic.

"I have travelled from Corinth to-day," he continued, "and there is

much to tell you. At last the Club of Patriots have put the Morea

entirely into my hands. I have leave to use the funds as I think fit,

and it is I who shall say the word for the vintage of the Turks to

begin. Are there men here whom you can trust, or are they all mule-folk

and chatterers?"

"The main are mule-folk," said Constantine.

"The mule-folk can be useful," remarked Nicholas; "but the man who

travels with a mule to show the way goes a short journey. They follow

where they are led, but some one has to lead. But is there not a priest

here--Father Andréa, I think--with a trumpet for a voice? I should like

to see him. As far as I remember, he talked too much, yet you would not

call him a chatterer."

"He curses the Turk in the name of God three times a day," said

Constantine. "It is a vow."

"And little harm will the Turk suffer from that. Better that he should

learn to bless them, or best to keep a still tongue. Well, little

Mitsos, is the bath ready? You will excuse me, Constantine, but I am an

uneasy man when I am dirty. Come to my room in ten minutes, Mitsos, and

tell me of yourself."

"There is little to tell," said Mitsos.

"We will hope, then, that it is all good. By the way, Constantine, I

have brought some wine with me. Mitsos will drop it into the fountain,

for it must be tepid. Tepid wine saps a man's self-respect, and if a

man, or a boy either, doesn't respect himself, Mitsos, nobody will ever

respect him."

Mitsos followed him out of the room with his eyes, and then turned to

his father.

"My hands are so dirty from that vine-digging," he whispered. "Do you

think Uncle Nicholas saw?"

"He sees everything," said his father. "Wash, then, before you go up to

his room."

Mitsos adored his uncle Nicholas with a unique devotion, for Nicholas

was a finer make of man than any he had ever seen. He had been to

foreign countries, a feat only attainable by sailing for weeks in big

ships. He had been able to talk to some French sailors who had once

been wrecked, within Mitsos' memory, on the coast near, and understand

what they said, though no one in the place, not even the mayor, could

do that; indeed the latter, before Nicholas had interpreted, roundly

asserted that they spoke as sparrows speak. Then Uncle Nicholas was

constantly going on mysterious journeys and turning up again when he

was least expected, but always welcome; and he had a wonderfully low,

soft voice, as unlike as possible to the discordant throats of the

country folk; and he had long, muscular hands and pink nails. Also he

could shoot wild pigeon when they were flying, whereas the utmost that

the mayor's son, who was the acknowledged Nimrod of the neighborhood,

could do, was to shoot them if they were walking about. Even then he

could only hit them for certain if there were several of them together

and he got very close. Also Uncle Nicholas was omniscient: he knew

the names of all birds and plants; he could imitate a horse's neigh

so well that a grazing beast would leave its fodder and come to his

voice; and once when Mitsos was laid up with the fever he had picked

some common-looking leaves from the hedge and boiled them in water, and

given him the water to drink, the effect of which was that next morning

he awoke quite well. Above all, Nicholas told the most enchanting

stories about what he had seen at the ends of the earth.

So Mitsos washed his hands and went up to Nicholas's room, finding him

already bathed and half dressed. His dusty clothes lay on the floor,

and he pointed to them as Mitsos came in.

"I shall be here four days at the least," he said, "and I want these

washed before I go away. The most important thing in the world is to be

clean, Mitsos."

"Father Andréa says--" began the boy.

"Well, what does Father Andréa say?"

"He says that to love God and hate the devil--I think he means the

Turk--is the most important thing."

"Well, Father Andréa is right. But you must remember that I am right

too. Sit you in the window, Mitsos, and talk to me. What have you been

doing since I was here?"

"Looking after the vines," said Mitsos, "since the reaping was over.

And I go fishing very often, almost every night."

"Then to-morrow we will go together; to-night I have much to say to

your father."

"Will you really come with me?" asked the boy. "And will you tell me

some more stories?"

"Yes, I have a new set of stories, which you shall hear--I want to know

what you will think of them. How old are you?"

"Eighteen, nineteen in November; and my mustache is coming."

Nicholas turned the boy's face round to the light.

"Yes, an owner's eye might detect something. Why do you want a

mustache?"

"Because men have mustaches."

"And you want to be a man," said Nicholas; "but a man makes his

mustache, not his mustache the man. But before we go down I have one

thing to say to you, a thing you must never forget: if a Turk ever asks

you if you know aught about me, where I am, or where I may be going,

you must always say you know nothing. Say you have not set eyes on me

for more than a year. Do you understand? That must be your answer and

no other."

"I understand, just that I have not seen you for a year, and know

nothing about you."

"Yes. Whatever happens, do you think you can always answer that and no

more? I may as well tell you that if you answer more than that, if,

when you are questioned--I do not say you will ever be questioned, but

you may be--you tell them where I am, or whether I am expected here, or

anything of the kind, you will perhaps be killing me as surely as if

you shot me this moment with my own gun. Do you promise?"

"Of course, I promise," said Mitsos, with crisp, boyish petulance.

"And should they threaten to kill you if you do not tell them?"

"Why do you ask me?" he said. "I have made the promise."

Nicholas laid his hand on the boy's shoulder, and with a flashing

eye--"And, by God, I believe you are one to keep it!" he said.

The sirocco blew itself out during the night, and a light north wind

had taken its place when day dawned. A smell extraordinarily clean was

in the air, and the whole sky was brisk with the sparkling air of the

south. Northwards from Nauplia the sharp mountainous outlines of the

Argive hills were cut out clear against the pale cobalt of the heavens,

glowing pink in the sunrise, and all their glens and hollows were

brimmed with bluest shadow. To the west, a furlong away, the waters of

the bay gleamed with a transparent, aqueous tint; you would have said

that two skies had been melted together to make the sea. Beyond, the

hills over which the Turkish road to Tripoli wound like a climbing,

yellow snake, lay still in darkness. The lower slopes were covered with

pines; above, the bare, gray stone climbed up, shoulder by shoulder,

to meet the sky. By degrees, as the sun rose higher, the light struck

first the tops, and flowed caressingly down from peak to spur, and spur

to slope, till it reached the lower rounded hills at the base, and then

flashed across the bay and the plain of Argos. There it caught first

the tawny fortress walls of the citadel which kept guard over the town,

then the town itself which clustered round its base, until suddenly

from Constantine's house the sun swung over the rim of the hills to the

northeast, and the whole plain leaped from shadow into light.

There had been a heavy dew during the night, and the close-reaped

cornfields were a loom of gossamer webs, hanging pearly and iridescent

between the stubble-stalks, and in the vineyards the upper surface of

the broad, strong leaves was wet and shining, as if with a fresh coat

of indescribable green. In that first moment of light and heat all the

odors of flowering plants, grafted on the wholesome smell of moist

earth, which had been hanging as if asleep close to the ground all

night, rose and dispersed themselves in the air. A breath of wind shook

the web of sweet smell out of the mimosa trees that grew at the gate

of Constantine's garden, and sent it spreading and shifting like the

gossamers in the fields on to the veranda, and in at the open windows.

The border of wild thyme by the porch trembled like a row of fine

steel springs as the wind passed over it, and gave out its offering

of incense to the morning. A sparrow lit on a spray of rose and flew

off again, scattering dew-drops and petals. The world smiled, breathed

deep, and awoke.

During the morning Mitsos was chiefly employed in making coffee, for

many of the leading Greeks, to whom the secret of the imminent uprising

was known, came from Nauplia to see Nicholas, and to each must be

offered a cup of Turkish coffee. Nicholas sat in the veranda with his

narghilé, which he smoked without intermission, and he appeared to

be giving instructions to his visitors. Among the first to come was

Father Andréa, whom he treated with great respect. When he rose to go,

Nicholas accompanied him as far as the back gate, which led into a

field path towards his house, and Mitsos, who was washing cups at the

fountain screened behind bushes, heard them go by talking.

As they parted he heard Nicholas say, "Above all, be silent. We shall

want you to talk later, and to talk then with the full voice. At

present a word overheard might ruin everything, and the devil himself

scarcely knows when he is being overheard. Even now Mitsos, whom you

never noticed, but whom I noticed, knows all I say to you. Mitsos, come

here."

Mitsos came, cup in hand, flushed and angry.

"You are not fair to me, Uncle Nicholas," he said. "I was not

listening. I could not help hearing."

"No, little one, I am not blaming you," said Nicholas; "I only wanted

Father Andréa to see. That is an instance to hand, father; please let

there not be more. And here is my offering to the Christ and to my

patron saint for having brought me here safely."

Nicholas was punctual to his promise to Mitsos, and soon after sunset

they went off together to where the boat was lying. Mitsos carried a

couple of big pewter ladles, a bag full of resin, a wicker creel for

the fish, and two spears, while Nicholas walked on a little ahead with

the net wound round his shoulders. They were to begin the evening's

work with the spears, and later when the moon was up to sail across the

far side of the bay, where they would use the sweep-net in the shallow

water, where the bottom was sandy and shelving. But the nearer shore of

the bay was rocky, descending rapidly into deep water, and was no place

for netting. Nicholas, however, got into the boat in order to arrange

the net and dispose the lead in what he considered a more satisfactory

manner, leaving the boy to do the spearing alone.

Mitsos took off his linen trousers, fastening his shirt round his waist

with a leather belt. He then slung the creel and the bag round his

neck, and putting a half handful of resin into the ladle, set light to

it, took the spear in his right hand, and rolling up his sleeves to the

shoulder, stepped into the sea. He held the flare close to the surface,

so that its light showed clearly on the bottom of the shallow water, a

luminous lure for the fish. The spear he held ready to bring down if he

saw anything.

It was a scene which Rembrandt would have painted with the hand of

love. The moon was not yet risen, but in the clear starlight the

edges of the serrated hills were sharply etched against the sky, and

the water of the bay, just curdled by the wind, lay vast and sombre

across to the farther shore. The light from the resin-flare vaguely

showed the lines of the boat in which Nicholas was preparing the net,

but all was dim except Mitsos' figure and a few feet of glittering,

flame-scribbled water round him. The highest light was cast on his

brown down-bent face and on his left arm bared to the shoulder, which

stood out as clear-cut as a cameo against the darkness behind, and as

he moved, the water, which lapped about his knees, was stirred into

fire-crested ripples. The sea was slightly phosphorescent, and his

trail was palely luminous like the Milky Way. Now and again, with a

sudden splendid motion, down went the poised spear with a splashing

cluck into the sea, and he would draw it up again, sometimes with a

red mullet, sometimes with a thin brill flapping and struggling on the

point. More rarely he missed his aim, and looked up at Nicholas smiling

and showing his white teeth.

At the end of half an hour the latter had finished his fresh leading

of the net, and as a stiffer breeze had awoke, ruffling the surface

of the water and making it difficult to see the fish distinctly, they

started to sail across the bay. Mitsos waded out to the boat, trousers

and shoes in hand, set the big brown sail, and giving a vigorous shove

or two with the oar sent the boat round so that it caught the wind. In

a moment it heeled over without stirring, and then the whisper of its

moving came sibilantly from the forefoot, and gathering speed it glided

on across the dark water.

Nicholas had taken the rudder, and Mitsos sat down beside him.

"Eight mullet and a dozen other fish," he said. "That is no bad catch

for half an hour. Put her head for under that point, Uncle Nicholas. Do

you see it? There is a house with a light burning a little above it."

"I see. It will take nearly an hour with this wind. Well, what is it?"

"Will you tell me some of the new stories, Uncle Nicholas?"

"No, we will keep the stories for when we go home. It will take us

twice as long to get back against this wind. They are long stories."

For nearly an hour they sailed on in comparative silence; the wind had

freshened, and from over the hills towards Tripoli there came blinking

flashes of summer lightning. The lamp in the house above the point to

which they were steering had been put out, but in the half-darkness of

the summer night the promontory itself was clearly visible. Towards the

east the hills were blocked out with a strange intensity of blackness,

for the moon was on the point of rising behind them, and the deep

velvet blue of the zenith had turned to dove-color.

"Now for our fishing, Mitsos," said Nicholas, as they drew near to the

shore. "Can we run the boat in behind the promontory?"

"Yes, there is four feet of water right up to the land. Just there the

shore is steep. I will take in the sail."

"There is no need. As soon as we pass the corner it will be dead calm."

Nicholas put the helm hard to port as soon as they were opposite the

little point; next moment the sail flapped like a wounded bird against

the mast, and they ran up to the rocks. Mitsos jumped out and tied the

boat up.

They lifted the net on shore, and made their way round the wooded

headland to the little bays which they were to fish. Here the shore was

sandy and shelving, and sprinkled with clumps of succulent seaweed

which grew up from the rocks below, a favorite feeding ground, as

Mitsos knew, for mullet and sole. Nicholas had put on Constantine's

long fishing-boots, reaching up to his hips, before he left the boat,

Mitsos, as before, merely taking off his shoes and trousers.

The net was some twenty-five yards long, and Mitsos, taking one end

into his hand, stepped into the water at right angles to the shore.

He waded out till the net was taut between them, and then Nicholas

followed. As soon as the latter was some ten yards from land they both

moved shorewards up the little bay, which lay in front of them, getting

gradually nearer to each other as they approached the beach, till

when they were within five or six yards of the land they were walking

together, the net trailing in a great bagging oval behind them. The

resistance of the water, the dragging of the lead along the bottom,

and, it was to be hoped, the spoils enclosed made no small weight,

and it was a quarter of an hour or so before they got it in. The moon

had risen, and it was easy to see the silvery glitter of the fish as

they lay fluttering in the dark meshes of the net. The flat, brown

soles, however, required a more careful search, and the sound of their

flapping, rather than the eye, led to their discovery.

They fished for an hour or two with only moderate success, until Mitsos

proposed they should try a little farther down the coast, where shoals

of a certain fish, as small as the whitebait, and as sweet, grazed the

watery pastures. Here the depth was somewhat greater, and before going

in Mitsos divested himself of his shirt, leaving it on the rocks, and

went in completely naked. Nicholas, who had put himself entirely under

his directions, waited in the shallower water near the shore till the

boy had waded out to where the water covered him to the waist; then, as

before, they moved in converging lines towards the shore.

They had approached to within about twenty yards of the beach, and

within about five yards of each other, when Mitsos stopped and pointed

back. The upper edge of the net, fitted at intervals with corks to keep

it floating, was visible on the bright surface of the sea, trailing in

an irregular oval. But inside this oval the moonlit water was strangely

agitated and unquiet, quivering like a jarred metal-plate, and from

moment to moment a little silvery speck would glitter on it.

"Look," he said to Nicholas, "the little fish are there. We must be as

quick as we can. Sometimes if the shoal begins jumping they will all

jump out."

And bending forward to get his whole weight into the work, he pushed

forward towards the land.

The moonlight fell full on his body, dripping and glistening from the

waist downwards with the salt water, and threw the straining muscles

which line the spine, and those chords behind the shoulder-blade which

painters love, into strong light and shadow, as he pulled against the

weight of the dragging net. Already the water came only to his knees,

and the catch was imminent, when suddenly from the net there came a

rustle and a splash like myriad little pebbles being thrown into the

sea, and he turned round just in time to see the whole shoal, which

glistened like a silver sheet, rise and drop into the water outside.

"The little Turks," he said, angrily, "they are all gone."

"Better to pull the net in and look," said Nicholas; "a part only may

have leaped."

Mitsos shook his head.

"When they go like that it is all of them," he said.

Mitsos was quite right. There was a stray fish or two still in the net,

but so few that they were hardly worth picking out.

"That will do for to-night, won't it?" he said. "We have fished all the

best places."

Nicholas assenting, he lay down and rolled over in the warm, dry sand

once or twice, and then standing up brushed the wet stuff off his body.

Then spreading the net out on the rocks higher up on the beach, Mitsos

went off to fetch his shirt. Nicholas employed himself in picking up a

few stray fish, and put them into the creel. Then rolling up the net

they walked back to the boat.

CHAPTER III

THE STORY OF A BRIGAND

The wind, which had taken them straight across the bay, still blew

freshening from the same quarter, and was dead against them. They would

have to make two long tacks to get home--the first, right across to the

island in the middle of the bay; the second, back again to the head of

it; and as soon as they were well off on the outward tack, Mitsos went

to the stern of the boat and sat down by Nicholas.

"It is time for the stories, is it not?" he said.

"Yes, we will have the stories now."

Nicholas paused a moment.

"Mitsos," he said, "I am going to tell you about a part of my life of

which I have never spoken to you before, for, until now, I have only

told you boys' stories to amuse a boy. But now I am going to tell you a

story for a man. This all happened before you were born, twenty years

ago, when I was a brigand."

Mitsos stared.

"A brigand, Uncle Nicholas? You?"

"Brigand, outlaw, klepht, whatever you like to call it. A man with a

price set on his head--it is there now for you to take if you like--a

man without any home but the mountains. Yet one may do worse than live

in the mountains, Mitsos, and drink to the 'good bullet,' praying one

might be killed rather than fall alive into the hands of the Turk.

The first part of my story is like many other stories I have told you

before; it is the second part, when I tell you why I was a brigand,

that will be new to you--a story, as I have said, not for a boy, but

for a man.

"I used to live then at Dimitzana, in Arcadia, and I became a brigand

on the night that my wife died. Why and how that happened comes later.

Well, there I was living in the mountains round Arcadia, sheltering and

hiding for the most part of the day in the woods, but keeping near some

mountain path, so that if a Turk or two or three came by I could--how

shall I say it?--do business with them. For a month or two I was

a-hunting alone, and then I was joined by other men from Dimitzana, who

also had become outlaws. With them I went hunting on rather a larger

scale--we used to take Turks and get ransoms for them. But never did we

take or molest a Greek or lay hands on any woman, Greek or Turk. For

the most part we were very fortunate, and all the time we lost but few

men, and of those the heads of none fell into the hands of the Turks,

for if one was wounded beyond healing we all went and kissed him and

said good-bye; and then one cut his head off and buried it, so that the

Turks should not dishonor him."

Nicholas paused a moment, and then laughed gently to himself.

"Never in my life shall I forget when we took Mohammed Bey--a fat-belly

man, Mitsos, and a devil, with a paunch for two men and a woman's skin.

To see him tied on his mule, crying out to Allah and Mohammed to rescue

him and his dinner from the infidels, as if Mohammed had nothing better

to do than look after such swine! I told him that he would only spend

a day or two with us in the mountains until his friends ransomed him,

adding that we would do our best to make him comfortable. But he wept

tears of pure oil and said that Mohammed would avenge him, which, as

yet, the Prophet has omitted to do. But there is one drawback to that

sort of life, little Mitsos--one cannot keep clean. Sometimes, if one

is travelling or being pursued, one has to go a whole day, or more,

without water to drink, much less to wash in. Once, I remember, we had

been all day without water, and could not find any when we stopped for

the night; but there was a heavy dew, and, though it was a cold night,

we all sat without our shirts for an hour, laying them on the ground

until they were wet with dew, and then wrung them out into our mouths.

Ah, horrible! horrible!"

Nicholas spat over the side of the boat at the thought, and then went

on.

"For the most part we lived up in the mountains to the north of

Arcadia, but somehow or other when summer came we all began to head

southward again. We never spoke to each other of where we were going,

for we all knew. And one evening, just before sunset, we were on the

brow of a big wooded hill above Dimitzana and looked at our homes

again. Homesickness and want of water--these were the two things which

made me suffer, and I would drink the wringings of a shirt sooner than

be sick for home.

"All next day we stopped there, sitting on that spur of wooded hill

looking at home as if our eyes would start from our heads. Now one of

us and then another would roll over, burying his face in his hands, and

the rest of us would pretend not to notice. I cannot say for certain

what the others did when they buried their faces like that; for myself

I can only say that I sobbed--for some had wives there, and some

children. And it hurts a man to sob unless he is a Turk, for Turks sob

if the coffee is not to their taste.

"That evening I could not bear it any longer, and I said to the others,

'I must go down and see my house again.' They tried to stop me, for it

is a foolish thing for an outlaw to go home when there is a price on

his head; but I would not listen to them.

"And I went down to the village and walked up the street, past the

fountain and past the church. I met many Greeks whom I knew, but I

made signs to them that they should not recognize me. Luckily for me

the garrison of Turks had been changed, and though I passed several

soldiers in the street, they stared at me, being a stranger, but did

not know who I was.

"Then I went up past the big plane-tree and saw my house. The windows

were all broken and the door was down, for that, too, had the Turks

done in their malicious anger at not finding me there. And on the

door-step my father was sitting. He was very old, eighty or near it,

and he was playing with a doll that had belonged to my daughter."

Nicholas paused a moment.

"Mitsos," he went on, "you do not know what it is to feel keen,

passionate joy and sorrow mixed together like that, ludicrously. It

is not right that a man should have to bear such a thing, for when

I saw my father sitting there nursing the doll I could not have

contained myself, not if ten companies of angels had been withstanding

me or twenty of devils; and I ran up to him and sat down by him, and

kissed him, and said, 'Father, don't you know me?' But he did not say

anything. He only looked at me in a puzzled sort of way, and went on

nursing his doll.

"It is odd that one remembers these little things, but the stupid face

of the doll, somehow, I remember better than I remember the face of my

father.

"I stopped in the village for an hour, perhaps more, and I swore an

oath which I have never yet forgotten and which I will never forget.

In the church we have a shrine to the blessed Jesus and another to His

mother, and one to St. George, and to each of them I lit tapers and

prayed to them that they would help me to accomplish my oath. They have

helped me and they will help me, and you, Mitsos, can help me, too."

The boy looked up.

"What was your oath, Uncle Nicholas," he said, "and how can I help you?"

He laid his hand on Nicholas's knee, and Nicholas felt it trembling.

The story was going home.

"I will tell you," he said; "but, first, I must tell you how it was I

became an outlaw. This was the way of it:

"You never knew my wife: she died before you were born. She was

the most beautiful and the best-loved of women. That you will not

understand. You do not know yet what a woman is to a man, and your

cousin Helen, to whom the doll belonged, would have been as beautiful

as her mother. A fortnight before I became an outlaw there came a new

officer to command the garrison at Dimitzana. He was a pleasant-seeming

man, and to me, being the mayor of the village, he paid much attention.

He would sit with us all in the garden after dinner. Sometimes I asked

him to take his dinner with us; sometimes he asked me to dine with him.

But Catharine always disliked him; often she was barely civil to him.

He had been in the place nearly a fortnight when I had to go away for

a night, or perhaps two, to Andritsaena for the election of the mayor,

for I had some little property there, and therefore a vote in the

matter. I left about midday, but I had not gone more than four hours

from the town when I met a man from Andritsaena, who told me that the

election would be an affair of form only, as one of the two candidates

had resigned. So I turned my horse round and went home.

"It was dark before I got to the village, and I noticed that there was

no light in my house. However, I supposed that Catharine was spending

the evening with some friend, and I suspected nothing. But it got later

and ever later and she did not come, so at last I went out and called

at all the houses where she was likely to be. She was not at any of

them, and no one had seen her. Then unwillingly, and with a heart grown

somehow suddenly cold, I determined to go to the officer's quarters and

ask if he had seen her. There was a light burning in one of the upper

windows, but the door was locked.

"It was when I found that the door was locked that I drew my pistol

from my belt and loaded it, and then I waited a moment. In that moment

I heard the sound of a woman sobbing and crying from inside the house,

and the next minute I had burst the door open. The room inside was

dark, but a staircase led up from it through the floor of the room

above, and I made two jumps of it. Helen--she was only seven years

old--ran across the room, perhaps knowing my step, crying 'Father,

father!' and as my head appeared the officer fired. He missed me, and

shot Helen dead.

"Before he could fire again I fired at him. He fell with a rattling,

broken sound across the floor, and never spoke nor moved. Catharine was

there, and she came slowly across the room to me.

"'Ah, you have come,' she said; 'you are too late.'

"I sat down on the bed, and my throat was as dry as a sirocco wind, and

laid the double-barrelled pistol, still smoking, by me. Neither of us,

I am sure, gave one thought to the man who was lying there, perhaps

hardly to Helen, for dishonor is worse than death; and for me I could

say no word, but sat there like a thing broken.

"'You are too late,' she repeated; 'and for me this is the only way.'

"And before I could stop her she had taken up the pistol and shot

herself through the head.

"The shots had aroused the soldiers, and two or three burst in up the

stairs. With the officer's pistol, for I had no time to reload mine, I

killed the first, and he went bumping down the stairs, knocking one man

over. Then I opened the window and dropped. It was not more than ten

feet from the ground, and I had only a few feet to fall."

He paused a moment and stood up, letting go of the rudder and raising

his hands.

"God, to whom vengeance belongs," he cried, "and blessed Mother of

Jesus, and holy Nicholas, my patron, help me to keep my vow."

He stood there for a moment in silence.

"And my vow--" he said to Mitsos.

"Your vow--your vow!" cried Mitsos. "The foul devils--your vow is to

root out the Turk, and to-morrow I, too, will light tapers to the holy

saints and make the vow you made. Christ Jesus, the devils! And you

must show me how to keep it."

"Amen to that," said Nicholas. "Enough for to-night, we will speak of

it no more."

He sat down again and took the rudder, and for five minutes or so there

was silence, broken only by the steady hiss of the water round the

boat, and then Mitsos, still in silence and trembling with a strange

excitement, put about on the second tack. Nicholas did not speak, but

sat with wide eyes staring into the darkness, seemingly unconscious of

the boy.

This second tack brought them up close under the sea-wall of Abdul

Achmet, and the white house gleamed brightly in the moonlight. Then, as

Mitsos was putting about again on the tack which would take them home,

Nicholas looked up at it and spoke for the first time.

"That is a new house, is it not?" he said.

"Yes, it is the house of that pig Achmet," said Mitsos.

"Why is he a pig above all other Turks?"

"Because he took our vineyard away and said he would pay a fair price

for it. Not a piastre has he paid. Look, there are a couple of women on

the terrace."

Two women of the house were leaning over the wall. Just as they went

about Nicholas saw a man, probably one of the eunuchs, come up out of

the shadow, and as he got up to them he struck the nearer one on the

face. The woman cried out and said to him, "What is that for?"

Nicholas started and looked eagerly towards them. "Did you hear,

Mitsos?" he said, "she spoke in Greek."

"One of those women?" said Mitsos. "And why not?"

"How do you suppose she knows Greek?"

"Yes, it is strange. We shall not get home in this tack."

CHAPTER IV

THE MIDNIGHT ORDEAL

For the next two days Nicholas devoted himself to the education of

Mitsos. He took the boy out shooting with him and taught him how to

stand as still as a rock or a tree, how to take advantage of the

slightest cover in approaching game, and how, if there was no cover, to

wriggle snake-wise along the ground so that the coarse tall grass and

heather concealed him. There were plenty of mountain hares and roe-deer

on the hills outside Nauplia towards Epidaurus, and they had two days'

excellent shooting.

They were walking home together after sunset on the second day, and

slung over the pony's back were two roe-deer, one of which Mitsos had

shot himself, and several hares which Nicholas, with a skill that

appeared almost superhuman to the boy, had killed running. The pony was

tired and hung back on the bridle, and Mitsos, with the rope over his

shoulder, was pulling more than leading it.

"And if," Nicholas was saying to him, "if you can approach a roe-deer

as you approached that one to-day, Mitsos, without being seen, you can

also approach a man in the same way, for in things like these the most

stupid of beasts is man. And it is very important when you are hunting

man, or being hunted by him, which is quite as exciting and much less

pleasant, that you should be able to approach him, or pass by him

unseen. After two days I shall be going away, but I shall leave this

gun behind for you."

"For me, Uncle Nicholas?" said Mitsos, scarcely believing his ears.

"Yes, but it shall be no toy-thing to you. For the present you must

go out every day shooting, but you must take the sport as a matter

concerning your life or death, instead of the life and death of a piece

of meat. Stalk every roe as if it were a man whose purpose is to kill

you, and if ever it sees you before you get a shot you must cry shame

on yourself for having wasted your time and my gift to you. But go

fishing, too, and treat that seriously. Do not go mooning in the boat

just to amuse yourself, or only for the catching of fish. Before you

start settle how you are to make your course, in two tacks it may be,

or three, and do so. Practise taking advantage of a wind which blows no

stronger than a man whistling."

"I can sail a boat against any one in Nauplia," said Mitsos, proudly.

"And Nauplia is a very small place, little Mitsos. For instance, we

ought to have got back from our fishing in two tacks, not three. And

study the winds--know what wind to expect in the morning, and know

exactly when the land breeze springs up. Go outside the harbor, too;

know the shapes of the capes and inlets of the gulf outside as you know

the shape of your own hand."

"But how can I shoot and fish, and also look after the vines and get

work in other vineyards in the autumn?"

"That will be otherwise seen to. Obey your father absolutely. I have

spoken to him. Also, you stop at home too much in the evenings. Go and

sit at the cafés in the town and play cards and draughts after dinner,

yet not only for the sake of playing. Keep your ears always open, and

remember all you hear said about these Turks. When I come back you

must be able to tell me, if I ask you, who are good Greeks, who would

risk something for the sake of their wives and children, and who are

the mules, who care for nothing but to drink their sour wine and live

pig-lives. Above all, remember that you haven't seen me for a year--for

two, if you like."

Mitsos laughed.

"Let it not be a year before you come again, uncle."

"It may be more; I cannot tell. You are full young, but--but--well, we

shall see when I come back. Here we are on the plain again. Give me

that lazy brute's bridle. Are you tired, little one?"

"Hungry, chiefly."

"And I also. But, luckily, it is a small thing whether one is hungry

or not. You will learn some day what it is to be dead beat--so hungry

that you cannot eat, so tired that you cannot sleep. And when that day

comes, for come it will, God send you a friend to be by your side, or

at least a drain of brandy; but never drink brandy unless you feel you

will be better for it. Well, that is counsel enough for now. If you

remember it all, and act by it, it will be a fine man we shall make of

the little one."

Nicholas went to see the mayor of Nauplia the next day, and told

Mitsos he had to put on his best clothes and come with him. His best

clothes were, of course, Albanian, consisting of a frilled shirt, an

embroidered jacket, fustanella, gaiters, and red shoes with tassels. To

say that he abhorred best clothes as coverings for the skin would be

a weak way of stating the twitching discomfort they produced in him;

but somehow, when Nicholas was there, it seemed to him natural to wish

to look smart, and he found himself regretting that his fustanella

had not been very freshly washed, and that it was getting ingloriously

short for his long legs.

The mayor received Nicholas with great respect, and ordered his wife to

bring in coffee and spirits for them. He looked at Mitsos with interest

as he came in, and, as Mitsos thought, nodded to Nicholas as if there

was some understanding between them.

When coffee had come and the woman had left the room, Nicholas drew his

chair up closer, and beckoned Mitsos to come to him.

"This is the young wolf," he said. "He is learning to prowl for

himself."

"So that he may prowl for others?" said Demetri.

"Exactly. Now, friend, I go to-morrow, and while I am away I want you

to be as quiet as a hunting cat. I have done all I wanted to do here,

and it is for you to keep very quiet till we are ready. There has been

much harm done in Athens by men who cannot hold their tongues. As you

know, the patriots there are collecting money and men, but they are so

proud of their subscriptions, which are very large, that they simply

behave like cocks at sunrise on the house-roofs. Here let there be no

talking. When the time comes Father Andréa will speak; he will put the

simmering-pot on the fire. I would give five years of my life to be

able to talk as he can talk."

"The next five years?" asked Demetri.

Nicholas smiled.

"Well, no, not the next five years. I would not give them up for fifty

thousand years of heaven, I think. Have you any corn?"

"Black corn for the Turk?"

"Surely."

Demetri glanced at Mitsos, and raised his eyebrows. "Even now the mills

are grinding," he said.

"Let there be no famine."

Mitsos, of course, understood no word of this, and his uncle did not

think fit to enlighten him.

"You will hear more about the black corn," he said to him. "It makes

good bread. At present forget that you have heard of it at all. Have

you got these men for me?" he asked, turning again to Demetri.

"Yes; do you want them to-day?"

"No. Mitsos will go with me as far as Nemea, and they had better join

me there to-morrow night. Turkish dress will be safer."

He rose, leaving the brandy untasted.

"Will you not drink?" asked Demetri.

"No, thanks. I never drink spirits."

Nicholas left next day after sunset, for a half-moon would be rising

by ten of the night, and during the day the plain was no better than

a grilling-rack. Already also it was safer for Greeks to travel by

night, for it was known or suspected among the Turks that some movement

of no friendly sort was on foot among them, and it had several times

happened before now that an attack had been made upon countrymen,

who were waylaid and stopped in solitary mountain paths by bands of

Turkish soldiers. They were questioned about the suspected designs of

their nation, on which subject they for the most part were entirely

ignorant, as the plans of their leaders were at present but sparingly

known, and the interview often ended with a shot or a dangling body.

But through the incredible indolence and laziness of the Turks, while

they feared and suspected what was going on, they contented themselves

with stopping and questioning travellers whom they chanced on, and made

no increase in the local garrisons, and kept no watch upon the roads

at night. Nicholas, of course, knew this, and when, as now, he was

making a long journey into a disaffected part of the country, where

his presence would at once have aroused suspicion--and indeed, as he

had told Mitsos, there had been a price put on his head twenty years

ago--he travelled by night, reaching the village where he was to stay

before daybreak, and not moving again till after dark.

Accordingly he and Mitsos set off after sunset across the plain towards

Corinth. The main road led through Argos, which they avoided, keeping

well to the right of the river bed. Their horses were fresh, and

stepped out at an amble, which covered the ground nearly as quickly as

a trot. By ten o'clock the moon was swung high in a bare heaven, and

they saw in front of them a blot of huddled houses in the white light,

the village of Phyctia. Again they made a detour to the right, in order

to avoid it, for a garrison of Turks was stationed there, turning off

half a mile before its outlying farms began, so as not even to run the

risk of awakening the dogs. Their way lay close under the walls of

the ancient Mycenæ, where it was reported that an antique treasure of

curious gold had lately been found, and as they were in plenty of time

to reach Nemea by midnight, Nicholas halted here for a few minutes, and

he and Mitsos looked wonderingly at the great walls of the citadel.

"They say the kings of Greece are buried here, little Mitsos," said he;

"and perhaps your beard will scarce be grown before there are kings of

Greece once more."

Beyond Mycenæ they followed a mountain path leading through the woods,

which joined a few miles farther up the main road from Corinth to

Argos, and as it was now late, and the ways were quiet, Nicholas saw

no reason for not taking this road as soon as they struck it, and they

wound their way up along the steep narrow path towards it.

The moon had cleared the top of Mount Elias behind them--the moon

of midsummer southern nights--and shone with a great light as clear

as running water, and turning everything to ebony and gleaming

cream-colored ivory. Mitsos was riding first, more than half asleep,

and letting his pony pick its own way among the big stones and bowlders

which strewed the rough path, when suddenly it shied violently, nearly

unseating him, and wheeled sheer round. He woke with a start and

grasped at the rope bridle, which he had tied to the wooden pommel on

the saddle-board, to check it. Nicholas's pony had shied too, but he

was the first to head it round again, and Mitsos, who had been carried

past him, dismounted and led his pony, trembling and restive, up to the

other. Nicholas had dismounted too, and was standing at the point where

the bridle-path led into the main road when Mitsos came up.

"What did they shy at?" Mitsos began, when suddenly he saw that which

stopped the words on his tongue.

From a tree at the juncture of the paths, in the full, white blaze of

the moonlight, hung the figure of a man. His arms were dropped limply

by his side, and his feet dangled some two feet from the ground. On his

shoulder was a deep gash, speaking of a struggle before he was secured,

and blood in black clots was sprinkled on the front of his white linen

tunic. Above the strangling line which went round his neck the muscles

were thick and swollen and the glands of the throat congested into

monstrous lumps.

But Nicholas only stopped the space of a deep-drawn breath, and then,

throwing his bridle to Mitsos, drew his knife and cut the rope. The

two horses shied so violently as Nicholas staggered forward with his

murdered burden that Mitsos, unable to hold them both, let go of his

own and clung with both hands to the bridle of Nicholas's horse, while

his own animal clattered off down the path homeward. Then soothing its

terror from the other, he led it past into the main road, where he tied

it up to a tree some twenty yards on, and himself returned to where

Nicholas was kneeling over the body.

He looked up and spoke with a deadly calm. "We are too late," he said;

"he is quite dead."

And suddenly, after the hot-blooded, warm-hearted nature of his race,

this strong man, who had lived half his life with blood and death and

murder to be the companions of his days and nights, burst into tears.

Mitsos was awed and silent.

"Do you know him, Uncle Nicholas?" he asked, at length.

"No, I do not know him, but he is one of my unhappy race, whom this

brood of devils oppresses and treats as it would not treat a dog.

Mitsos," he said, with a gesture of fire, "swear that you will never

forget this! Look here, look here!" he cried. "Look how they have

made of him an offence to the light; look how they killed him by a

disgraceful death, and why? For no reason but because he was a Greek.

Look at his face; force yourself to look at it. The lips are purple;

the eyes, as dead as grapes, start from his head. He was killed like

a dog. If they catch you alone in such a place they will do the same

to you, to you whose only offence is, as this poor burden's has been,

that you are Greek. Look at his neck, swollen in his death struggle. Do

you know how the accursed men killed Katzantones and his brother? They

beat them to death with wooden hammers, sparing the head only, so that

they might live the longer. Katzantones was ill and weak, and cried out

with the pain; but Yorgi, as he lay on the ground, with arms and legs

and ankles and hands broken, and lying out of semblance of a man, only

laughed, and told them they could not kill a fly with such puny blows."

The boy suddenly turned away.

"Enough, enough!" he said. "I do not wish to look. It is too horrible.

Why do you make it more frightful to me?"

Nicholas did not seem to hear what he said, and went on, in a sort of

savage frenzy.

"Look, look, I tell you!" he cried, "and then swear in the name of God,

remembering also what I told you of my wife and child, that you will

have no pity on the race that has done this--on neither man, woman,

nor child; not even on the poor, weak women, for they are the mothers

of monsters who do these things. This is the work of the men they

bear--this and outrage and infamous lust, and the sins of the cities

which God destroyed."

He was silent a moment, and then spoke more calmly.

"So swear, Mitsos, in the name of God!"

And Mitsos, with quivering lips of horror, but suddenly steeled, looked

at the dead thing and swore.

"And now," said Nicholas, "take hold of the feet, and we will give it

what burial we can. Stay, wait a moment." He tore off a piece of the

man's tunic, and, dipping his finger in the blood that still was wet

on the shoulder, wrote in Turkish the word "Revenge," and fastened it

to the end of the rope which still dangled from the tree. Then he and

Mitsos took the body some yards distant into the copse that lined the

road, and tearing up brushwood gave it covering. On this they laid

stones until it was completely concealed and defended against the

preying creatures of the mountain.

Then Nicholas bared his head.

"God forgive him all his sins," he said, "and impute the double of them

to his murderers. Ah, God," he cried, and his voice rose to a yell,

"grant me that I may kill and kill and kill; and their souls I leave to

Thee, most Just and most Terrible!"

They went to where Nicholas's horse was tied up, and he, hearing the

other had bolted, made Mitsos mount his, as he would have to walk back,

and himself went on foot. It was in silence that they climbed the pass,

but in another hour they came to the junction of the two roads from

Nemea and Corinth, and Nicholas told his nephew to go no farther.

"It is safer that I should go alone here," he said; "and it is already

late, and you will have to walk. Waste no time about getting back to

the plain; the nights are short."

He paused for a moment, looking affectionately at the boy.

"Thus are you baptized in blood," he said, then paused, and he

moistened his lips. "A great deal may depend on you, little one," he

went on. "I have watched you growing up, and you are growing up as I

would have you grow. Distrust everything and everybody except, perhaps,

your father and myself, and be afraid of nothing, while you suspect

everything. At the same time I want you, and many will want you; so

take care."

He put his hands on his shoulders.

"I shall be back in a year or six months, or perhaps to-morrow, or

perhaps never. That does not concern you. Your father and I will always

tell you what to do. And now good-bye."

He kissed him on the cheek, mounted his horse, and rode off, never

looking behind. Mitsos stopped still for a moment looking after him,

and then turned to go home.

Five minutes more brought Nicholas to the edge of the village where

the three men whom Demetri had sent were waiting for him. One of them

was a Greek servant, who held Nicholas's horse while he dismounted

and changed his Albanian costume for a Turkish dress; the others were

leaders of local movements against the Turks, and were going with him

to Corinth. Like Nicholas himself, they all spoke Turkish.

Nicholas dressed himself quickly, but then stopped for a moment

irresolute. Then--

"Take the horse on," he said to the servant. "I will go on foot awhile."

Mitsos meantime was walking quickly along the road back towards Argos.

He would scarcely acknowledge to himself how very much he disliked

the thought of taking that bridle-path through the woods, for the

recollection he retained of that end of rope dangling from the tree,

with the fragment of tunic fluttering in the breeze, and that heap of

white stones glimmering among the bushes, was too vivid for his liking.

Even his pony would have been companionable; but his pony, as he hoped,

was near home by this time.

Once or twice he thought he heard movements and whispered rustlings in

the bushes, which made his heart beat rather quicker than its wont.

Ordinarily he would not have noticed such things, but the scene at the

crossroad still twanged some string of horror within him.

However, the road must be trod, and keeping his eyes steadily

averted--for like his race he held ghosts in accredited horror--he

marched with a show of courage past the spot, and began making his way

down the rough bridle-path.

Thin skeins of clouds had risen from the sea, and the moon was

travelling swiftly through them, casting only a diffused and aqueous

light; but the path, with the glimmering white stones of its cobbling,

showed clearly enough, and there was no fear of his missing his way.

But about a couple of hundred yards down the path he heard a noise

which made his heart spring suddenly into his throat and stay there

poised for a moment, giving a little cracking sound at each beat. The

sound needed not interpretation; two men, if not three, were running

down the main road he had just left. Instantly he had left the path,

and striking into the bushes at the side moved quickly up the hill

again, hoping to turn them off the scent. But as they came nearer he

stopped, still crouching in the bushes, and though he was, as he knew,

very indifferently concealed, he dared not go farther among the trees

for fear that the sound of his steps crackling among the dry brushwood

should lead them to him, and, remembering Nicholas's lessons in the

art of keeping still, he waited. His pursuers, if pursuers they were,

seemed to go the more slowly as they turned into the path he had just

left, and soon he caught sight of them through the tree trunks. There

were two of them, and he saw they were Turks. As they came nearer he

could hear them speaking together in low tones, and then one ran off

down the path, in order, so he supposed, to see whether he was still on

ahead.

Mitsos drew a long breath; there was only one to be reckoned with now,

and stealing out of the bush where he had been crouching, he moved as

quietly as he could farther into cover. But a twig cracking with a

sharp report under his foot revealed his hiding, and the man who had

waited in the path shouted out to the other. The next moment they were

in pursuit.

As he pushed through the trees that seemed to stretch out fingers to

clutch him, Mitsos felt in his belt for the knife he always carried

with him, but to his wondering dismay found it had gone. Never in his

life could he remember being without it; but this was no season to

waste time, and knowing that his only chance lay in running he plunged

along through the bushes in order to get back to the path and match his

speed against theirs. But his pursuers were close behind him, and in

jumping, or trying to jump, a small thicket which closed his path, he

caught his foot and fell.

Then came cold fear with a clutch. Before he had time to recover

himself they had seized him. Once he let out with his right hand at the

face of one of the men, who just avoided the blow, and then both wrists

were seized. They whipped a cord round his legs, tied his hands behind

his back, and carried him off straight to the tree from which the end

of the rope and its ghastly legend were still hanging.

A third Turk was sitting there on the ground in the shadow smoking, and

as the others came up he said a word to them in Turkish which Mitsos

did not understand. Then one of his captors turned to him, and speaking

in Greek, "Tell us where Nicholas Vidalis is," he said, "and we will

let you go."

Silence.

"We know who you are. You are Mitsos Codones, the son of Constantine,

from Nauplia, and he is your uncle."

Mitsos looked up.

"That is so. But I have not seen him for a year--more than a year," he

said.

One of the men laughed.

"Tell us where he is," he said, "and we will let you go, and this for

your information, for you were seen with him yesterday in Nauplia," and

he held out a handful of piastres.

This time Mitsos laughed, though laughing was not in his thoughts, and

the sound was strange to his own ears.

"That is a lie," he said; "he has not been at Nauplia for a year. As

for your piastres, if you think I am telling you a lie, do you suppose

that I should speak differently for the sake of them? Be damned to your

piastres," and he laughed again.

"I will give you one minute," said the other, "and then you will hang

from that tree if you do not tell us. One of your countrymen, I see,

has cut the rope, but there will be enough for a tall boy like you."

They strolled away towards where the third man was sitting, leaving him

there bound.

"Perhaps the end of the rope might help him to speak," said one. But

the third man shook his head.

What Mitsos thought of during these few seconds he never clearly knew,

and as far as he wished for anything, he wished them to be quick. He

noticed that the edge of the moon was free of the clouds again, and it

would soon be lighter. He felt a breeze come up from the east, which

fluttered the rag of tunic hanging from the rope, and once a small

bird, clucking and frightened, flew out of a thicket near. Then the

two men came up and pulled him under the tree. The end of the piece of

tunic flapped against his forehead.

They untied the rope, and the one made a noose in it, while the other

turned back the collar of his coat. Then the rope was passed round his

throat and tightened till he felt the knot behind, just where the hair

grows short on the neck.

"One more chance," said the man. "Will you tell us?"

Mitsos had shut his eyes, and he clinched his teeth to help himself not

to speak. For a moment they all waited, quite still.

"Then up with him," said the man.

He waited for the choking tension of the rope, still silent, still with

clinched teeth and eyelids. But instead of that he felt two hands on

his shoulders, and fingers at the knot behind, and he opened his eyes.

The third man, who had been silent, was standing in front of him.

"Mitsos," he said, "my great little Mitsos."

For a moment the world spun dizzily round him, and he half fell, half

staggered against Nicholas.

"You!" he said.

"Yes, I. Mitsos, will you forgive me? I ought to have been certain of

you, and indeed in my heart I was; but I wanted to test you to the

full, to put the fear of death before you, for it was needful that I

should give convincing proof to others. My poor boy, don't tremble so;

it was necessary, believe me. By the Virgin, Mitsos, if you had hit

one hundredth part of a second sooner one of these men would have gone

home with no nose and fewer teeth. You hit straight from the shoulder,

with your weight in your fist. And that double you made up the hill was

splendid. Mitsos, speak to me!"

But the boy, pale and trembling, had sunk down on the ground with bent

head, and said nothing.

"Here, spirits," said Nicholas, and he made Mitsos drink.

He sat down by him, and with almost womanly tenderness was stroking his

hair.

"You were as firm as a rock," he said, "when you stood there, and I saw

the muscle of your jaw clinch."

Mitsos, to whom spirit was a new thing, recovered himself quickly with

a little choking.

"I wasn't frightened at the moment," he said; "I was only frightened

before, when I knew I was caught."

Then, as his boyish spirits began to reassert themselves, "Did I--did I

behave all right, Uncle Nicholas?"

"I wish to see no better behavior. It is even as your father told me,

that you were fit for the keeping of secrets."

Mitsos flushed with pleasure.

"Then I don't mind if it has made you think that, though, by the

Virgin, my stomach was cold. But if I had had my knife there would have

been blood let. I cannot think how I lost it."

Nicholas laughed.

"Here it is," he said. "It was even I who took it away from you while

you were dozing as you rode. I thought it might be dangerous in your

barbarous young hands."

Mitsos put it back in his belt.

"I am ready now. I shall start off again."

Nicholas rose, too.

"I will come with you as far as the plain, and then my road is forward.

The piastres were a poor trick, eh?"

"Very poor indeed, I thought," said Mitsos, grinning.

The uncle and nephew walked on together, and the other two men strolled

more slowly after them. Nicholas could have shouted aloud for joy. He

had found what he had sought with such fastidiousness--some one whom

he could trust unreservedly, and over whom he had influence. To do

him justice, the cruelty of what he had done made his stomach turn

against himself; but he was associated with men who rightly mistrusted

everybody, except on convincing proof of their trustworthiness. Mitsos

had stood the severest test that could be devised without flinching. He

was one of ten thousand.

At the end of the woods they parted. Mitsos' nerve had come back to

him, and the knowledge that he had won Nicholas's trust, combined with

the fascination the man exercised over him, quite overscored any grudge

he might have felt, for Nicholas's last words to him were words to be

remembered.

"And now, good-bye," he said. "You have behaved in a way I scarce

dared to hope you could, though I think I believed you would. You have

been through a man's test, the test of a strong, faithful man. Others

will soon know of it, and know you to be trustworthy to the uttermost.

Greece shall be revenged, and you shall be among the foremost of her

avengers."

So Nicholas went his way northward and Mitsos towards home, and just as

the earliest streak of dawn lit the sky he reached his father's house.

The truant pony was standing by the way-side cropping the dew-drenched

grass.

CHAPTER V

MITSOS PICKS CHERRIES FOR MARIA

At Nauplia the summer passed quietly, though from other parts of the

country came fresh tales of intolerable taxation, cruelty, and outrage,

hideous beyond belief. But this Argive district was exceptionally

lucky in having for its governor a man who saw that it was possible

to overstep the mark even in dealing with these infidel dogs; partly,

also, Nicholas's visit, his injunctions to the leading Greeks to keep

quiet, and his hints that they would not need to keep quiet long

produced a certain effect; as also did an exhortation delivered by

Father Andréa, in which he spoke of the blessings of peace with a

ferocious tranquillity which left no loop-hole for misconstruction.

July and August were a tale of scorched and burning days, but the vines

were doing well, and the heat only served to ripen them the sooner.

In some years, when the summer months had been cold and unseasonable,

the grapes would not swell to full ripeness till the latter days of

October, and thus there was the danger of the first autumn storms

wrecking the maturing crop. But this year, thanks to the heat, there

was no doubt that they would be ripe for gathering by the third week in

September, and, humanly speaking, a fine grape harvest was assured.

A certain change had come over Mitsos since the events of the night

recorded in the last chapter. He suddenly seemed to have awoke to a

sense of his budding manhood, and his cat, much to that sedately minded

creature's satisfaction, was allowed to shape her soft-padded basking

life as she pleased. He used to go out in the dewiness of dawn, while

it was still scarce light, to try for a shot at the hares which came

down from the hills at night to feed in the vineyards, and at evening

again he would lie in wait near a spring below Mount Elias to shoot

the roe when they came to water. But during the day there was no mark

for his gun, for the game went high away among the hills to avoid the

broiling heat of the plains, or stayed in cover of the pine woods

upon the mountain-sides, where the growth was too thick for shooting,

and where some cracking twig would ever advertise a footstep, however

stealthy.

But the sudden and violent winds of the summer months had set in, and

sailing gave him day-long occupation. He made it his business to know

the birth-hour of the land-breeze, the length of the dead calm that

follows, and the hour when the sea-breeze again winnows the windless

heaven; to read the signs of the thread-like streamers in the upper

air, which mean a strong breeze; the vibration on the sea's horizon,

like the trembling of a steel spring, which means heat and calm, and

the soft-feathered clouds, with dim, blurred outlines that tell of

moisture in the air, which will fall the hour after sunset in fine,

warm, needle-pointed rain. His boat might often be seen scudding across

the bay and into the water of the gulf outside, skirting round the

promontories, running up into the creeks and inlets until, as Nicholas

had told him he should do, he got to know the shape of the land as

he knew the shape of his own head. Above all, he would practise

beating out to sea in the teeth of the sea-breeze, running out to a

given point in as few tacks as possible, and then, when the sea-breeze

died away, he would put into some inlet, fish for a little, and sleep

curled up in the bottom of the boat, awake with the awakening of the

land breeze, and run back again, close hauled, past Nauplia, and up to

the side of the bay, where he beached his boat. In these long hours

alone on the sea he would sit in the stern, when the boat was steady

on some two-mile tack, thinking intently of the new life for which he

was preparing himself. Though Nicholas's stories, and the tales of

oppression and outrage with which all mouths were full, made personal

to him the longing for vengeance on that bestial breed, it was Nicholas

himself who was the inspirer, and his indignation was scarce more than

an image in a mirror of Nicholas. His uncle had long been acquiring

that domination a man can have for a boy, and the main desire and

resolve of his mind was to obey Nicholas, whatever order he might lay

on him, and this resolve to obey was rapidly becoming an instinct

over-mastering and unique. His father, far from making objections to

his spending his time in sailing and shooting, encouraged him thereto,

for Nicholas had bade him hire labor whenever he wanted a lad in

Mitsos' place, saying that the club at Athens had authorized him to

make payments for such things. Mitsos, in fact, had definitely entered

into the service of his country, and it was only right that his father

should be compensated for the loss of a hand.

But during these months there was little or no farm-work to be done.

Early in July Constantine had put up a little reed-built shed to

overlook his vineyard, and there he spent most of the day scaring away

the birds that came to eat the grapes, and playing with his string of

polished beads, which he passed to and fro between his hands, every

now and then stopping to sling a pebble at a bird he saw settling in

the vines. The sparrows were the greatest enemies, for they would

fly over in flocks of eighty or a hundred and settle in different

parts of the vineyard, and when he cleared one quarter and turned

to clear another, the first covey would be back and renewing their

depredations on the grapes. He had an almost exaggerated repugnance

in taking the funds of the club unless it was absolutely necessary

to hire an extra hand, and until the last week before the harvest he

managed alone; but then--for the grapes were tight-skinned and juicy,

and a single bird holding on to a bunch with its claws and feeding

indiscriminately from this grape and that would spoil the hundredfold

of what it ate--he hired a boy from Nauplia, and erected another shed

some fifty yards off. There they would sit from sunrise to sunset, and

at sunset Mitsos returned brown and fresh, with a song from the sea,

with his black hair drying back into its crisp curls after his evening

bathe, and an enormous appetite. He and Constantine sat together till

about nine, and then Mitsos would go off to the cafés, following

Nicholas's instructions, and play cards or draughts, ever pricking an

attentive ear when comments on the Turks were on the board. Nicholas's

directions, however, that there should be no talking of the great

matter, was being obeyed too implicitly for Mitsos to pick up much; but

he acquired great skill at the game of draughts, even being able to

play three games at a time.

One evening, just before the vintage began, he returned earlier than

usual with a frown on his face. His father was sitting on the veranda,

not expecting him yet.

"Have you heard," said Mitsos, "what these Turks have in hand about the

vintage?"

"About the vintage? No."

"Instead of paying one-tenth to the tax-collector, we are to pay

one-seventh; and instead of paying in grapes, we pay in wine."

"One-seventh? It is impossible!"

"It is true."

"Where did you hear it?"

"In the last hour at the café in the square. They are all clacking and

swearing right and left, and the soldiers are patrolling the streets."

Constantine got up.

"I must go, then," he said. "This is just what Nicholas did not want to

happen. Have there been blows between the soldiers and the Greeks?"

"Yanko knocked a Turkish soldier down with such a bang for calling him

a dog that the man will never have front teeth again. They took him and

clapped him in prison."

"The fat lout shall eat stick from me when he comes out. I suppose,

as usual, he was neither drunk nor sober," said Constantine. "As if

knocking a soldier down took away the tax. Is Father Andréa there?"

"I passed him just now on the road," said Mitsos, "going to the town."

Constantine got up.

"Stop here, Mitsos," he said; "I will catch Father Andréa up, and make

him tell them to be quiet. He can do what he pleases with that tongue

of his."

"But mayn't I come?" said Mitsos, scenting an entrancing row.

"And get your black head broken? No, that will keep for a worthier

cause."

Constantine hurried off and caught Father Andréa up before he entered

the town.

"Father," he said, "you can stop this, for they will listen to you.

Remember what Nicholas said."

Father Andréa nodded.

"I heard there were loud talk and blows in the town, and I am on the

road for that reason. Nicholas is right. We must pay the extra tax, and

for every pint of wine we pay we will exact a gallon of blood. Ah, God,

how I have fasted and prayed one prayer--to wash my hands in the blood

of the Turks."

"Softly," said Constantine, "here is the guard."

The guard at the gate was unwilling at first to let them pass, but

Andréa, without a moment's hesitation, said that he was a priest going

to visit a dying man who wished to make a confession, with Constantine

as witness, and they were admitted.

"God will forgive me that lie," he said, as they passed on. "It is for

His cause that I lied."

Since Mitsos' departure the disturbance had increased. There were

some forty or fifty Greeks collected in the centre of the square,

and Turkish soldiers were coming out one by one from the barracks

and mingling with the crowd. The Greeks, according to their custom,

all carried knives, but were otherwise unarmed; the Turks had guns

and pistols. There was a low, angry murmur going up from the people,

which boded mischief. Just as they came up Father Andréa turned to

Constantine.

"Stop outside the crowd," he said, "do not mix yourself up in this.

They will not touch me, for I am a priest."

Then elbowing his way among the people, he shouted: "A priest--a priest

of God! Let me pass."

The Greeks in the crowd parted, making way for him as he pushed

through, conspicuous by his great height, though here and there a

Turkish soldier tried to stop him. But Andréa demanded to be let into

the middle of them with such authority that they too fell back, and he

continued to elbow his way on. He was already well among the people

when two voices detached themselves, as it were, from the angry, low

murmur, shrilling up apart in loud, violent altercation, and the next

moment a Greek just in front of him rushed forward and stabbed a Turk

in the arm. The soldier raised his pistol and fired, and the man turned

over on his face, with a grunt and one stretching convulsion, dead.

There was a moment's silence, and then the murmur grew shriller and

louder, and the crowd pressed forward. Andréa held up his hand.

[Illustration: "'I AM FATHER ANDRÉA,' HE SHOUTED"]

"I am Father Andréa," he shouted, "whom you know. In God's name listen

to me a moment. Silence there, all of you."

For a moment again there was a lull at his raised voice, and Andréa

took advantage of it.

"The curse of all the saints of God be upon the Greek who next uses his

knife," he cried. "Who is the officer in command?"

A young Turkish officer standing close to him turned round.

"I am in command," he said, "and I command you to go, unless you would

be seized with the other ringleaders."

"I shall not go; my place is here."

"For the last time, go."

"I offer myself as hostage for the good conduct of the Greeks," said

Andréa, quietly. "Blood has been shed. I am here that there may be

no more. Let me speak to them and then take me, and if there is more

disturbance kill me."

"Very good," said the officer. "I have heard of you. But stop the riot

first, if you can. I desire bloodshed no more than you."

The group had now collected round them, still waiting irresolutely, in

the way a crowd does on any one who seems to have authority. Father

Andréa turned to them.

"You foolish children," he cried, "what are you doing? The Sultan has

added a tax, it is true, but will it profit you to be killed like dogs?

You have knives, and you can cut a finger nail with knives, and these

others have guns. This poor dead thing learned that, and he has paid

for his lesson. Is it better for him that he has wounded another man

now that he has gone to appear before God? And those of you who are not

shot will be taken and hanged. I am here unarmed, as it befits a priest

to be. I am a hostage for you. If there is further riot you yourselves

will be shot down like dogs, or as you shoot the little foxes among the

grapes and leave them for the crows to eat; I shall be hanged, for I

go hostage for you; and the tax will be no less than before. So now to

your homes."

The crowd listened silently--for in those days to behave with aught but

respect to a priest was sacrilege--and one or two of the nearest put

back their knives into their belts, yet stood there still irresolute.

"Come, every man to his home," said Andréa again. "Let those who have

wine-shops close them, for there has been blood spilled to-night."

But they still stood there, and the murmur rose and died, and rose

again like a sound carried on a gusty wind, until Andréa, pushing

forward, laid his hand on the shoulder of one of the ringleaders.

"Christos," he said, "there is your home, and your wife waits for you.

Go home, man, lest you are carried in feet first."

The man, directly and individually addressed by a stronger, turned

and went, and the others began to melt away till there were only left

in the square the Turkish soldiers and Andréa. Then he spoke to the

officer again:

"I am at your disposal," he said, "until you are satisfied that things

are quiet again."

The officer stood for a moment without replying. Then, "I wish to treat

you with all courtesy," he said, "and you have saved me a great deal

of trouble to-night. But perhaps it will be better if you stop in my

quarters for an hour or two, though I think we shall have no more of

this. With your permission I will give you in custody."

And with the fine manners of his race, which the Greeks for the most

part could not understand and so distrusted, he beckoned to two

soldiers, who led him off to the officer's quarters.

The Turkish captain remained in the square an hour longer, but the

disturbance seemed to be quite over, and he followed Father Andréa.

"You will smoke or drink?" he said, laying his sword on the table.

"I neither smoke nor drink," answered Andréa.

The officer sat down, looking at him from his dark, lustreless eyes.

"It is natural you should hate us," he said, "and but for you there

would have been a serious disturbance, and not Greek blood alone would

have been shed. I am anxious to know why you stopped the riot."

Father Andréa smiled.

"For the reason I gave to the rioters. Is not that sufficient?"

"Quite sufficient; it only occurred to me there might be a further

reason, a further-reaching reason, so to speak. I will not detain you

any longer. I am sure no further disturbance will take place."

Andréa rose, and for a moment the two men faced each other. They were

both good types of their race: the Greek, fearless and hot-blooded; the

Turk, fearless and phlegmatic.

"I will wish you good-night," said the captain; "perhaps we shall meet

again. My name is Mehemet Salik. You owe nothing to me nor I to you.

You stopped the riot and saved me some trouble, but it was for reasons

of your own. I have detained you till I am satisfied there will be no

more disturbance; so if we meet again no quarter on either side, for we

shall be enemies."

"I shall neither give quarter nor ask it," said Andréa.

The vintage began the next week, and for the time Mitsos had to

abandon his boat and gun for the wine-making, since he alone knew

the particularities of manufacture which Constantine practised--the

amount of fermentation before finally casking the wine, the measure

of resin to be put in, and the right quality of it, all which were as

incommunicable as the unwritten law of tea-making for an individual

taste. The small vineyard close to the house, which was all that was

left to them after the seizure of the bigger vineyard by the Turk,

contained the best vines, which, being nearer to hand, had inevitably

received the better cultivation. These again were divided into two

classes, most of them being the ordinary country stock; but the other

was a nobler grape from Nemea, which yielded the finest wine. They were

always gathered last, and fermented in a barrel by themselves.

The evening before the grape-picking began, several girls from

neighboring farms came to find labor in the gathering for a couple of

days, as the harvest would not be ripe in other vineyards for a day or

two yet. Constantine engaged four of them, who came early next morning,

just as he and Mitsos were getting out the big two-handled panniers in

which the grapes were carried to the press from the vineyard, which lay

dewy and glistening under the clear dawn. Spero, the boy who had been

employed for the last week in scaring birds, was also engaged for the

picking, and in all they were seven. For the larger half of an hour

they all picked together, until two of the big baskets were full and

the treading could begin. The press, an old stone-built construction,

moss-ridden and creviced outside, and coated inside with fine stucco,

stood close to the house. The bottom of it sloped down towards a

small wooden sluice which opened from its lower end, and which could

be raised from the inside when there was sufficient must trodden to

fill one of the big shallow casks in which it was fermented. Mitsos

had spent the previous day in washing and scouring it with avuncular

thoroughness, scrubbing the sides with powdered resin, and when Spero

had wanted to assist in treading the grape instead of gathering, he

looked scornful, and only said:

"We do not make wine for you to wash in. Get you back to the picking."

They poured the first two big panniers of grapes into the press just as

the sun rose, stalks and all, and after turning his trousers up to the

knees, and scrubbing his feet and legs in hot water, Mitsos stepped in

and began the treading. The purple fruit was ripe and tight-skinned,

and the red stuff soon began to splash and spurt up, staining his legs.

Another basket came before he had got the first two well under, and

by degrees the pickers gained on him. The day promised a scorching,

and the press, which had at first stood in the shade, had been swung

round into the full blaze of the sun before a couple of hours were

over. About nine o'clock Constantine, who had just carried up another

basket with Spero, and stayed for a moment looking at Mitsos dancing

fantastically in the sun, saw that there was already stuff enough to

fill a cask.

"There is food for a cask there," he said to Mitsos, "but it is not

trodden enough yet. You will not keep pace without some one to help

you."

Mitsos paused a moment and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

"I am broiled meat," he said. "Yes, send one of the girls. Make her

wash first."

Constantine smiled.

"There speaks Nicholas," he remarked, "who is always right."

So Maria was sent to help Mitsos. She was a pretty girl, about

seventeen years old, fawn eyed and olive skinned. As she stood on the

edge of the press before stepping in, with her shoes off and her skirt

tucked up, Mitsos found himself noticing the gentle curve of her calf

muscle from the ankle to behind the knee, and how prettily one foot,

pink from the hot water, broadened as she rested her weight on it for a

moment. He gave her his hand to help her down into the press, and their

eyes met.

"We shall do nicely now," he said.

Constantine meantime had fetched one of the casks, open at the top,

and with a tap at the bottom, about six inches above the other end,

from which the fermented liquid would be drawn off when it was clear,

and placing it under the sluice, looked over to see if the must was

sufficiently trodden. No baskets had come in for a quarter of an hour,

and Mitsos and Maria between them had reduced the whole must to one

consistency.

"It is ready now," he said to Mitsos; "raise the sluice."

The must had risen above the ring by which the sluice was raised at

the lower end of the press, and Mitsos and Maria groped about for half

a minute or so before they found it. Once they tightly grasped each

other's fingers, and both exclaimed triumphantly, "I've got it."

Maria found it first; but the wood had swollen with the scouring of the

day before and it was stiff, so Mitsos had to raise it himself. Then

with a gurgle and a gulp the purple mass of pulp, juice, stalks, and

skins poured riotously out, splashing Constantine, and foaming into the

cask with a lusty noise. When it was three-quarters full Mitsos closed

the sluice again, for in the process of fermentation the must would

swell to the top, and Constantine and Spero took the barrel, clucking

as it was moved, off into the veranda out of the sun, and covered it

with a cloth.

They all rested for an hour at mid-day, and ate their dinner in the

shade of the poplar by the spring. The others had brought their food

with them, with the exception of Maria, who said she was not hungry and

did not care to eat. But Mitsos, pausing for a moment in his own meal,

saw her sitting close to him looking rather tired and fagged from the

morning's work, and fetched her some bread and some fresh cheese, cool

and sweet from the cellar, and Maria's want of appetite vanished before

these things. After dinner they all lay down and dozed for that hour of

fiercest heat, when, as the poet of the South says, "even the cicala is

still," some in the veranda, some in the shade of the poplars. Mitsos

was the first to wake, and he, under a stern sense of duty, aroused

himself and the others. Maria had disposed herself under a farther

tree, where she lay with her hands clasped behind her head, and her

mouth half open and set with the rim of her white teeth. She had drawn

up one leg, and her short skirt showed it bare to above the knee.

Mitsos stood looking at her a moment, thinking how pretty were her long

eyelashes and slightly parted mouth, and wondering why it had never

occurred to him before that she was pretty, when she woke and saw him

standing in front of her. She sat up quickly and drew her skirt down

over her leg, and a faint tinge of red showed under her skin.

"Is it time to go on?" she said; "and I am nothing but a bag of sleep."

"I will help you up," said Mitsos, putting out his hand.

But she stretched herself, smiling, and got up without his assistance.

Then the work went on till nearly sunset; a second cask and a third

were filled, which were taken away to the veranda, where they were put

on trestles and covered like the first; and, as there would not be time

to fill a fourth before sunset, they stopped work for the day.

Mitsos and Constantine ate their supper together, but afterwards Mitsos

said he would not go to the café to-night, he was sleepy, and to-morrow

would be as to-day. The two sat there in silence for the most part, the

father smoking and playing with his beads, and Mitsos lying full length

on the floor of the veranda intermittently eating a cherry from the

remains of their supper.

About nine he got up and stretched himself.

"I am for bed," he said. "How pretty Maria is. I wonder why I never

noticed before that girls were pretty."

Constantine smiled.

"We all notice it sooner or later," he said. "I noticed it when I was

about as old as you."

"Did you? What did you do then?"

"God granted me to marry the one I thought the prettiest."

"My mother? It is little I remember of her. But I am not going to marry

Maria. Yet she is even very pretty."

The second day was devoted to picking the remainder of the ordinary

grapes, which Mitsos and Maria trod, as on the day before, and Mitsos

feeling a desire--to which he had hitherto been a stranger--to look

well in a girl's eyes, told her stories about the shooting, and his own

prowess therein--for all the world like a young cock-bird in spring and

the mating-time strutting before his lady. The girls were not required

for the third day's picking, and in the evening Constantine paid them

their two days' wage. Mitsos walked back with Maria through the garden,

and together they washed their feet of the must at the spring. A little

further on they came to the cherry-tree, and here he told her to hold

out her apron while he picked a little supper for her, again taking

pride to swing himself with an unnecessary display of gymnastics from

one bough to another, while Maria looked on from below with up-turned

eyes bidding him be careful, and saying, as was indeed true, that there

were plenty of cherries on the lower boughs, and his exertions were

needless. Something in his conduct seemed to amuse her, for as they

said good-night at the gate she broke out into a laugh, and, with the

air of a great, fine lady to a pretty boy, "Good-night, little Mitsos,"

she said; "and will you come to my wedding?"

Mitsos, in spite of his determination of the night before, felt a

perceptible shock.

"Your wedding? Whom are you going to marry?"

"Yanko. At least, so I think. He has asked me, and I have not said no."

"Yanko Vlachos? That ugly brute?"

Maria laughed again.

"I don't find him ugly--at least, not to matter."

Mitsos recollected his manners.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I like Yanko very much. He knocked a

Turkish soldier down last week--such a bang on the back of his head!"

"Oh, he's a very good man," said Maria, walking off with a great,

important air.

Mitsos went slowly back to the house, his strutting over.

The third day was devoted to the gathering of the finer grapes, which

were fermented by themselves in a separate cask. These the two boys and

Constantine picked together, until all the trees but one were stripped,

but instead of throwing them in stalk and all, they picked each grape

separately off the bunches and shed them into the cask, until there was

a layer some fifteen inches deep. Mitsos trod these as before, while

his father and Spero went on picking, and when they were sufficiently

pulped he poured on to them about a quart of brandy. More grapes

were then put in, trodden, and more brandy added. When the cask was

three-quarters full they moved it away with the others, but covered it

more closely with two layers of thick woollen blanket. The remainder of

the fine grapes were sufficient to fill another half-cask.

Then there came the final act of the grape-gathering, a page of pagan

ritual surviving from the time when the rout of Dionysus laughed and

rioted through the vineyard. Mitsos fetched a big bowl from the house,

and Constantine cut all the grapes from the remaining vine. These he

placed in the bowl and left in the middle of the vineyard for the birds

to eat.

For the next two days the must required no attention, though the

fermentation, owing to the heat of the weather, was going on very

rapidly, and by the end of the second day the thin acrid smell mingled

strongly with the garden scents. Once or twice Constantine raised the

cloths which covered the casks to see what progress it made, or drew a

little from the tap at the bottom. But the stuff was still thick, and

had not cleared sufficiently to be disturbed yet.

On the second day Mitsos went off to get fresh resin for the wine.

The ordinary pine resin was generally used by Greeks for this, but

Constantine always preferred the resin from the dwarf pine, which

was less bitter and finer in quality. The sides of Mount Elias were

plentiful with the common pine, but the dwarf pine only grew on the

hills round Epidaurus, a five hours' journey. Mitsos took his gun with

him on the chance of sighting and slaying game, and started off on

his pony before dawn, for the way wound over low, unsheltered hills,

a day-long target for the sun; but before he reached the shoulder of

mountain in which was cut the old grass-grown theatre, about which

the dwarf pines grew, the sun, already high, had drawn up the heavy

dews of the night before, and the air was quivering with heat like

a man in an ague fit. The growth of these pines was that of bushes

rather than trees, some of them covering a space of ten yards square,

gnarl-trunked, and sprawling along the ground. On some dozen of them he

selected a place near the root and cut off a piece of bark a few inches

square in order that the resin might ooze from the lips of the wounded

trunk, placing below each a flat stone to catch the dripping. In a few

days' time there would be sufficient resin collected for the year's

wine. On several trees he found the incisions he had made in previous

years, in some of which, where the flow of resin had continued after

he had removed it for the wine, it had gone on dripping until a little

pillar, like the slag-wax from a candle, stood up between the stone and

the tree. He cut off one of these to see whether it was still good, but

the damp had soaked into it, and the outside surface was covered with a

gray fungus growth which rendered it useless.

He ate his dinner under shelter of the more shady trees which grew

higher up the slope, and waited till the sun had lost its noonday heat,

listening lazily to the bell on the neck of his pony, which was grazing

on the hill-side above, dozing and wondering what the next year would

bring for him. He had no idea what Nicholas would call on him to do,

but he was willing to wait. The love of adventure and excitement was

fermenting in him, though he was contented to go on living his usual

life from day to day. Nicholas, he knew, would not fail; some day, he

knew not when, the summons would come, and he would obey blindly. Then

he thought of the horrible scene which Nicholas and he had looked on

three months ago, when they saw that dead, misshapen thing dangling

from a tree, and his blood began to boil and the desire to avenge the

wrongs done to his race stirred in him.

"Spare not man, woman, or child," Nicholas had said.

He lay back on the short turf and began to think about Maria. Supposing

Maria had been a Turkish woman, and Nicholas had put a knife into his

hand while he was looking at her mid-day sleep beneath the poplars, and

told him to kill her, would he have been able? Could he have struck

anything so soft and pretty? Fancy that heavy lout, Yanko, marrying

Maria; he was all fat, and sat drinking all day at the wine-shop, yet

he was never drunk, like a proper man, and he was seldom sober. Then

Mitsos for the first time in his life became analytical, though his

vocabulary boasted no such word. Why was it that since the day he stood

in front of Maria as she lay asleep he had regarded women somehow with

different eyes? What was it to him whether Yanko or another had her?

Hitherto he had thought of women in the obvious, work-a-day light in

which they are presented to a Greek boy, as beasts of burden, hewers of

wood and drawers of water, inferior beings who waited on the men, and

when alone chattered shrilly and volubly to each other like jays, or a

bushful of silly, jabbering sparrows--creatures altogether unfit for

the companionship of men. But since that moment he or they had changed;

there was something wonderful about them which men did not share,

something demanding protection, even tenderness, affording food for

vague, disquieting thought. He had not understood at all, not having

known his mother, why Nicholas had spoken as he had of his wife, except

in so far that she was a possession of which the Turks had robbed him.

But Mitsos could think of nothing the loss of which would make him

devote his life to the extermination of the race that had robbed him of

it. Even if the Turks took away his gun he realized that he would not

wish to destroy the whole race for that. The brutal hanging of a man

was a different matter; a man was a man, and a woman--Well, that woman

was Nicholas's wife. Suppose the Turks killed Maria, would that be

worse than if they killed, say, Nicholas? Well, not worse, not nearly

so bad in fact, but, somehow, different.

Thus knocked Mitsos at the door of the habitation called love, and

waited for its sesame.

CHAPTER VI

THE SONG FROM THE DARKNESS

When Constantine looked at one of the casks of fermenting wine on the

fourth day, he saw that the crust of skins, stalks, and stones had

risen to within six inches of the top, like coffee on the boil, and

was thickly covered with a pink, sour-smelling froth. The fermentation

was at its height, and it was time to mix up the crust with the fluid

again to excite it even further. In one cask, into which the ripest

fruit from the more sun-baked corner of the vineyard had been put, this

crust had risen even higher, and threatened to overflow. The ordinary

custom in Greece at this time was for a naked man to get into the cask

and stir it up again, a remnant, no doubt, of some now insignificant

superstition; but Constantine, though he still put the grapes of one

vine in a bowl for the birds to eat, did not think it necessary to make

this further concession, but only stirred up the frothing mass with an

instrument like a wooden pavier. The crust was already growing thick

and compacted, and it was ten minutes' work to get it thoroughly mixed

up again with the fluid in each case, and from the seething, bubbling

surface there rose thickly the sour fumes of the decomposing matter,

heavily laden with carbonic-acid gas. One cask leaked slightly round

the tap at the bottom and was dripping on the floor. A little red

stream had trickled down to the edge of the veranda, and he noticed

that it was full of small bubbles, like water that had stood in the

sun, showing that the fermentation was not yet over. He caulked this up

with a lump of resin, and then moved all the casks out of the shade for

an hour or two, so that the heat might hasten the second fermentation,

which naturally was slower and less violent than the first. The cask

and a half of fine wine, however, he did not touch; there it was better

that the fermentation should go on slowly and naturally.

That evening Mitsos went out fishing, as the work of wine-making was

over for the present. In four or five days he would have to go over to

Epidaurus to get the resin from the pine-trees, but just now there was

nothing more to be done. Later on the vines would have to be cut back,

but Constantine preferred delaying this till the leaves fell and the

sap had sunk back again into the roots and main stem.

Though the day was one of early autumn, and in most years the serenity

of summer would continue into the middle or end of October, the top

of the hills above the farther side of the gulf had been shrouded all

day in thick storm-boding clouds, and as sunset drew near these spread

eastward, making a sullen sky. The sun, as it dropped behind them,

illumined their edges, turning them to a dark translucent amber, and

the afterglow, which spread slowly across the heavens, cast a strange

lurid light through the half opaque floor of cloud. The night would

soon fall dark, perhaps with storm. It was very hot, and the land

breeze was but a languid air, and blew as if weary with its travel over

the broiling plain, but there was quite enough of it, with Mitsos'

economical methods, to send the boat along at a good pace. He sailed

almost before it out seaward for two miles or so, meaning to fish

from the island, but then changed his mind, and went back on tedious

tacks to the head of the bay, the water seeming to him a thick thing,

and the boat going but heavily. Dark fell, dense and premature, and

when an hour later he put the boat about on the last tack he had to

keep two eyes open as he neared the land; but as there were no other

boats abroad, he did not think it necessary to light his lantern at

the bows. Against the dark sky and the dark water it would hardly have

been possible to see the brown-sailed craft from more than forty yards

distant, and even then, if the thin white line of broken water at the

forefoot had not caught the eye, or the stealthy, subdued hiss as it

cut through the sea fallen on the ear, it might have passed close and

unnoticed. Then, with a curious suddenness, he saw faintly the white

glimmer of the sea-wall of Abdul Achmet's house straight in front of

him, and knew that in the dead darkness he had taken too starboard a

course. However, by running up as close as possible to this, one tack

more would certainly take him across to the fishing bay where he was

bound, and sitting rudder in hand, he waited till the last possible

moment before putting about. He had, however, forgotten that the wall

would take the wind from him, and when he was about fifty yards off,

the sail flapped once and fell dead against the mast, and the boom

swung straight, the line of white water faded from under the forefoot,

and the hiss of the motion was quenched. He got up for an oar, so as

to pull her round again, when quite suddenly he heard the sound of a

woman's voice from the terrace singing. For a moment or so he stood

still, and then his ear focussed itself to the sounds. She was singing

a song Mitsos knew well, a song which the vine-tenders sing as they are

digging the vines in the spring of the year, and she sang in Greek:

"Dig we deep around the vines,

Give the sweet spring showers a home,

Else the fairest sun that shines

Sends no sparkle to our wines,

Lights no lustre in the foam."

He could not see the singer; all he saw was the circle of black night,

the faint lines of his boat a shade blacker against it, and just ahead

the white glimmer of the wall. The voice, low and sweet, came out

of the darkness like a bird flying through a desert--a living thing

amid death. Mitsos stood perfectly still, strangely and bewilderingly

excited. Then he took up his oar and turned the boat's head round,

rowed a few strokes out, and waited again. But the voice had ceased.

He felt somehow unaccountably shy, as if he had intruded into another's

privacy; but having intruded, he was determined to make his presence

known. So just as the sail caught the wind again he stood up in the

stern, and in his boyish voice answered the unseen singer with the

second verse:

"Dig we deep, the summer's here;

Saw we not among the eaves

Summer's messenger appear,

Swallows flitting here and there,

Through the budding almond leaves?"

The boat bent over to the wind, the white line streaked the water, and

he hissed off into the night again.

He sat down, let go of the tiller, and let the boat run on by itself.

He had never known that that common country song was beautiful till

he had heard a voice out of the darkness sing it--a voice low, sweet,

soft, which might have been the darkness itself made audible. Who was

this woman? How did she, a Greek, come to be in the house of a Turk?

Then with a flash of awakened memory he brought to mind the evening

when he and Nicholas had sailed home after fishing; how a man came up

and struck a woman who was leaning on the sea-wall; how she had cried

out and said, in Greek, "What was that for?"

The flapping of the sail in the last breath of the wind roused him

and he looked up; the breeze had died out, and he was floating in the

middle of a shell of blackness. He had no idea where he was until he

saw the lights of Nauplia, where he least expected them, on the left

of the boat instead of behind him, dim, and far away. For his craft,

left to itself, had of course run straight before the land-breeze out

into the mouth of the gulf, and now the breeze had died out and he was

miles from the land. That did not trouble him much; fishing was a minor

consideration, and spending the night in the boat was paid for by a

shrug of the shoulders. He wanted one thing only--to get back to the

white glimmering wall, to the voice from the darkness.

A puff of hot air wandered by the boat, the sails shivered for a moment

and were still again. A veiled flash of lightning gleamed through the

clouds over the Tripoli hills and was reflected sombrely across the

sky, and a peal of thunder droned a tardy answer. A faint rim of light,

like the raising of tired eyelids, opened over the sea, and he saw the

ropes of his boat stand out sharp against it. Then, suddenly, there

came from the hills a sound he knew, and knew to be dangerous--the

shrill scream of a mountain squall from the highlands to the west of

the gulf. He sprang to the ropes and had the sail down just before it

struck him, but in less than a minute the bows were driven round, and

the white tops of little waves began to fleck the bay. He felt the salt

spray on his face and hands, and laughed exultantly. This was what he

wanted.

With a joy in the danger of the thing he hoisted the sail, struggling

and pulling to be free, and in a moment he was tearing back straight to

the head of the gulf, with the rudder pushed hard a-port.

At the pace he was going the boat was quite steady, cutting through

the waves instead of rising to them, and now and then one was flung

over the bows like a white rag. The wind screamed, the white snakes

of foam flew by, and, bareheaded, Mitsos clung with both hands to his

rudder, controlling the course of the boat like the rider of a restive

horse, laughing to himself for some secret glee, and every now and then

shouting out a verse of the vine-diggers' song. Before long the wall

appeared again, and he took in his sail; the water was already rough,

and was dashing up against it; but he let the boat drift on till he was

within thirty yards of it. The rim of light over the sea had widened,

and he could see the edge of the top of the wall quite distinctly, and,

behind, the tall sombre cypresses in rows. But there was no one there.

* * * * *

Just then the rain began hissing into the sea like shot, and for a few

minutes turning the whole surface milky white. Mitsos, frowning and

peering awhile into the darkness, put up his collar, and with some

difficulty proceeded to put about. The wind was blowing hard ashore,

and he had to take down the sail altogether and row. Even then he

seemed hardly to be making way against the maddened air, and it was

a quarter of an hour's hard work to get far enough from the shore to

sail again. Then he fetched a long tack towards Nauplia, and from

there managed to handle the boat back opposite the shore where his

house stood. The surf was breaking nastily on the rock-ridden beach,

and he had to get through a narrow channel, both sides of which were

shoal water, not sufficiently deep to allow the boat to pass. But he

had the light from his own house and that from the café opposite to

steer by, and he knew that he could run in when they were in a line. As

he neared the shore he could see it was impossible to bring the boat

round sharply enough, and while there was yet time he beat out again

for a quarter of a mile and approached it more directly. This time he

was successful, and the boat skimmed past the tumbled water on each

side--and as he passed he saw sharp-toothed rocks foaming and gnashing

at him--safe into the smoother water of his anchorage. Constantine was

waiting up for him, and when his tall figure appeared in the doorway,

he looked up with relief.

"Mitsos, you shouldn't sail on nights like these," he said; "the best

seamen in the world might not be able to handle a boat in such a

squall. How did you get in?"

"It's easy enough when you get the lights from the house and the café

in a line," said Mitsos; "besides, I was six miles out in the bay when

the squall came down."

"Six miles out? You have not been long getting back," said his father,

marvelling at the lad's knowledge.

Mitsos walked to the door to close it, turning his back on Constantine.

"No, there was a fine wind to sail on," he said, and whistled the

vine-diggers' song beneath his breath.

Constantine did not ask any more questions, and Mitsos went to make

himself some hot coffee and get out of his wet clothes, for he was

drenched from head to foot.

Two days after this the ordinary wine had cleared completely, and it

was racked into fresh casks, for if it stood too long on the lees in

contact with the skins and stalks it would become bitter. The crust

itself Constantine removed from all the barrels and put into the still

for the making of spirits. This only required one man to look after,

and on the day Mitsos went to Epidaurus to get the resin he employed

himself with it.

The apparatus was of the simplest. He placed all the crusts from the

barrels in a big iron pot, under which he lit a slow charcoal fire;

into a hole in the lid of this, which screwed on to the body, he

inserted a bent iron pipe, on to which he screwed another pipe made

in spirals. A big wooden tub filled with water, through the bottom of

which passed a third pipe fitting at one end into the spirals which

lay in the water, and communicating at the other with the glazed jar

into which the spirit was to be stored, completed the apparatus. The

fire drove off the alcohol from the fermented crust in a vapor, which

distilled itself into spirit as it passed through the tube that lay in

the cold water, and dripped out at the farther end into the jar.

He finished the day's work by soon after five, and, having business

in Nauplia, set off there at once; so that Mitsos, returning a little

later from Epidaurus with the resin, found him out, and, without

waiting to get any food, he set off again at once down to the bay.

It was drawing near that moment when all the beauty of the day in sea,

land, and sky is gathered into the ten minutes of sunset. The sun,

declining to its setting, was dropping slowly above a low pass in the

hills, shining with an exceeding clearness, and it was still half an

hour above the horizon when Mitsos got into the boat. The land-breeze

was blowing temperate and firm, and his boat dipped to it gently, and

glided steadily on the outward tack. Between him and the Argive hills

hung a palpable haze of thinnest blue; but the whole plain slept in

a garment of gold, woven by the level rays. The surface of the water,

unruffled under the shadow of the land, was green and burnished like a

plate of patinated bronze, and the ripple from the bows broke creamily

and flowed out behind the boat in long, feather-like lines. As the sun

neared its setting, the golden mist grew more intense in color, and

the higher slopes of the mountains turned pink behind their veil of

blue. The sky was cloudless from rim to rim, except where, low in the

west, there floated a few thin skeins of vapor, visible against the

incredible blue only because they were touched with red. Just as Mitsos

neared the wall on his second tack the sun's edge was cut by the ragged

outline of the mountain, and in ten minutes more it would have set.

She, the nameless, ineffable she--and Mitsos never questioned that

this was the sweet singer--was leaning on the edge of the wall looking

seawards. She saw Mitsos sitting in the stern of his boat, and guessed

at once--for few boats passed so close--that it was he who had sung

the second verse of the vineyard song two nights ago, and that it was

his boat which passed close under the wall last night, when the other

women of the harem were there with her. She had not known till she saw

him that she wished to see the owner of that half-formed boyish voice,

which had come so pleasantly out of the darkness; and now, when she did

see him, she looked long. He, too, was looking, and her eyes made a

bridge over the golden air that lay between them and brought them close

together.

The boat drew nearer, and she dropped her eyes and began playing with

a spray of roses that trailed along the top of the wall. She picked

a couple of buds, smelled them, and then very softly she began the

first verse of the vine-diggers' song.

[Illustration: "HALF CARELESSLY SHE THREW INTO THE BOAT THE ROSES SHE

HAD PICKED"]

The boat had got under shelter of the wall, and drifted windlessly

near. Mitsos was still looking at her; her eyes were still cast down.

She sang the first verse through, and the first two lines of the second

verse, and then apparently she recollected no more, for she stopped,

and from the boat Mitsos sang very softly the two lines that followed.

Still, without looking up, she sang them after him; he finished the

verse, and she sang the whole through.

From the bay the sun had set, but the mountains on the east glowed

rosier and rosier every moment. All that Mitsos saw was a girl's

slender figure wrapped in a loose white cloak, with a gold band round

the waist--a hand that held two rosebuds, a face veiled up to the eyes,

eyes down-dropped, and eyelashes that swept the cheek.

"There is a third verse," he said.

Then she looked up, and her eyes smiled at him, and they were as black

as shadows beneath the moon.

"I will learn that another night," she said, softly, "if it be you will

teach me; and this is for your teaching. Go, now; others are coming."

Half carelessly she threw into the boat the roses she had picked, and

turned away.

Mitsos waited a moment longer, and then, hearing voices in the garden

behind the wall, rowed quickly away. His thoughts were a song; his

mind, one sweet secret frenzy, that made the heart quick and the eye

bright. All the common details of life were seen and taken in by him

but dimly, as sounds come dimly to a sleeper, and are but the material

out of which he weaves a golden vision; for the first splendor of

love, hackneyed as a theme, but as an experience from generation to

generation ever new, was dawning on him.

* * * * *

Maria was married next morning, and Mitsos went without emotion to

the wedding. The bride and bridegroom appeared to him to be admirably

suited to each other.

About four o'clock that afternoon the lad was just about to set off

down to the shore when his father appeared.

"We'll finish with the wine this evening," he said. "Come and begin at

once, Mitsos."

Mitsos paused a moment.

"I was just going sailing," he said. "Cannot it wait till to-morrow?"

"No; it had better be finished now. Besides, you can sail afterwards.

Come, it won't take a couple of hours."

"Uncle Nicholas told me to sail every day," he began.

"And to obey me, Mitsos."

Mitsos stood for a moment irresolute, but soon his habit of obedience

reasserted itself.

"Yes, father," he said; "I am sorry. I will come."

The casks in which the first fermentation had taken place had been

thoroughly scoured with boiling water, which had quite got rid

of the sour-smelling fermented stuff, and they were to rack the

cleared resinated wine back into them. They filled each cask again

three-quarters full, and into the remaining space they poured a portion

of the fine wine, dividing it equally among all. To Mitsos the process

seemed insufferably long and tedious. The sun had set before the casks

were filled, and it was dark before the work was over. Never before,

it seemed to him, had the taps dribbled so dispiritingly. His father

now and then addressed some remark to him, which he barely answered,

and after a time they both lapsed into silence. Mitsos knew that he was

behaving badly, and he thought he could not help it. Perhaps she was

there; perhaps--bewildering thought--she was even wondering why he did

not come. How could he simulate the slightest interest in the wine of

grapes when the wine of love was fermenting within him, driving him mad

with those sweet, intoxicating fumes for which there is no amethyst?

At last it was over. No, he would not eat now; he would eat when he

came in, and ten minutes later he was on his way. Soon the wall began

to glimmer in front of him. Something, it looked only like a white

shadow, was leaning on it, and as he drew nearer he heard again the

voice singing low in the darkness, singing the common country song

which had become so beautiful.

CHAPTER VII

THE PORT DUES OF CORINTH

Nicholas got safely across to Corinth early in the morning after he

had parted from Mitsos, but was obliged to wait there two days for a

caique to take him to Patras. The revolution for which the leading

Greeks throughout the Peloponnese were preparing was there in the hands

of the Archbishop Germanos. Like Nicholas, he too had felt the cruel

appetites of the Turk, and, like Nicholas, he was willing to leave

revenge unplucked until the whole scheme was ripe to the core. An agent

of his had met the latter at Corinth, bidding him come, if he had a few

days to spare, at once; if not, as soon as he could. But as Nicholas

had left Nauplia with the idea of proceeding to Patras at once, he sent

the messenger back, saying he was on his way, but that for greater

security he would come by sea. That he was suspected of being concerned

in intrigue against the Turk he knew, and as his plans were now already

beginning to be thoroughly organized, and the club had made him their

principal agent in the Morea, he wished to avoid any needless risk in

passing through the garrisoned towns on the gulf.

On the second day, however, a Greek caique laden with figs was starting

from Corinth, and Nicholas went on board soon after dark, and about

midnight they started.

For a few hours an easterly breeze drew up from the narrow end of

the gulf, but it slackened and dropped between three and four in the

morning, and daylight found them becalmed, with slack sails, some

eight miles out to sea, and nearly opposite Itea. To the north the

top of Parnassus wore morning on its face, and stood high above them

rose-flushed with dawn, while they still lay on a dark, polished plain

of water as smooth as glass. On the opposite side of the gulf, but

farther ahead, Cyllene and Helmos, on the north side of which last

winter's snow still lay heraldically in bars and bezants, had also

caught the light, which, as the sun rose higher, flowed like some

luminous liquid down their slopes, wooded below with great pine forests.

Nicholas had pillowed himself on the deck, and woke when the sun had

risen high enough to touch the caique. The captain and owner of the

boat, who had been all night in the little close cabin below, came up

as he roused himself and sat down near him.

"The wind has dropped altogether," he said; "we may be here for hours.

Are you in a hurry to get on?"

Nicholas filled his pipe very carefully.

"I am never in a hurry," he said, "if I am going as quick as I can.

I would make a wind if I could, but I cannot, and so I am content to

wait. If swearing would do any good I would even swear, but I find it

has no effect on the elements. You have a good heavy cargo."

"A good, heavy cargo?" said the man. "Yes, and we should have a dipping

gunwale if those devils had not seized six crates of figs at Corinth."

"The Turks?" asked Nicholas.

"Who else? Port dues, they call them. Much of a port is Corinth--a heap

of stones tumbled into the water, and five rickety steps."

"Harbor dues! They are a new institution, are they not?"

"A month old only," said the man; "but if I hear right they will not be

very much older when they are taken off again."

"Taken off? How is that?" asked Nicholas, blandly.

"They say there will soon be a great cutting of the swines' throats. I

spend my life on the sea, and for the most part my ears are empty of

news; but surely you know what was being said at Corinth?--that before

a year is out we Greeks shall not have these masters any longer."

One of the crew was standing near, and the captain motioned him to go

farther off.

"I do not like to say this before my own men," he said; "but why should

I not tell you? you will be landed at Patras, and you will go your way

and I mine. Besides, for all your Turkish clothes you are no Turk,

for they are a short-legged folk. I heard it at the café last night.

Four Turks were talking about the arms which they say the peasants

are collecting. They spoke of one Nicholas Vidalis as a leader--they

expected to take him, for word had come to them that he was travelling

to Corinth."

"Thus there are disappointed men," thought Nicholas. Then aloud, "Who

is this Nicholas?"

"Nay, I know him not," said the man. "I am from the islands. I thought

it might be you could tell me of him."

"From which island?" asked Nicholas.

"From Psara."

Nicholas lit his pipe with a lump of charcoal and inhaled a couple of

long breaths, silent, but with a matter in balance.

Then, looking straight at the man, he said:

"I am Nicholas Vidalis, the man whom the Turks would dearly like

to catch. But at present they catch me not, for I am a clean and

God-fearing man, and I hate the Turk even as I hate the devil, for the

two are one. And now there are two ways open to you--one is to give

me up at Patras, the other to try to help me and others in what we

are doing. For this will be no time for saying 'I have nothing to do

with this; let those who will fight it out.' You will have to take one

side, and you had better begin at once. See, I have trusted you with my

secret, because you may be of use to me. You come from Psara, and you

probably know the coast of Greece as a man knows the shape of his boots

and gaiters. We have got plenty of men to fight on land, and plenty to

pay them with; what we want are little ships, which, in case of need,

will hang about the Turks if they try to escape from their destruction,

and sting them as the mosquito stings the slow cattle in the evening."

Nicholas paused for a moment, and his face lit up with a blaze of

hatred.

"For it is already evening with them," he cried, "and when the day

dawns night shall have swallowed them, and they will awake no more. Do

you know what is the strongest feeling that ever grips a man's heart?

No, not love, nor yet fear, but revenge. And if you had suffered as I

have suffered you would know what it is to be filled with one thought

only--to see blood in the sunrise and blood in the setting of the sun;

to feel that you have ceased to be a man and have become a sword. That

is what I am, and the hand that holds me is the right hand of God. And

by me He will smite and spare not. And when there are no more to smite,

perhaps I shall become a man again, and live to see peace and plenty

bless a free people. But of that I know nothing, and I do not greatly

care. Come, now, what answer do you give me?"

Nicholas rose to his feet; the other had risen too, and they faced each

other. There was something in the earnestness and intensity of this man

with one idea which could not but be felt, for enthusiasm is the one

fact that cannot be gainsaid, a noble disease in which contagion ever

makes infection. And his companion felt it.

"Tell me more," he said, eagerly; "but wait a moment--here is the wind."

He hurried aft to give orders to the men. Far away on the polished

surface of the water behind them, smooth and shining as a sealskin,

a line had appeared as if the fur had been stroked the wrong way. In

a couple of minutes the men were busy with the ropes, and two stood

ready to slacken the sheets of the heavy square sail if the squall was

violent, and one stood at the tiller, for some cross-current had turned

the boat round, and it would be necessary to put about. Meantime the

rough line had crept nearer, and behind it they could see the tops of

little waves cut off by the wind and blown about in spray. A couple of

men had put out the long sweep-oars, and were tugging hurriedly at them

to get the head of the boat straight before the wind before it struck

them. But they were not in time; the wind came down with a scream,

the boat heeled over till the leeward gunwale touched the water, and

the mast bent; then, and with a perfect precision, the sheets were

slackened for a moment to let her right herself; and, braced again, she

began to make way, and in a few seconds they were scudding straight

down the gulf almost directly before the wind, till, with their

increasing speed, it seemed to die down again. The water all round them

was broken up into an infinite number of little green foam-embroidered

wave troughs, through which, at the pace they were going, they moved as

quietly as a skater over smooth ice.

Nicholas had a careful eye to the handling of the boat during these

operations, and he saw that the little crew of six men knew their work

perfectly, and that they were quick and prompt at the moment when a

mishap might easily have occurred. He never let slip the smallest

opportunity which might some day prove to be useful, and he knew

that for anything like united action it would be necessary for the

Greeks to have, if not command of their sea-coast, at any rate the

power to communicate with each other. The outbreak, as he would have

it, would take place first in the Peloponnesus, but, not to fail of

its completeness, it would have to spread over the north. Patras and

Missolonghi were within a few miles of each other by sea, but unless

there was free communication by the waterway they would be powerless

for mutual support. To some extent both his fear and his hope were

realized.

Half an hour later he and Kanaris, the captain of the boat, were

breakfasting together, and Nicholas was explaining to him exactly what

the weakness of the movement was, and the necessity for conjunction

between the sea and land forces. He wished him, he said, to continue to

exercise his trade for the sake of appearances, but always to be ready

at a moment's notice. When the outbreak took place it was quite certain

that many of the Turks, especially those on the sea-coast, would try

to escape by sea. That must not be; it was no polite or diplomatic war

on which they were to embark; their aim from the first must be the

annihilation of the Turks. He told him in detail how this means of

escape was to be cut off, as will appear later, and as he unfolded his

bloody plan Kanaris's heart burned within him, and he promised, in the

name of God, to help him gather that red vintage.

About mid-day the wind went down, and they lay becalmed again; but

Nicholas, who, as he had said, was never in a hurry when he was going

as quick as he could, felt that his time could hardly have been better

employed. Kanaris, it appeared, was of a large Psarian clan; for

generations he and his had been seafaring folk, men of the wind and

wave, whose help Nicholas knew to be so essential. He promised, if

possible, to come to Psara himself before the year was out; but he said

that his hands were very full, and he could pledge no certainty.

For three hours or so they lay on a tossing water, for the wind of the

morning had roughened the narrow sea, which so quickly gets up under a

squall from the mountains, and great green billows came chasing each

other down from the east beneath the brilliant noonday sun, which

turned them into a jubilant company of living things. The boat, lying

low in the water with its heavy cargo, reeled and rolled with a jovial

boisterousness, alternately lifting up sides all ashine with the sea

over the crest of a wave, and burying itself again with a choking

hiccough in its trough. The sun drew out from the crates of figs their

odor of mellow luxuriance, which hung heavy round the boat, dispersed

every now and then by a puff of wind which blew in the salt freshness

of the sea.

By four o'clock, however, the wind, still favorable, sprang up again,

and on they went into the sunset, the black nose of the boat pushing

and burrowing through the waves, and throwing off from its sides

sheets of spent foam. As the hours passed Kanaris felt ever more keenly

the fascination and strength of this strange man, and after supper they

sat together in the stern watching the heavens reel and roll above

them, and the top of the mast striking wildly right and left across a

hundred stars. Nicholas, perched on the taffrail, balancing himself

with an exquisite precision to every movement of the boat, talked in

his deep low voice of a thousand schemes, all blood-stirring, with

the Turk for target. For no one knew better than himself the value of

personal power, and the success of his proselytizing had been to a

large extent, even as in the case of Mitsos, the outcome of his own

individuality, which could so stir the minds of men, and fan to a flame

the smouldering hatred against the Turks, and cause it to leap up in

fire.

Germanos, the Metropolitan Bishop of Patras, had only just risen next

morning when his messenger came back, having travelled through the

night to announce Nicholas's coming, and also report the same talk in

the cafés which Kanaris had heard. The bishop smiled to himself at

the idea of any untoward fate laying hands on Nicholas, and told his

servant to let it be widely known that Nicholas had been taken and

killed.

"For," as he said, "the Turks will be delighted to believe that (and

men always succeed in believing what they wish), and all Greeks to whom

Nicholas is more than a name will know that this is one of those things

which do not occur. I am ready for breakfast, and let a room for my

poor dead friend be got ready, and also a bath in which the body may be

washed."

Germanos was a splendid specimen of a Greek of unmixed blood, now

nearly or quite extinct. His family came from the island Delos,

still unviolated by the unspeakable race, and from generation to

generation they had only married with islanders. He was rather above

the middle height, and his long black cassock made him appear taller.

In accordance with Greek rite, neither his hair nor beard had ever

been cut, and the former flowed black and thick onto his shoulders,

and his beard fell in full rippling lines down as far as his waist.

Though for three or four years his life had been one long effort of

organizing his countrymen against the Turks, the latter had never

suspected his complicity, and he intended to take the fullest advantage

of their misplaced confidence in him. Though Germanos had not trodden

the world so widely as Nicholas had done, he was nevertheless a man

of culture--shrewd, witty, and educated. And Nicholas too, though for

the sake of the great cause he would have condemned himself cheerfully

never to speak to a man of his own rank and breeding again, found it

a pleasant change, after his incessant wanderings among peasants, to

mix with his own kind again. His few days with Constantine at Nauplia,

it is true, he had much enjoyed, for it was impossible not to be

happy when that apostle of happiness, the little Mitsos, was by; and

Constantine, too, was of the salt of the earth. He only arrived in the

evening, just before dinner, and they sat down together as soon as he

had washed.

"There is a good man to hand, I think, to-day--the captain of the boat

I came by," said he. "I suggested he should come and talk with us

to-morrow. I would have brought him with me, but he was busy with his

fig cargo."

"My dear Nicholas, you are indefatigable. I do not believe there is

a man in the world but you who would wake at dawn on the gulf and

instantly set about making a proselyte. You should have been a priest.

What made you see a patriot in him?"

"It was a long shot," said Nicholas. "He spoke without sympathy of

the new Turkish harbor dues at Corinth, and told me my capture was

imminent. I risked it on that."

The archbishop frowned.

"New harbor dues? It is time to think of harbor dues when there is a

harbor."

"So he said," answered Nicholas. "Their methods have simplicity. They

seized six crates of his figs."

"We are commanded," remarked Germanos, "to love all men. I hope I

love the Turk, but I am certain that I do not like him. And I desire

that it will please God to remove as many as possible of his kind to

the kingdom of the blest or elsewhere without delay. I say so in my

prayers."

Nicholas smiled.

"That gives a double sound," said he; "you pray not for their

destruction, but for their speedy salvation. Is that it?"

"To love all men is a hard saying; for, indeed, I love my nation, and I

am sure that the removal of the Turks will be for their permanent good.

What does the psalmist say, though he was not acquainted with the Turk,

'I will wash my footsteps in the blood of the ungodly'?"

"As far as I can learn the ungodly were expecting to wash their

footsteps in my blood at Corinth," said Nicholas; "but they behaved as

it is only granted to Turks to behave. They expected me twenty-four

hours after I had gone away."

"How did things go at Nauplia?"

"Better than I could possibly have expected. I found the very man, or

rather the boy, I wanted in my young nephew."

"The little Mitsos? How old is he?"

"Eighteen, but six feet high, and with the foot of a roe-deer on the

mountains. Moreover, I can trust him to the death."

"Eighteen is too young, surely," said Germanos. "Again, you can

trust many people to just short of that point, and they are the most

dangerous of all to work with. I could sooner work with a man I could

not trust as far as a toothache!"

In answer Nicholas told him of that midnight test, and Germanos

listened with interest and horror.

"You are probably right then, and I am wrong," he said; "and a boy can

move about the country without suspicion where a man could not go. But

how could you do so cruel a thing? Are you flesh and blood--and a young

boy like that?"

"Yes, it was horrible!" said Nicholas; "but I want none but those who

are made of steel. I knew by it that he was one in a thousand. He

clinched his teeth, and never a word."

"What do you propose to do with him now?"

"That is what I came to talk to you about. It is time to set to work in

earnest. The Club, as you know, have given me a free hand and an open

purse. Mitsos must go from village to village, especially round Sparta,

and tell them to begin what I told them and to be ready. The Turks are,

I am afraid, on the lookout for me, and I cannot travel, as you say, in

the way he can without suspicion."

"What did you tell them to begin?" asked Germanos.

"Can you ask? Surely to grind black corn for the Turk. It must be done

very quickly and quietly, and chiefly up in the villages there in

Maina. You say you are collecting arms here?"

"Not here, at the monastery at Megaspelaion. Many of them have been

bought from the Turks themselves. There lies a sting. The monks carry

them in among the maize and reed stalks. Father Priketes was met the

other day by a couple of their little Turkish soldiers, who asked why

they were carrying so many reeds, and he said it was to mend the roof.

Reeds make a capital roof."

"Yes, the monastery roof will want many mules' loads of mending," said

Nicholas. "Do you suppose they suspect anything?"

"Certainly, but they have nothing to act on; besides, I would be

willing to let them search the monastery from top to bottom. Do you

remember the chapel there, and the great altar?"

"Surely."

"The flag-stone under the altar has been taken up and a hole made into

the crypt. The door into the crypt, which opens from the passage in the

floor below, has been boarded over and whitewashed, so that it looks

exactly like the rest of the passage wall. It is impossible to detect

it. Mehemet Salik, the new governor in Tripoli, appointed only this

month from Nauplia, was there last week and examined the whole place.

He is a young man, though suspicious for his age."

"That is good," said Nicholas. "Your doing, I suppose. How many guns

have you?"

"About a thousand, and twice as many swords. In another month we shall

be ready. Megaspelaion makes a far better centre than Patras would, as

it is so much nearer Tripoli. That is where the struggle will begin."

"Who knows?" said Nicholas. "When we are ready we will begin just where

it suits us. Personally, I should prefer--" He stopped.

"Well?"

"It is this," said Nicholas. "It is no gallant and polite war we

want; we do not want to make terms, or treaties, or threats. We want

to strike and have done with it; to exterminate. I should prefer, if

possible, striking the first blow either at Kalamata or Nauplia. Then

the dogs from all round would run yelping into Tripoli, as it is their

strongest place, and so at the end there would be none left."

"Exterminate is no Christian word, Nicholas. The women and the

children--"

"The women and children," said Nicholas, rising and pacing up and down

the room; "what are they to me? Once when I was an outlaw I spared

them--yes, and spared the men, too, only sending them riding back face

to the horse's tail. But did they spare my wife and my child? If there

is a God in heaven I will show them the mercy they showed me!"

Germanos was silent a few moments, and waited till Nicholas had sat

down again.

"Will you drink more wine?" he asked; "if not, we will sit on the

balcony; it is hot to-night. I think you are right about striking the

first blow somewhere in the south, so that they shall go to Tripoli. I

had thought before that it would be better to strike at the centre. But

your plan seems to me the wiser. Come outside, Nicholas."

Germanos's house stood just out of the town, high up on the hill, which

was crowned by the castle, and from his balcony they could see the

twinkling lights in the fort below like holes bored in the dark, and

beyond the stretch of starlit water, and dimly on the other side of

the gulf the hill above Missolonghi shouldering itself up in the faint

black distance. Before long the moon rose above the castle behind

them, and turned the whole world to silver and ebony. Cicalas chirped

in the bushes, and the fragrance of the southern night came drowsily

along the wind. Every now and then a noise would rise up for a moment

in the town, shrill to its highest, and die away again.

A boy brought them out coffee, made thick and sweet in the Turkish

manner, and two narghilés with amber mouth-pieces, and brazen bowls for

holding the coarse-cut tobacco. On each he placed a glowing charcoal

ember, and handed the mouth-pieces to the two men. For a long while

they sat in silence, and then Nicholas spoke:

"It will be no time for mercy--I shall go where my vow leads me, and I

have vowed to spare neither man, woman, nor child. I will show them the

mercy they showed me, and no other."

"God make you merciful on that day, as you hope for mercy," said

Germanos. "For me, I shall not be a party to any butchering of the

defenceless. There will be plenty of butchers without me. Blood must

be shed; it cannot be otherwise. Fight and spare not, but when the

fighting is over let the rest go out of the country, for we will not

have them here. But for massacre, I will not make myself no better than

a Turk!"

The two narghilés bubbled in silence again for a few minutes, and at

last Germanos broke in with a laugh:

"The Turks all think you are dead," he said. "I told the boy to let it

be widely known that you had been killed at Corinth. It is just as well

they should believe it. Mehemet Achmet, the sleepiest man God made, was

here this afternoon, and he regretted it with deep-seated enjoyment.

They seemed to know all about you here!"

"But none in Patras know me by sight," said Nicholas, "and as I am dead

they never will. It is possible that it may prove useful to me. What

are your plans for to-morrow?"

"We will do what you like. It might be well for you to see

Megaspelaion. We could get there in a day if the wind held to Vostitza.

They have, as I said, a curious little crypt there, which is worth a

visit."

Nicholas smiled.

"It is impossible for a man to see too much," he said, "just as it is

impossible for a man to pretend to know too little. I would give a

fortune, if I had one, for a face like my brother-in-law Constantine's,

for it is as a mask in carnival time, behind which who knows what may

be? Yet there is force in him, and Mitsos obeys him as--as he obeys me!

And yet he is too large a lad to take commands easily."

"Perhaps no other influence has come in yet. To fall in love, for

instance, sometimes makes a good lad less obedient than an orphan to

his parents."

"The little one in love would be fine," said Nicholas. "He would send

the whole world to the devil. Why, shooting is the strongest passion he

has known yet, and he shoots as if all the saints were watching him."

"I hope some of them are," remarked Germanos, "and that they will

especially watch him when he is inclined to send the whole world to the

devil. I hope Mitsos will not think of including me."

"I will warn him when I see him next. I shall go on there, I think,

in November. I must get back to Maina first and see my cousin, Petros

Mavromichales, who is the head of the clan, and find out if the clan

are prepared to rise in a body. That man Kanaris was handy enough with

his boat, but I would back Mitsos to sail against him in any weather."

"Ah! that fire-ship is a horrible idea of yours, Nicholas."

"Horrible, but necessary. We must not have supplies of arms and

gunpowder coming to the Turks by sea, and there must be no escape out

of the death-trap which we will snap down on them. And now let me tell

you all that is in my mind, for it may be we shall not meet again till

the great Vintage is ripe for the gathering."

For an hour or so Nicholas talked eagerly, unfolding his schemes,

Germanos listening always attentively, sometimes dissenting, but in the

main approving. He spoke of the Club of Patriots in north Greece, who

had given him leave to act in their name until the time came for them

to send a delegate who would act openly; for at present if it became

known that the leading men of Greece, many of whom were in official

positions under the Turks, were concerned in schemes of revolution, the

whole project would be a pricked bubble. He sketched the rising of the

peasants, in whom the strength of the war would lie; the flame that

should run through the land, as through summer-dry stubble, from north

to south and east to west; and it seemed in after years to Germanos

that a spirit of prophecy had been on the man.

And as Nicholas went on another vision rose before the bishop's eyes:

the vision of his church, the mother of their hearts, throned not only

there, but in the glory of an earthly magnificence, in visible splendor

the bride of her Lord. Therein to him was food for hope and aspiration,

and his thoughts drifted away from war and bloodshed to that.

And when Nicholas had finished he met an eye that kindled as his own,

but with thoughts that were not spoken, but partook of their sweet and

secret food in silence and self-communing.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MENDING OF THE MONASTERY ROOF

Kanaris had finished his unlading the same evening, and he was ready at

daybreak to take Nicholas and Germanos as far as Vostitza, a fishing

village lying some four miles from the mouth of the gorge, at the top

of which stands Megaspelaion. Here the archbishop and Nicholas would

get mules and reach the monastery the same evening. Vostitza, with

their fair wind, was not more than four hours from Patras, and on

arriving there the archbishop went straight to the house of the Turkish

governor, from whom he procured mules, and to whom he introduced

Nicholas as his cousin; and the three talked together a while over a

cup of coffee, discussed the idle rumors that were abroad concerning

a movement against the Turks among the Greeks, and found cause for

comfort as lovers of peace in the undoubted fact that Nicholas had been

killed two days before at Corinth. He was a turbulent, hot-headed man,

said the archbishop, and did not value the blessings of tranquillity.

His cousin also had met him, a quarrelsome, wine-bibbing fellow, quoth

Nicholas; he could have had no more appropriate end than a brawl in a

wine-shop.

Thus they chatted very pleasantly and harmoniously while their mules

were being made ready, and Said Aga, who was no man of the sword, being

rotund and indolent in habit, was much relieved to find that Germanos

scoffingly dismissed the idea of any hostile movement being on foot

among the Greeks. True, there had been disturbances lately; a Turkish

tax-collector had been killed at Diakopton, three miles from Vostitza.

Had they not heard? The news had come yesterday!

"Alas! for this unruly people," said Germanos. "What was the manner of

it?"

"I hardly know," said Said Aga. "It was the usual story, I believe. He

had taken to himself a Greek woman, and the husband killed him. The man

has fled, but they will catch him, and he will suffer, and then die.

For me, I shrug my shoulders at these things. We Turks have certain

customs, and the Prophet himself had four wives, and when we are the

lords of a country we must be obeyed."

"True," said Nicholas, "quite true, and we must submit. It is not the

will of God that all men should be equal."

He caught Germanos's eye for a moment.

"I am glad that you think there is nothing in these rumors," went on

Said Aga. "Your countrymen would hardly be so foolish as to attempt

anything of the sort. But the rumors are somewhat persistent. It was

even said that the monks at Megaspelaion were collecting arms, and my

colleague Mehemet Salik, a very energetic young man who was lately put

in charge at Tripoli, thought best to make an inspection there. But he

was quite satisfied there was no truth in it."

Germanos laughed heartily.

"That is a little too much," he said. "You may at least rest assured

that we priests of God are men of peace. Our mules, they tell me, are

ready. A thousand thanks, Excellency, for your kindness."

They mounted and rode up the straying village street, paved with

big, uneven stones. The villagers were all out in the fields for the

fruit harvest, and the rough, shaggy-haired dogs, keeping watch in

the deserted house-yards, came rushing out barking and snarling with

bared teeth at the sound of their mules with their tinkling bells and

iron-shod feet grating over the cobbles. The mule-boys paid little

attention to their noisy menaces, though now and then some dog more

savage or less wisely valorous than his fellows would come within stick

distance, only to be sent back with better cause for crying than before.

But in ten minutes or so they got clear of the village, and taking

one of the field roads struck across the plain towards the mouth of

the gorge, about four miles distant. The grapes were not yet so far

advanced as at Nauplia and still hung hard, and tinged with color

only on the sunward side; but the fruit harvest was going on, and

under the fig-trees were spread coarse strips of matting on which

the fragrant piles were laid to dry. A few late pomegranate-trees

were still covered with their red wax-like blossoms, but on most the

petals had fallen, and the fruit, like little green-glazed pitchers,

was beginning to swell and darken towards maturity. The men were at

work in the vineyards cutting channels for the water, and through the

green of the fig-trees you could catch sight every now and then of the

brightly-colored petticoat of some woman picking the fruit, or else

her presence was only indicated, where the leaves were thicker, by the

dumping of the ripe figs onto the canvas strips below. The sun was

right overhead before they struck the mouth of the gorge, and the heat

intense--a still, fruit-ripening heat in the heavy air of the plains.

But as they approached the hills a cooler draught slid down from

between the enormous crags, bearing on it the voice of the brawling

torrent, which is fed by the snow of Cyllene and Helmos, and knows not

drought.

Here the country was given up to olives and wheat, and occasional

clumps of maize near the bed of the stream. The oleanders were still

in flower, and their great clusters of pink blossom marked the course

of the river. Another mile took them to the ford, on the far side of

which the path began to climb through the ever-narrowing gorge. Further

up they found it impossible to keep to the course of the stream, for

the road had been washed away in places and not repaired, and leaving

it on their right, they turned up over a steep grassy stretch of moor,

sprinkled here and there with pines. Looking back they could see below

them the hot luxuriant plain they had left, trembling sleepily under

the blue haze of heat, and further off the shimmering waters of the

gulf. As they ascended the vegetation changed: pines entirely took

the place of the olives, and the grass, all brown and dead below from

the summer's heat, began to be flushed with lively green, and studded

with wild campanulas and little blue gentians, throbbing hotly with

color. Then descending again they passed along the upper slope of the

cliffs above the gorge and saw before them the deep, sheltered valley

stretching up to Kalavryta, a land of streams and a garden of the Lord.

The sun was already near its setting when they joined the main road

leading up to the monastery from the valley, and they struck into a

train of some half-dozen mules covered and enveloped in loads of reeds,

the tops of which brushed rustling along the ground behind like some

court lady's dress. Two of the monks from the monastery were in charge

of these, and when they saw who it was with Nicholas they stopped and

kissed the archbishop's hands. As they moved forward again he said:

"I see you are carrying reeds, my sons. From where did they come, and

for what purpose?"

"From Kalavryta, father," said one. "We have six mules laden with them.

The monastery roof needs mending."

"That is good. Observe, Nicholas, how fine these reeds are. They seem

to be a heavy load. The monastery roof, they say, wants mending."

The younger of the two monks smiled.

"A great many things want mending, father!" he said. "We are making

preparations for mending them."

Nicholas, who was in front, checked his mule.

"And have you black corn," he said, "good black corn for the Turk?"

The monk shook his head.

"I do not understand," he said.

Germanos smiled back at Nicholas.

"A roof for the monastery first, Nicholas," he said; "there will be

time for the good black corn when the roof is mended. And now, my son,

I will ask you to go forward quickly and tell Father Priketes, with my

salutations, that my cousin and I will arrive very soon. We shall stop

with him for a day, or it may be two, for we wish to superintend this

mending of the monastery roof, and see that it is well done for the

glory of God."

Another half-hour through the gathering dusk brought them in sight of

the monastery, which from the distance was indistinguishable from the

face of the cliff, against which it was built. Chains of light shone

from the narrow windows, row above row, some from the height of all

its twelve stories, twinkling a hundred feet above them, as if from

cottages perched high on the cliff, others larger and nearer from the

windows of the sacristy and library. To the right stood the great

gateway, about which several moving lanterns seemed to show that the

news of their coming had anticipated them, and that due preparations

were being made to receive the archbishop. As they got close they

could see that the monks were pouring out of the arch, and taking

their places in rows on each side of the terrace leading up to the

gate. In front of them stood the novices, some mere boys of fourteen

and fifteen, but all dressed alike, and all with long hair, that had

never known the scissors, flowing onto their shoulders. In the centre

of the gateway--a tall, white-bearded figure--stood Father Priketes,

who helped the archbishop to dismount, and then knelt to receive his

blessing. Germanos paused a moment as he entered, and said in a loud,

clear voice to them all:

"The peace of God be upon this holy house and all within it, and His

blessing be upon the work"--and his voice dwelt on the word--"upon the

work you are doing."

Nicholas was already known to Father Priketes, but the latter looked as

if he had seen a ghost when he caught sight of him.

"We heard you were dead," he said.

Nicholas smiled.

"I am delighted to know it, father," he said. "Do not destroy the idea,

if you please."

They passed on to Father Priketes's rooms, where they were alone.

"I see your repairs are going on steadily," said Germanos. "We passed

some laden mules on the way. Nicholas wished much to see what you were

doing. He is--how shall I say it?--our overseer; we are the workmen. He

will tell us when the work must be finished. Let us go at once to the

chapel, my brother, and thank St. Luke, your founder, and the Blessed

Virgin, that they have brought us here safe. That is the first duty of

the soldiers of God."

Father Priketes led the way to the chapel, and pushed open the great

brazen door for Germanos to enter. He knelt in turn before the great

altar, the altar to the Beloved Physician, and before the black relief

of the Virgin, made, as tradition says, by the hands of St. Luke

himself, and said for himself and Nicholas a thanksgiving for the

aid of the Saints which had brought them safely to the end of their

journey. They then supped with Father Priketes, and went back to the

chapel.

The place was but dimly lighted with oil lamps, and after locking the

door behind them--for at present only a few of the monks had been

trusted with the secret of the crypt--the father lighted a lantern and

led the way up to the east end. Then after crossing himself he drew

from underneath the altar a small crowbar, and creeping under with the

lantern, he prized away a square paving-stone, which covered a hole

large enough for a single man to creep through. Rough wooden steps

had been erected from the floor of the crypt up to the level of this,

and one by one they descended. The crypt was some forty feet long by

twenty broad, and the light of the lantern struck from all the walls

a reflection of steel. Since Germanos's last visit, they had largely

added to the number of arms, and on a hasty glance Nicholas reckoned

that there could not be less than fifteen hundred guns.

His eyes glistened as he moved the lantern round the walls, and he

turned to Father Priketes.

"This will make a hole in the Turks bigger than the hole in your roof,"

he said. "You have enough, I think. They will be hungry, these reeds;

grind their food for them, and do not let them feel stint of that."

"Already?" asked Father Priketes.

"Already! It is August now, and when our vineyards are green with the

fresh leaves in the spring, the juice of the greater vintage shall be

spilled. And there will be a mighty gathering; the wine-press will be

running red, and fuller than the vats of Solomon. Where can you stow

the food for all these hungry throats?"

"There is room here, is there not?"

"Surely, room and to spare; but it would not be well to keep it here.

Whoever enters here must carry a light; a chance spark, and he may cry

to the Virgin in vain."

Father Priketes paused a moment.

"You shall take a walk with me to-morrow and we will see. You are

satisfied at present?"

"I shall never be satisfied," said Nicholas. "I should not be satisfied

if I saw all the armaments of angels in array against the Turk. But it

is time to think of other things. Could you raise men at once?"

"Five hundred in one minute from within these walls," said Father

Priketes, "and two thousand more in the time it would take an eager man

to climb up here from Kalavryta."

Nicholas looked round again, smiling as a man smiles to look on one he

loves.

"This feeds my soul," he said. "And swords too, little sickles for the

gathering! Look you, perhaps we shall not meet again till after our

vintage has begun; but remember this: After four months from now, we

cannot tell when the day of the beginning of the gathering will come,

and so be ready. Whatever the archbishop orders, do it, for he and I

work together. And, O Father, let no man take thought for himself on

that day. What matters it to whom the honor and the glory go, if once

Greece is free? If you desire such things, I give to you now by bequest

all the honor and riches that may come to me. Forgive me for saying

this, but that is the only loophole where failure may creep into our

camp, and that I fear more than ten Sultans and their armies. I say the

same thing to all, and I remind myself of it daily. I have been chosen

to conduct this matter, for the present, in the Morea, and I will give

my life and all I possess to it; and in company with others, of whom

the archbishop is one, and Petros Mavromichales, of Maina, another, I

will do my best, so help me God, honestly and without a selfish mind.

The moment a single dissentient voice is raised, not in the matter of

councils or plan of actions, on which we will listen to all that is to

be said, but of command and obedience, I only ask leave to serve in

the ranks. Let us deliberate together by all means till the time comes

to act, but when that time comes, and a word of command goes through

the country, let there be no delay. For all will depend, so I take it,

on the speed with which we act when we come to action. This is the

beginning and the end of success, and all that lies between."

"But how is the word of command to come," said Father Priketes, who had

secretly hoped for a little independent campaign, "if you are not with

us? Must I not act on my own judgment?"

"No, a thousand times no," said Nicholas. "What I have seen here shows

me that you in Megaspelaion and Patras will be no small portion of our

first success. How the war will spread afterwards, God knows; but when

the first grapes are cut it will be you, so I think, to garner them.

This is why you must obey absolutely. Nothing will be left to your

judgment. A message will come, and you will obey."

"How am I to tell who your messenger is?"

Nicholas smiled.

"Some afternoon, when you are sitting in the spring sunshine, or

perhaps some night in this next winter, when you are sleeping, a monk

will come to you and say, 'There is a man here, or a boy it may be, or

a girl even, who wishes to see you, and we cannot understand what he

means.' Then you will delay not, but go and see what it is. You will

say, 'I am Father Priketes; you have a message for me?' And the message

will be in this form: 'I am bidden to ask you if there is corn to be

given to those who need it?' And you will say, 'Is it black corn they

need, and are the needy hungry, or are they Turks?' And the messenger

will say, 'Send black corn for the Turks to Kalamata or Kalavryta, or

wherever it is, and let two hundred or five hundred or a thousand men

carry it.' Other instructions may come as well, but always in that

form. And as you obey, so may the Lord give you a place among His

saints in heaven."

Father Priketes was silent for a moment.

"You are right, Nicholas," he said; "and I swear by the picture of the

mother of God that I will obey in all things. Come, shall we go up

again?"

They climbed up into the chapel, and went out down the vaulted stone

passage to the story below, where another passage, whitewashed and

boarded on both sides, led to the monks' library and Father Priketes's

own rooms. Nicholas, who carried in his hand an olive-wood stick,

tapped the panelling carelessly as he went along, and once stopped a

moment and smiled at Germanos.

"The wall seems to be a little less thick here than at other places,"

he said. "Mehemet Salik, however, was too cunning to attend to such

simple things."

"The Lord be praised for making so many clever men," said Germanos,

piously. "To have a fool for an enemy has been the undoing of more good

people than Satan himself."

They went on to Father Priketes's room where they had supped before,

and Nicholas lit himself a pipe.

"That is quite true," he said. "A fool is always blundering into the

weak place by accident--there is nothing so disconcerting; whereas a

clever man is on the lookout for less patent weaknesses, and passes

over the patent ones on purpose. And the Turk is both clever and

indolent--a very happy combination."

"For us," said Priketes, who had, as Nicholas once said, a wonderful

faculty for seeing that which was obvious.

"As you say, for us," said Nicholas; "and we intend to profit by it.

And now, father, with your leave I will go to bed. I have seen all I

came to see, and think I had better push on to-morrow. You will find,

no doubt, a prudent place for your granary. It is impossible to be

too prudent now, just as it will be more than possible to be too wary

hereafter. When once we get into the open we keep there until all is

finished."

"Where do you go now?" asked Germanos.

"Southwards," said Nicholas. "I must travel as widely as I can in

Messenia, and also see my cousin Petrobey. The Maina district will be

raised by him. If once the war begins, as I would have it to begin, I

shall be at ease about the rest. Only the beginning must be as sudden

as the thunderbolt. Ah, but there is fever in my blood for that!"

Nicholas, as his custom was, rose early next morning and went from the

dark-panelled room, where he had slept, down towards the chapel. The

great green bronze bell hanging in the wooden balcony outside had just

begun to ring for matins, and the sound, grave and sonorous, floated

out over the valley like a dream. He waited there awhile looking at

the blackened Byzantine paintings which covered the roof, till the

monks began trooping up the cobbled passage, and with the first of them

he went inside the chapel. From the centre of the roof hung a great

gilt candelabrum in the form of a crown, and from side to side of the

building ran a row of silver lamps--some thirty in number--which had

been burning all night, but looked red and dim in the fresh morning

light. Set in the gilt altar-screen were the paintings of the Panagia

and of Christ, and at the south end--more precious to the faithful than

all--the wax relief of the Virgin and Child. The silver panel, behind

which it is placed, had been opened, and Nicholas, with the others,

made his obeisance before it. The head of the Virgin and the head of

the Child are all that can be seen, and these are black with age; the

rest is one mass of chased gold. The crown which the Child wears is

studded with rubies and emeralds grown dim; His mother's crown is less

magnificent; and on the silver rail in front of it hang the offerings

of those to whom, in the days of faith, its contemplation had brought

healing of many diseases. Over the gate to the altar hung two stoles of

red velvet, in which the priest who said the mass would robe himself.

A border of gold holly leaves ran down them on each side, and down the

middle they were embroidered with floreated and cusped ornaments in

red and gold, in the centre of each of which was worked the figure of

Christ. On the north wall, by the easternmost of the monks' stalls,

hung the picture of the daughter of the Emperor Palæologus. She is

dressed in a red cloak with golden eagles embroidered over it; her hair

is golden auburn, and she raises a face charmingly childlike and naïve,

and holds up hands of prayer to the gracious figure of the Virgin who

stands beside her.

Priketes and Germanos were the last to enter, and when the short

prayers were said, Nicholas went out with them, and they walked up

and down the terrace awhile talking. Some of the elder monks, with

their purple cassocks trimmed with fur wrapped closely round them,

sat outside the iron-sheeted gate, under the fresco of Adam and Eve

being driven out from Paradise, which fills the triangular space above

it, watching them with eager attention, for it had become known who

Nicholas was and what his errand. On their right rose the enormous

mass of the monastery, crowned by an overhanging cliff of gray rock,

which the smoke from the chimney had stained in places to a rich

vandyke-brown, in the hollow of which, as in the hollow of a sheltering

hand, the great pile of buildings stood, seeming rather to have been

the core round which the rock rose than to have been built into it. In

front the ground fell rapidly away into the valley, but was terraced up

into little gardens, full of cypresses and poplars or figs and plane

trees; under these stood many little wooden arbors, trellised over with

vines, where the brethren spent their tranquil days; and a hundred

riotous streams--some conducted down wooden shoots, some straying over

the paths--rattled headlong to join the river below. Further down, the

hill-side was covered with low-growing scrub, and on the opposite side

of the valley, the village of Zachlórou hung on by teeth and nails to

the climbing moor. A company of swallows cut curves and circles in the

thin morning air, their black backs showing metallic, like oxidized

steel in the sunlight, and a great flight of white pigeons clattered

out of the rock above and settled in a cloud by the fountain. In one of

these little arbors Germanos and Nicholas drank their coffee and smoked

a pipe of the monastery tobacco until the latter's horse was brought

round. Then, rising,

"We shall meet again," he said, "when the vintage is ripe, or, if

we meet not, we shall both be laborers in the treading; you here, I

perhaps in the south. So now, father, give me your blessing, for I must

go on my way."

CHAPTER IX

THE SINGER FROM THE DARKNESS

November went out with a fortnight of cold showers and biting winds,

and the woodcock came down in hundreds to the plain of Nauplia. Often

when the curtain of cloud which veiled Mount Elias day by day was rent

raggedly in two by some blast in the upper air, the higher slope of

the mountain, it could be seen, was sprinkled with snow. Then the peak

would again wrap itself in folds of tattered vapors as a beggar throws

his torn cloak over his shoulder, and perhaps would not peer through

the mists again for a couple of days. Down in the plain scudding

showers swept across from north to south and east to west, and the

earth, still thirsty from the long drought of the summer, drank them in

feverishly as a sick man drains the glass by his bedside and turns to

sleep again.

Mitsos had many round oaths for this horrible weather, but like a wise

lad cursed and had done with it. The bay and the sweet possibilities

of the bay were only in the range of thought, but the woodcock were

more accessible, and with something of the air of a martyr he would

pass a long day on the uplands towards Epidaurus, and come back, after

the fall of dark, with a leash of woodcock, and an appetite which

bordered on the grotesque, singing and contented. But later in the

evening he would be twitched by an eager restlessness, and make many

journeys to the door to see if the weather had cleared, or showed signs

of clearing, only to be met by a buffeting clap of windy rain in the

face, which made him close it again quickly, for where was the use,

he argued, of lying rolling and rocking off the white wall if he was

to be alone there? Once or twice during this fortnight he had sailed

by it, but his wages were only a wetting. Constantine was somewhat

puzzled and perplexed at Mitsos' behavior about this time, but he took

it all with his habitual serenity of tolerance, and likened him in

his own mind to a colt who is just beginning to find out that he is a

horse, and, knowing his own strength and learning his needs, whinnies

and kicks up his heels. He knew that it would be useless to try to

extract unvolunteered information out of Mitsos, and he guessed more

nearly to the truth than he knew, that Mitsos' somewhat spasmodic moods

were merely the natural results of his budding manhood, and were as

inexplicable to him as they were to his father. Meantime, though they

had neither heard nor seen anything more of Nicholas, Constantine felt

that Mitsos was growing in the way he would have him grow, and was

increasing in self-reliance and surefootedness of mind just as he was

increasing in bodily strength and stature.

But Mitsos was exercising more self-control than his father gave him

credit for. That acquaintance with Suleima, the Greek girl in the harem

of the Turk, begun so strangely, had ripened no less strangely. He had

sat below the wall night after night and talked to her from his boat,

rocking gently in the swell, or standing still and steady in the calm

water, till with a sign she motioned him away, seeing some other woman

of the harem or one of the servants come out into the garden.

Then Suleima had made a confidante of one of the elder women, who,

seeing Mitsos' handsome, laughing face, had given her sympathy, and,

what was better, a practical exhibition of it, and had promised

to watch in the garden so that they might talk without fear of

interruption; stipulating, however, through Suleima as interpreter,

half laughing, yet half in earnest, that Mitsos should give her a kiss

for every time she watched for them. Suleima had felt herself flushing

as she interpreted this into Greek, but Mitsos' tone reassured her as

he answered,

"She might as well do it for nothing. Oh, don't translate that, but say

we are very much obliged. Pay-day is long in the house of a Turk."

Then there came an evening, only just before the weather had broken,

when Mitsos took down to the boat a little rope ladder. Suleima had

told him that he was to come there late, not before midnight, and she

would have gone to her room early, saying she was not well. Then, if

possible, she would come out to him, and they would go for a sail

together.

It was an evening to be remembered--to be lived over again in

memory. Her reluctance and eagerness to come; the terrorizing risk

of discovery, which none the less was a whetstone to her enjoyment;

her delight at getting out, though only for an hour or two; her

half-frightened, childish exclamations of dismay as Mitsos put about,

when the water began to curl back from the forefoot of the boat as

they went hissing out to sea before the wind; her face looking as if

it was made of ebony and ivory beneath the moonlight, with its thin,

black eyebrows, and long, black eyelashes; her sense of innocent

wickedness, as in response to Mitsos' entreaties she unveiled it

altogether; her curious, fantastic story of how she was carried off

years ago by a Turk, and had forgotten all about her home, except

that her father was a tall man with a long, black dress; her pretty,

hesitating pronunciation of Greek; her bewildering treatment of himself

as if he was a boy, as he was, and she a person of mature experience,

as she was not, being a year younger than he; the view which she took

of this moonlight sail as just a childish freak, heavily paid for if

discovered, and to be repeated if not, while to him it was the opening

of heaven. Then, as he still remained serious, looking at her with

wide eyes of shy adoration, she too became just a little serious as

they turned homewards, and said that she liked him very much, and that

old Abdul Achmet was a fat pig. Then in answer to him--Oh, no, she was

quite content where she was, except when Abdul was in a bad temper or

the eunuch beat her. There was plenty to eat, nothing to do, and they

were all much less strictly looked after than in other harems, for

Abdul was old and only cared for one of them. For herself she was a

favorite servant of his chief wife, and not really in the harem. It was

not very exciting, but if Mitsos would come again now and then and take

her for sails she would be quite happy. Finally, it was useless for him

to come except when it was fine, for the harem was always locked up in

wet weather, and she would not be able to get into the garden. Also,

she hated rain like a cat.

Then intervened the fortnight when the climate of Nauplia, which for

the most part is that of the valley of Avilion, gave way to the angry

moods of a child--to screaming, sobbing, and steady weeping. The

surface of the bay was churned up by the rain and streaked with foam by

the wind, and the big poplar-tree, under which Maria had slept, shook

itself free of its summer foliage and stood forth in naked, gnarled

appeal to the elements. For a fortnight the deluge continued, but on

the night of the 1st of December, Mitsos, waking at that strange moment

when the earth turns in her sleep, and cattle and horses stand up and

graze for a moment before lying down again, saw with half an eye the

shadow of the bar of his window cast sharply onto the floor of his

bedroom by the slip of the crescent moon, which rode high in a starry

sky, and when he woke again it was to see a heaven of unsullied blue

washed clean by the rain.

Half the day he spent dreaming and dozing in the veranda, for he meant

to be out on the bay that night, and after his mid-day dinner he went

down to overhaul the boat, taking with him his fishing-net and a bag

of resin. He had wrapped up in the centre of the net the pillow from

his bed, for Suleima had said that the net on which she sat before

smelled fishy. But after supper that night he found himself beset by a

strange perplexity, the like of which he had never felt. His fustanella

was old and darned; it was hardly suitable. It did very well before,

but somehow now--and the moon would be larger to-night. The perplexity

gained on him, and eventually he took out and put on his new clothes,

only worn on festa days, which were thoroughly unsuitable for rough

fishing by night. He brushed his hair with extreme care, and wished it

was sleek and smooth like Yanko's, instead of growing in crisp, strong

curls, put his red cap rakishly on the side of his head, and laced up

his brown cloth leggings to the very top. All this was done with the

greatest precision and seriousness, and he went down-stairs on tiptoe

for fear of wakening his father, who was already abed, and had left

injunctions with him to lock the door and take the key with him if he

was likely to be late.

It was about half-past ten when he set off, and the moon had risen.

It took him an hour or more to reach the dim, white wall, for the

breeze was yet but light and variable. As he neared it he began to

feel his heart pulsing in his throat, as it had done one night before

when he passed the scene of the hanging by the wayside, but somehow

differently, and he peered out anxiously into the darkness to see if

there was any one there. Something white glimmered on the wall, down

went his sail, and a few minutes later the nose of his boat grated

against the stone-work.

She gave a little chuckling laugh.

"I thought you would come," she said, "on the first night of stars.

They are all in bed. I listened at Mohammed's door; he was Mohammed no

more--only a grunt and a snore."

Mitsos said nothing, but threw the ladder and rope on the wall and

sprang up himself.

"Yes, I have come," he said. "Ah, how I have been cursing this

rain--may the saints forgive me!--but I cared not, and cursed."

Suleima looked at him a moment.

"Why, how smart you are!" she said. "Is it the Greek use that a man

goes fishing in his best clothes? Oh, my clean fustanella!" she cried,

looking sideways on him.

Mitsos smiled. The best clothes had been a good thought, in spite of a

momentary confusion.

"Hush!" he whispered, "we will talk in the boat. I will hold the

ladder. There, it is quite steady."

The girl stepped lightly down the rungs, and Mitsos, directing her to

sit still, threw the ladder and rope back and let himself down onto the

side of the boat.

"Where shall we go to-night?" he asked.

The girl laughed gently--the echo, as it were, of a laugh.

"Oh, out, out to sea," she said; "right away from this horrible place.

Where shall I sit?"

Mitsos took the pillow out of the net and put it for her at the stern

of the boat.

"See," he said. "I remembered that you said the net smelled fishy,

and I have brought you my pillow to sit on. There--is there a more

comfortable seat in all Greece?"

She sat down, and the boy busied himself with the boat for a few

minutes. He had to row out a dozen strokes or so until they got from

under the lee of the wall, and the wind, catching the sail, slowly

bulged it out taut; the boat dipped and bowed a moment and then began

to move quickly forward towards the mouth of the bay. He stood a few

seconds irresolute until Suleima spoke.

"Well, have you finished?" she asked.

"Yes. We shall run straight before the wind as far as you like."

She pointed with her hand to the seat beside her.

"Come and sit by me," she said.

There was silence between them for several minutes--she with a smile

hiding in the depths of her dark eyes; he, serious and tongue-tied. The

air was full of the freshness of the night and of the sea, but across

that there came to him some faint odor from her--a warm smell of a live

thing, too delicate to describe. Then she drew from her pocket a small

box and opened it.

"See what I have brought you," she said--"Rahat-la-koom. How do you

call it in Greece? Sweets, anyhow. Do you like sweets?"

She took a lump of the sticky, fragrant stuff out of the box and

offered it to Mitsos as a child offers sweets to another child.

"Do you like it?" she asked again. "Abdul gave me the stuff last night.

I was afraid when he gave it to me, but he did not stop. As I told you,

I am not of the harem."

Mitsos flushed. Suleima spoke with the _naïveté_ of a child, and yet

somehow it made him ashamed to think that even he was sitting alone

with her, and furious at the thought that that fat Turk, whom he had

seen at Nauplia only a few days before, should dare to give her sweets.

"How silent you are, Mitsos!" she went on. "Tell me what you have been

doing all this time. For me, I have done nothing--nothing--nothing. I

have never been so dull."

Mitsos looked up suddenly.

"Are you less dull now?" he said. "Do you care to come out like this

with me?"

"Surely, or else I should not come. I think I have even missed you,

which is odd, for I never missed any one before. I care for none of

those in the house, and some I hate."

Mitsos took her hand in his.

"Promise you will never hate me," he said.

Suleima laughed.

"That is a big thing to promise," she said, "for 'never' is the

greatest of all words, greater even than 'always'; but I don't feel as

if I should ever hate you. I liked you since the first, even before I

had ever seen you, when you sang that song out of the darkness. It was

very rash and foolish of you, for Abdul would make nothing of having a

sailor-boy shot. Supposing I had been--well, some one else--I should

have told Abdul, and thus there would have been no more songs for

Mitsos."

"But because it was you, you did not?" asked Mitsos, awkwardly. "Yet if

it had not been you, I should not have sung to you."

The girl's hand still rested in his, but suddenly she disengaged it.

"You are talking nonsense," she said, quickly, yet finding nonsense

somehow delightful; "of course, if you had not sung to me you would not

have sung to me. By the way, Zuleika--"

She stopped suddenly.

"Who is Zuleika?" said Mitsos; "and what of her?"

"Oh, nothing. Zuleika is the woman who watched to see that no one came

while we talked. She's quite old, you know, though not as old as Abdul.

Well, why shouldn't I tell you? Zuleika is getting impatient for her

payment. She watched four times, she said, but I am sure it was only

three. Won't you pay her?"

Mitsos got up and stood in front of her.

"Zuleika, what is Zuleika to me?" he said again.

The girl stared at him for a moment. "Are you angry, Mitsos? Why should

you be angry? But--but--"

Mitsos turned away impatiently.

"Why are you angry?" repeated the girl. "Is it because of what Zuleika

said? I told you because I thought it would please you. Most men, I

think, would like to hear that sort of thing. Zuleika says you are the

handsomest boy she ever saw, and she is pretty herself--at least I

suppose she is pretty."

Mitsos had the most admirable temper, and though it had been touched in

a quarter where he could not have anticipated attack, he regained it in

a moment.

"Never mind Zuleika," he said, sitting down again; "go on talking to

me. I like to hear you talk, and give me your hand again. Put it in

mine; it is so soft and white. I never saw a hand like yours!"

Suleima laughed.

"There you are, then. Oh, Mitsos, don't squeeze it so; you hurt me!

What shall I talk about? I have nothing to talk about. Nothing ever

happened to me. Zuleika--"

"Don't talk about Zuleika!" said Mitsos, between his teeth.

"Well, you told me to talk. I don't want to talk about Zuleika. Oh,

Mitsos, look how far we are out! There is Nauplia behind us. We must go

back!"

"No, not yet."

"But we must! It will take us an hour or more to get back! Please let

us go back, Mitsos?"

Mitsos sat still a moment.

"Tell me you don't want to go back," he said, in a whisper.

"Of course I don't; why should I tell you that? I should like to be

thus with you always, you alone, and no other."

Mitsos sprang up.

"I'll put about," he said.

There were two or three moments of confusion, as the heavy sail flapped

and shook. The wind had veered a point towards the east, and they

could get back in a couple of tacks. Mitsos stood up till the boat had

settled down on the homeward journey, and then, with the tiller in one

hand, he sat down again by Suleima's side.

"It will be fine weather now," he said, "and will you come out with me

again? You tell me you like it."

Suleima nestled a little closer to him. "Yes, I like it," she said,

"but we must not go too often. But if you care to, you can come to

the wall in fine weather always, and I will tell you whether it is

possible. And, Mitsos, next time we go out bring your spear and resin,

and let me see you fish. I should like to see you do that. Do you catch

many?"

"The devil fly away with the fish!" said Mitsos. "I would sooner talk

to you."

"How funny! I would sooner you fished; and, you see, we can talk, too.

Will you let me help?"

Mitsos took up one of her hands again.

"It would be a heavy net you could draw in!" he said. "You have never

felt the tug of a shoal."

"A whole shoal?" asked Suleima. "How many fish go to the shoal?"

Mitsos laughed. "Fifty for each of your fingers," he said, "and a

hundred to spare. Sometimes they all swim together against the net, and

though they are very little, many of them are strong, and pull like a

horse. I cut my finger to the bone once against the net-rope. Look,

here is the mark."

He held up his great brown hand, and Suleima traced with her little

finger a white scar running up to the second joint of his forefinger.

"How horrid!" she said, concernedly, still drawing her finger up and

down his. "Did it bleed much?"

"Half a bucketful. I must put the boat on the other tack. Take care;

the sail will come across again."

The air struck cold as they went more into the wind, and Suleima

wrapped her black bernouse more closely round her and nestled under

shelter of the lad.

"You are cold?" he asked, suddenly.

"No, Mitsos, not if you sit like that. But isn't it ice to you? Have

another piece of Rahat-la-koom?"

[Illustration: "SHE KISSED HIM LIGHTLY ON THE FOREHEAD"]

Mitsos grinned, showing his white teeth. "That will keep out the cold

finely," he said. "Give it me yourself!"

They were rapidly approaching the wall, and in ten minutes more Mitsos

stood up and took in the sail. The speed slackened, and, standing at

the bows, he leaned forward, and, thrusting out with the pole, he

brought the boat alongside. Then, springing up again, with the rope

in his hand, he told Suleima to throw him up the end of the ladder.

This he held down with his foot on the far side of the wall while she

climbed up, pleasantly feeling the muscles of his leg strain as she

stepped onto the rope.

The ground on the inside was a foot or two below the top of the wall,

and, standing on the top a moment before stepping down, she suddenly

bent her head down to him, and, brushing back his curls with her hand,

kissed him lightly on the forehead.

"Good-night, little Mitsos," she whispered.

Then all in a flash her face flushed. "Mitsos," she said, quickly, and

with a curious shyness, "promise me you will never kiss Zuleika; she is

an old witch!" and without waiting for his reply she ran across to the

dark house.

Mitsos sat perfectly still, tingling and alert, and he felt the blood

throb and beat in his temples. He half started from his place to run

after her, and half raised his voice to call, but remembered in time

that he was close to the Turk's house. Something which let the two sit

together like children was dead, but something had taken its place, and

his heart sang to him.

He dropped down again into the boat, and for half an hour more he sat

there without stirring, hearing the ripples tap against the side, and

seeing them break in dim phosphorescent gleams of light. Then, with

wonder on his lips and a smile in his eyes, he went silently home

through the still night.

It was the night of the 1st of January, 1821, and Mitsos and Suleima

were again sailing across the bay; this time, however, not out to sea,

but to the shelving bays underneath the Tripoli hills, the scene of

the fishing with Nicholas. It was the first time the two had been able

to go out together since the night last recorded, for on that occasion

Suleima had been caught by the eunuch coming in from the garden.

Luckily for them both, Mitsos had not been seen, and her excuse was

that she had a headache and could not sleep, so had sat in the garden

for a while. Nothing more could be got out of her, and Zuleika, for

one reason or another, had been loyal enough to preserve silence. But

Suleima got beaten, and she judged it more prudent not to have any more

headaches for a time. But as the fate that watches over wooings would

have it, one night a fortnight afterwards the eunuch was found drunk, a

particularly heinous crime, and, to one of his religion, blasphemous;

and he was, therefore, dismissed. Suleima was sedulous to note the

habits of his successor, and observed with much approval that he went

to bed early and slept soundly, and at length she ventured to resume

her excursions. She had more leisure than usual after her detection,

for she was solitary behind lock and key; she had no sweets to eat, and

her thoughts were ever with Mitsos. She, who had hardly seen a man,

and had certainly never in the last ten years spoken to one except to

the black, thick-lipped eunuch and Abdul Achmet, whose small, sensual

eyes looked at her like a mole's about his fat, pendulous cheeks, could

hardly believe that they and Mitsos, with his sun-browned, boyish face

and fit, slender limbs, were creatures of the same race. From the

first time that she had seen him only dimly as he sat in his boat,

swaying regularly and gracefully to its motion, and heard him singing

the old song which she remembered from her childhood, she had thought

how charming it would be to live on his pattern, as free as the spring

swallows, wholesomely and cleanly in the open air. Surely he had

caught something, indefinable perhaps, but none the less certain, from

wind and sun--a something which reminded her of a clear, light summer

morning, when it was so pleasant to come out of the close, perfumed

house, to have a breath of a more airy fragrance thrown at her by the

sea-breeze, and feel with a cool shock a few dew-drops from the great

climbing rose about the door shaken onto the bare flesh by the wind;

for, unlike the Turks, she came of an outdoor race, and the inherited

instinct had not been altogether eradicated by her hot-house, enclosed

life.

Then by degrees this feeling had grown less general, but more personal.

It was doubly delightful to be able to talk confidentially and

naturally, as one child talks to another, to some one of her own age.

She liked talking to Zuleika, but she preferred talking to Mitsos; it

was a pleasure to make him laugh and show the milkiness of his white

teeth, and she could always make him laugh. Zuleika had hideous teeth;

one was all black and discolored, and for whole days together she would

sit, a sloppy, dishevelled object, by the fire, saying it ached. She

felt quite sure that Mitsos' teeth never ached, and for herself she

did not know what aching meant. Again, when Abdul Achmet laughed, his

cheeks wrinkled up till his eyes were nearly closed, and two queerest

little dimples were dug one on each side of his mouth. What would

happen, she had thought once, if she made him laugh and then held his

eyes open so that they could not shut? She would have liked to try.

Then Mitsos--she felt it in her bones--evidently liked her very much,

in quite a different way from which any one had liked her before.

Zuleika liked her in a tepid, intermittent manner; but when her tooth

ached she ignored her altogether, and had once slapped her in the face

for a too obtrusive sympathy. And when Abdul came and took her chin

between his fingers and turned up her face to his, and told her that

she was getting very pretty, she turned cold all over. It reminded her

of the way he had pointed at one of the turkeys in the yard and said it

was becoming beautifully fat. Again, it had been quite unaccountably

delightful to sit close to Mitsos and shelter under him from the wind,

to be close to him and know him near. Finally, when they parted that

night, and she had brushed back the curls from his forehead and kissed

him, her feeling had been more unaccountable still. She had done it

unthinkingly, but the moment it was done a whole mill-race of thoughts

went bubbling unbidden through her head. She wanted to do it again,

she wanted him to take her in his arms and press her close to him--she

would not mind if it hurt. She hated Zuleika. She understood in a

moment why, if Mitsos knew the least part of what she felt, he should

have been angry when she told him what Zuleika said, and the next words

had come out of her mouth outstripping, so it seemed, her thought. Then

she had felt suddenly shy and frightened; she longed to stop where she

was, for surely Mitsos understood what was so intimate to her. And so,

being a woman, she instantly ran away, and never looked behind.

To-night she had sat by the wall for half an hour before he came, and

the thought that perhaps he would not come had brought into her eyes

silent, childish tears. He must come; she could not do without him. For

herself she would have sat on the wall every night for months to go out

with him; surely he could not be tired in a week or two of coming and

not finding her there. But with the rising of the moon she had seen

a sail far away that got nearer, and at last the boat grated gently

against the wall.

"Is it you, Mitsos?" she whispered, and for answer the rope was flung

up to her, and her young, black-eyed lover sprang to her side. She

descended the ladder silently and stood in the stern; while he joined

her, and with a vigorous push they were floating again alone in the

centre of the vast, dim immensity. He set the sail and came and stood

in front of her.

"Suleima," he whispered, "last time you kissed me. Will you let me kiss

you?"

"Yes, Mitsos," she said, with a great, shy, bold joy in her heart, and

put her face up, and he would have kissed her lightly on the forehead

as she had kissed him. But suddenly that was impossible; they were no

longer children, but lovers, and the next moment his arms were flung

round her neck, her mouth pressed close to his, and each kiss left them

hungrier for the next.

The wind was straight behind them, and they sat where they had sat

before, and talked in low voices as if in fear of the jealousy of

the stars and the night. Mitsos had got his fishing-spear and bag of

resin on board, and after a while, at Suleima's suggestion, they went

straight before the wind to the bay, where Mitsos said he could catch

fish if she cared to see him. Half an hour's sail brought them across,

and, grounding the boat by a bush of blackthorn that grew thick on the

top of the rocks on the edge of the tideless sea, he took Suleima in

his arms and waded through the shallow water to the head of the bay

where he would fish, to save her the tramp through the undergrowth,

which was thick and soaked with the night dews. She was but a feather's

weight in his strong arms, her head lay on his shoulder, and she threw

one arm round his neck for greater security. He made her a nest under

a clump of rushes that grew on the edge of the dry sand, and then went

back for his fishing things. To carry Suleima to land, he had only the

shallowest water at the edge of the sea to walk through, and he had

just turned up the bottom of his trousers; but where he was going to

fish it would be deeper, and, as usual, he slipped them off, buckling

his shirt, which reached to his knees, round his waist. He then lit his

flare, and, stepping off into the deeper water, which was half-thigh

deep, he went slowly along, peering cautiously at the bright circle of

light cast by the resin.

Fish were plentiful, and Suleima, from her nest near, clapped her hands

and laughed delightedly when Mitsos speared one larger than usual, and

held it up flapping and wriggling to show her. She got so excited in

his proceedings that she left her seat, and walked along the edge of

the sand parallel with him, observing with the keenest interest what he

did. Then, when she got tired of watching, Mitsos declared he was tired

of fishing, and waded to shore with a creel full of fish.

Suleima had brought with her some Turkish tobacco, which she had taken

from the house, and gave it to Mitsos to smoke. The other women of the

harem all smoked, she said; for herself she had tried it once, but

thought it horrid to the taste. But Mitsos might smoke it--yes, she

would even light his pipe for him; and with a little pout of disgust

she lit it at the flare and handed it to him, and he smoked it while

they looked the fish over.

It was a night for the great lovers of romance to be abroad in; the air

was of a wonderful briskness, making the pulse go quick, yet gentle and

soft; the moon had set behind the hills to the west, and they sat close

together beneath the wonderful twilight of stars, in a little sheltered

nook beneath a great clump of tall, singing rushes. On the ground, in

front, lay the resin flare, already burning low; but as Mitsos would

fish no more that night he did not replenish it. Lower and lower it

burned, but now and then it would shoot up with a sudden leap of flame,

revealing each to the other, and Suleima would smile at Mitsos; but

before she could see his mouth smile in answer, the flame would die

down again into a flickering spot on the glowing, bubbling ash. But in

the darkness she knew he smiled back at her; a whispered word would

pass from one to the other, and the last flicker of flame showed a

lover to the sight of each. Then drawing closer in the darkness, as if

by some law which was moving each equally, their lips met again in the

kiss that seemed to have never ceased between them. And the wind sang

gently in the rushes, while before them spread the broad waters of the

bay, just curdled over by the breeze; above, the austere stars burned

down on them; behind, rose the empty-wooded hills, where once the soft

armies of Dionysus revelled in love and wine, rising into the peaks

above Tripoli.

* * * * *

The wind dropped for a moment, the rushes were silent, and in the lull

Mitsos heard a mule bell behind them no great way off. He sat up and

peered across the vine-grown strip of plain which lay between them and

the mountain, but the skeins of night mist hung opaque and pearly gray

above it.

In a few minutes, however, the sound got sensibly nearer, and the two

rose and moved a score of yards farther down the beach, for a footpath

round the head of the bay to Nauplia led across the top of it. Then

across the sound of the bell they could hear the pattering footsteps of

the mule, and in a few minutes more it and its rider emerged from the

path which lay through the vineyards onto the open ground at the head

of the beach. Just then the rider checked his beast, dismounted, and

tied some grass round the tongue of the bell in order to muffle it, and

struck a light with a flint and steel which he caught in tinder, and

blew it gently till it sufficed to light his short chibouk. His face

was towards them, and in the glow of the kindled tobacco it stood out

vividly from the dark. It was Nicholas.

He mounted again and rode on, but Mitsos sat still, breathing hard and

vacantly, and seeing only Nicholas's face standing out like a ghost in

the darkness. Suleima touched him gently on the arm.

"Who was it?" she said. "He did not see us."

"It was my uncle," said Mitsos, in a dry voice. "No, he did not see us."

Then his self-control gave way, and he flung himself back on the ground.

"I am afraid," he said--"I do not know what is going to happen. He has

come for me. I know it."

"For you?" asked Suleima. "What do you mean?"

"I shall have to go," said Mitsos. "Holy Virgin, but I cannot. I know

nothing about what he wants me to do. I only know that I may--that I

shall have to go away; that I shall have to leave you and perhaps never

see you again. Oh," he cried, "I cannot, I cannot!"

Suleima was frightened.

"Mitsos, do not talk like that," she said, half sobbing; "do not be so

unkind."

Mitsos recovered himself and felt ashamed.

"Oh, dearest of all and littlest," he said, soothingly, "I am a stupid

brute to frighten you. Everything will be all right--I will come

back--it is sure that I will come back. Only I promised him to do what

he told me, and help him in something--it does not matter what--and I

expect he has come to tell me he wants my help."

"Will not you tell me what it is?" asked Suleima, willing to be

comforted.

"No, I promised I would keep it secret. But this I may tell you.

You know they say--never repeat this--that the Greeks are going to

rise against the Turks and turn them out. There may be fighting and

bloodshed. But you hate the Turks as much as I do, darling, so you will

be as glad as I if this comes true. Perhaps it might even happen that

Abdul's house may be attacked, but you are quite safe if you will only

do one thing. If ever it is attacked do not be afraid, but call out in

Greek that you are a Greek and no Turk. And, oh, Suleima, pray to the

Virgin and the Blessed Child that that day may come soon, for it will

be thus and then that we shall be able to go together always."

"Is it about that you are going away?" said Suleima, with a sudden

intuition.

Mitsos longed to tell her, but his promise to Nicholas kept him dumb.

Then, as he had to answer, he lied boldly and unreservedly.

"It has nothing whatever to do with it," he said. "But oh, Suleima,

forgive me for so frightening you--I did not mean what I said. And

will you come to the wall again as often as you can? I may have to go

away--indeed, I am afraid that is sure, but I do not know for how long.

The first night I am back I shall come again to the wall, the dear

white wall where we first met."

Suleima felt quite comforted. She was sure that nothing could go really

wrong as long as Mitsos drew breath, and she bent down his head and

kissed him.

"Yes, Mitsos, I will come to the wall whenever I can, hoping only that

you may be there, because, you know, I care for you more than all the

rest of the world. And now carry me back to the boat, strong-armed one.

It is time I went back."

Mitsos stooped and lifted her up. As his hands were full, he hung the

creel round his neck, and Suleima carried the extinguished flare. His

heart was a dead weight within him, for he felt certain why Nicholas

had come; but he was apparently his old cheery self, and Suleima forgot

about the rather disquieting moments just after Nicholas had passed.

What he should do he could not form the least idea; at present it

seemed to him impossible that he should go away and leave her. He felt

willing to throw to the winds all he had promised Nicholas. Nicholas

had told him that he should be one of the foremost of his country's

avengers. He shrugged his shoulders, for just now the desire for

vengeance on Turks was less than the memory of a dream. Were there

not plenty of others to avenge Greece? Why should he give up all that

was dearest to him, this dear burden that was his, and go out on an

undesired adventure?

But as long as Suleima was with him he stifled all these thoughts,

while the boat skimmed seawards on the outward tack. They put about

opposite the island and ran straight for the wall. The wind had

freshened, and to Mitsos the boat seemed to be going terribly fast, for

he grudged each moment. But he had quite lulled Suleima's disquietude,

if not his own, and she lay with her head on his shoulder, half asleep,

looking up now and then into his wide-open eyes, and pressing her arm

more closely round his neck. He had to rouse her when he must get up

to take in the sail, and she smiled at him sleepily like a child just

wakened.

Then he fixed the ladder, and she climbed up, clung to him for a moment

without words, for there was no need of speech between them, and went

quickly and silently across the garden.

It was after two when Mitsos landed opposite his house, and he saw with

some surprise that there were lights still burning. He opened the door,

and, bending his head to pass under the low jamb, entered. Constantine

and Nicholas were sitting there, Constantine silent, Nicholas talking

eagerly, and Mitsos observed that he held his pipe unlit in his hand.

His uncle sprang up when he came in.

"Ah, he is here! Mitsos, the time has come. You must go at once."

Mitsos looked at him a moment steadily and silently--their eyes were on

a level--and then he turned aside and put down the fishing-creel in the

corner. His decision, though the result of years, was the deed of only

a moment.

Then he faced Nicholas again.

"I am ready," he said; "tell me what I have to do."

Part II

THE EVE OF THE GATHERING

CHAPTER I

MITSOS MEETS HIS COUSINS

Since August Nicholas had been travelling about the Peloponnesus,

being received everywhere with a sober, secret welcome as one of the

accredited leaders of the revolution. The Turks, through whose Kismet

the truth of the ever-increasing rumors had begun to break, had long

held him in indolent suspicion, but had taken no steps to counteract

the report of his death, for they hoped--if Turks can be said to

hope--somewhat ingeniously, but wholly mistakenly, that such news would

prove to be a cooling draught to this ill-defined fever of revolution.

The Greeks, however, as Germanos had said, knew "that Nicholas was not

the sort of man who died," and Turkish ingenuity went strangely wide of

its aim. In fact, it enabled Nicholas to move about more freely, and to

take a liberal advantage of the fact that he was supposed to be beyond

the reach of war and rumor of war. Indeed, in October, finding himself

back at Corinth, where he had business with one of his fellow-workers,

he had filled an idle afternoon with carving a little wooden cross

on which he painted his name, and below, with a two-handled meaning,

the text, "The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised." He

was to leave Corinth that night, and after the dark had fallen he and

his host went to the Greek cemetery and planted this eloquent little

monument over a newly made grave. When it was discovered it caused a

certain amount of intelligent amusement among the Greeks; but the Turks

seemed to miss the point of the joke. Not even they would have dared to

disturb a Greek cemetery, for the dead had in their eyes a sacredness

which the living altogether lacked; and it remained there for a year,

when subsequent events saw it planted over the most honored grave in

Greece.

December and the first half of January Nicholas had spent in the

country of his kin, south of Sparta, and it was from there he had fled

in haste to Nauplia, for his presence in Maina, which was notably

patriotic, had become too insistent to be disregarded, and the Turkish

governor of Tripoli, Mehemet Salik, had demanded of the Greek bey

of that district, Petros Mavromichales, usually known as Petrobey,

that he should be given up on the old charge of brigandage. Petrobey,

like Germanos, was of high rank, and the Turks seemed to have had no

suspicion that he himself was a leader of the revolution; but, as a

matter of fact, he and Nicholas, who was staying with him at the time,

read the letter together and consulted what should be done.

Nicholas was disposed to shrug at it altogether, or merely to send

back an answer that he was officially declared to be dead and

buried--witness the grave and its monument; but Petrobey thought

otherwise. His own usefulness to the cause was immensely increased by

the fact that he at present stood outside suspicion, and he advised

Nicholas to retire where they were not likely to look for him, while he

himself would prosecute a vigorous and indubitably unsuccessful search

elsewhere, as an evidence of his own unimpeachable fidelity. Had not

Nicholas got a brother-in-law--his own cousin--at Nauplia? Nauplia

was an excellent hiding-place, for it was under the very nose of the

Turkish governor, and people always looked everywhere else first. But

it would be necessary to have some extremely trustworthy person who

could communicate between them; and Nicholas had spoken to him of his

nephew. This nephew lived at Nauplia, did he not? How very convenient!

Nicholas should go to Nauplia and send his nephew back to Maina, where

he could be very useful.

With this, Petrobey wrote an exceedingly polite letter to Mehemet

Salik, saying that his house was Mehemet's house, and that he himself

was honored by the commands of the deputy of the Shadow of God.

Nicholas, it was true, as he had learned by inquiry, had been seen

lately in Maina, or so gossip would have it; but as they had been told

that he was dead not long ago at Corinth, there might be some confusion

on this point. However, the bearers of the letter to the deputy of the

Serene Presence would be his witnesses that he had sent out twenty men

to scour the country-side, and no doubt the hound of hell, if still

alive, would be found. He should in this case be sent with spitting to

Tripoli.

Petrobey was the head of the numerous and powerful clan of the

Mavromichales, the thews and sinews of the revolution. He himself,

though a Greek, was governor of the district of Maina, and had been

appointed to this post by the Sultan, for the attempt to put the

government of Maina, or rather of the Mavromichales, into the hands of

a Turkish official, had not proved a success, the last three Turkish

governors not having been permitted by the clan to hold office for more

than a month. His brothers and cousins were mayors and land-owners

of the villages for miles around, and, like Nicholas's family, with

whom they were connected twenty times in marriage, it was their

pride that they had kept their blood clean and not mated with devils,

and the wrong done to Nicholas's wife they took for a wrong done to

themselves, demanding, so they swore, "a red and hot apology." So when,

in the presence of the five soldiers who had brought Mehemet's letter,

Petrobey sent for his brother-in-law Demetri, and told him that that

bastard cousin of the clan, Nicholas Vidalis, was being sought for by

the deputy of the Shadow of God who cast his serene effulgence over

Tripoli, Demetri was suitably astounded, and the Turkish soldiers were

much impressed. They had the further satisfaction an hour later of

seeing twenty mounted men set off southwards in search of Nicholas,

following well-authenticated information; and later in the afternoon

they themselves took horse on their return journey to Tripoli, having

drunk a little more than was good for them at Petrobey's expense, the

bearers of that reply the sentiments and wording of which were an

edification.

Nicholas and he supped together, and it was arranged that Nicholas

should start that night from Panitza, so as to reach Gythium before

morning.

"I regret," said Petrobey, "my dear cousin, that I cannot speed you on

your way myself, and can send none of our clan with you; but perhaps

it would be outstepping the bounds of prudence if I went myself, and,

as you know, the Mavromichales of this immediate district have gone to

look for you southwards. They will no doubt be back from their quest

before midnight; but I should advise your setting out before then."

Nicholas laughed.

"I shall do very well, my cousin," he said. "I shall reach Nauplia in

two days or three, and send Mitsos back at once. He is absolutely and

entirely trustworthy. I think I told you of the test."

"You did. He should be very useful to us; for it is time, I think, that

the mills were set grinding, and a boy like that can go freely to and

fro without suspicion. Your health, dear cousin; I will break my custom

and drink wine with you. I drink to you and to vengeance."

The men clinked glasses, emptied them, and filled them again.

"I do not easily forget," said Nicholas, "and the Turk shall not easily

forget me. The corn will grow high this summer, for the fields will be

rich. Your health, dear cousin, and the memory of one whom we forget

not!"

They sat in silence for a space, for Petrobey knew that Nicholas spoke

of his wife, and having finished their meal they drank their coffee,

and Nicholas's horse was brought round. The two men walked to the end

of the village together, the lad leading the horse behind, and there

they stopped a moment.

"I may not see you again," said Nicholas, "till the feast is ready.

And on that day, my cousin, you and I will fall to with good appetite.

I wish you a good appetite for that feast." And after the manner of

relations and friends they kissed each other, and Nicholas mounted and

rode off.

Eight days after his departure Mitsos arrived, having passed without

impediment through Tripoli and Sparta. Following Nicholas's directions,

he had kept his ears very wide open at Tripoli in his lodging at

a Greek inn, and he had heard things which he thought might be of

interest. First and foremost the letter which Petrobey had written to

the deputy of the Shadow of God had been received, and was supposed

to have given satisfaction, for Mitsos had fallen in with one of the

Turkish soldiers who had taken it, who reported that the matter was to

be left entirely in Petrobey's hands, which seemed a mark of confidence

in his fidelity. Also, the meeting of primates and bishops at Tripoli,

which usually took place at the beginning of April, was summoned for

the beginning of March. Lastly, Mehemet Salik was fortifying with

feverish haste the walls of the city.

Mitsos had spent the second night at Sparta; the third at Marathonisi,

a town on the coast; and the noon of the fourth day saw him climbing

the steep hill into Panitza. His horse was tired with the four days'

journey, and a couple of miles below the village he got off and walked

behind it, cracking his whip every now and then, partly to encourage

it, and partly because he could crack a whip louder than mortal

man. Petrobey, who was outside the big café at the entrance to the

village, saw the tired horse and the extremely vigorous-looking young

giant walking by its side as they passed, and, after a few moments'

inspection, said to a young man who was sitting with him:

"That is he, no doubt. Nicholas seems to have chosen well."

The two got up and followed the boy till he, seeing them, stopped and

asked for Petros Mavromichales's house.

"And what do you want with Petrobey?" asked that gentleman.

Mitsos surveyed him with easy indifference, raising his eyebrows

slightly at the question.

"See, friend," he said, "I have my business, and you, for all I know,

have yours. If you will tell me where is his house, good; if not, I

will ask some one else."

[Illustration: "MITSOS SURVEYED HIM WITH EASY INDIFFERENCE"]

Petrobey laughed.

"You are Mitsos, no doubt," he said. "Welcome, cousin, for Nicholas's

sake and your own."

"I really am very sorry," said the boy; "but how should I know? I have

come from Nauplia. Uncle Nicholas arrived safely."

"That is good, and you have arrived safely, which is also good. This is

my son Yanni, Mitsos, and your cousin. Yanni, take your cousin's horse

and then join us."

Mitsos hesitated a moment before giving the bridle to Yanni.

"Thank you very much," he said; "but I can put the horse up myself if

you will show me where. My father told me always to put it up myself.

They laughed at me at the inn at Tripoli for doing so."

"Indeed," said Petrobey, glancing at the boy's shoulders; "I would

never laugh at you, Mitsos. What did you do?"

"I knocked one of them down," said Mitsos, genially, "and thus there

was no more laughter."

"The horse will be all right here," said Petrobey, smiling. "Give Yanni

the bridle, lad."

Mitsos obeyed, and they went into the house, where dinner was being got

ready. Dinner was a daily crisis in the house of Petrobey, and, leaving

the two boys in the veranda, he went round to the kitchen for fear that

the cook, who, he said, was a man to whom God had not granted a palate,

should be too harsh on the sucking-pig which they were to eat.

"Can you conceive," he said, on his return, spreading out his hands

with a gesture of eloquent despair, "the fool stuffed the last one

I ate with garlic! Sucking-pig stuffed with garlic! A man without a

palate, little Mitsos!"

Yanni burst out laughing at this, and Petrobey turned to him with

good humor shining in his great rosy face, which he tried most

unsuccessfully to school into severity.

"Yanni, too," he went on, "that lumpy son of mine, does not know quail

from woodcock, and lights his pipe before he has finished his wine.

Come, boys, dinner first; we will talk afterwards. Bring the mastic,

son of a locust," he bawled into the kitchen.

During dinner Petrobey hardly spoke, because speech spoils food. He ate

sparingly and slowly, dwelling on each mouthful as on a mathematical

problem. His face grew anxious as the time for sucking-pig approached,

and his deep-gray eyes bore an expression of profound thought as

he laid down his knife and fork, after putting the first piece of

crackling into his mouth. Then his face cleared again, and he drank a

little water briskly, for, except rarely, he did not touch wine.

"Hardly crisp enough," he said, curling his long gray mustache up from

his lips. "Hardly crisp enough, but creditable. What say you, Mitsos?"

The latter exhibited a phenomenal appetite after his journey from

Marathonisi, and Yanni looked on in admiration, which eventually

expressed itself Homerically:

"You are a good man," he said, "because you eat well."

After dinner they sat out in the sun under the shelter of the southern

veranda, and here Mitsos learned what he had to do.

"Your uncle Nicholas," said Petrobey, "has told me that I can trust you

completely; and I have many things to tell you, any of which, if you

chose to give information to the Turk, would see me, and many others

besides, strung to the gallows."

Yanni, who was lying on a straw mat near Mitsos, refilled his pipe and

grinned.

"Me among them, Mitsos," he said, glancing up at his big cousin. "You

will please to remember that."

But Mitsos did not answer, and only looked gravely at Petrobey.

"We shall no longer be cursed by these devils," continued he, "for

the Turks will vanish out of our land like snow in summer. What you

and Yanni have to do is to go through a certain district, calling at

certain villages, and speaking to certain men. This first journey, on

which you will set out to-morrow, will take you a fortnight or so--ah,

but the victuals will be poor, little ones, but perhaps you don't mind

that--and then you will come back here. And remember, Mitsos, that

you will be doing what none of us could do; for two boys, dressed as

peasants dress, driving a couple of seedy mules laden with oranges,

can pass where Nicholas and I could not. On this first journey Yanni

will go with you, for he knows the country, but after that there will

probably be other work for him to do, and also for you--plenty. You

will go to the houses of these men and ask this question, 'Are you

grinding corn?' and they will answer, 'Corn for the hungry, or corn for

the Turk?' And you will say, 'Black corn for the Turk. If you have not

begun grinding, begin, and grind quickly.'"

Mitsos was listening breathlessly.

"What does it all mean?" he asked.

Petrobey smiled, and unslinging his powder-flask from his belt, shook

out a little into his hand, and tossed it into the air.

"Pouf!" he said; "black corn for the Turk."

Mitsos' eyes flashed.

"I understand," he said; "black corn, and good for Turks."

"For the first journey that will be all," went on Petrobey. "Yanni will

be with you, and it will be simple enough. After that you may have to

go here, there, anywhere. You will certainly have to go to Nauplia,

where you will find Nicholas; and Yanni will, I am afraid, have to go

to Tripoli for a little while."

"The black devil take Tripoli," muttered Yanni.

"And why does Yanni go to Tripoli?" asked Mitsos.

"Perhaps he will not, but if he goes it will be as a hostage for my

good conduct. But there is no need to be so round-eyed, Mitsos; we

are not going to have him murdered. I shall not behave badly till he

is safe again. Dear me, yes, I wish I could go instead. Mehemet Salik

has a cook of a thousand. But--who knows?--idle words may reach the

Turks at Tripoli, and if so I shall send Yanni as a hostage. But about

this journey you must be as quick and quiet as you can. Never answer

any questions about Nicholas or me or yourselves--you cannot be too

careful. Never sleep in a village when you have given a message. Sleep

mostly by day out in the woods and travel at night, though you must

be careful to arrive at the village where you give these messages by

day in the manner of ordinary peasants. Finally, be ready to run, if

running is possible; if not, to fight. Which would you prefer?"

Mitsos kicked out a leg tentatively.

"I have no marked choice," he said; "perhaps I would rather fight."

"I hope no need will come. Try to avoid any suspicion. I don't think

you need provoke any. But if you do, remember that you must try to run

away first. The point is that you should do your business quietly."

Yanni turned round and looked at Mitsos.

"You would prefer fighting, would you not, cousin?" he said. "But I

don't see how there will be either fighting or running to do, father.

We only go to friends, give our message, and pass on."

Petrobey got up.

"That is what I hope," he said, "but you cannot tell. Some of those

whom we thought our friends may be treacherous. And now I have to see

Demetri, and you boys can stop here, or you can take Mitsos to see some

of his cousins, Yanni. We will talk again this evening."

Petrobey whistled to the great sheep-dog, wolfish and savage, who

got up, and with all his hackles raised made a second examination of

Mitsos' legs, growling gently to himself. The boy sat quite still under

this somewhat trying inspection, and the dog after a few moments laid

his head on his knee and looked him in the face. Mitsos lifted his hand

very gently and stroked the brute's ears, while Petrobey watched them.

"There, go along," said Mitsos, after a few moments, and the stately

dog turned and walked across to Petrobey.

"That is curious," said the latter. "Osman is not usually friendly. I

suppose he saw you were not afraid of him."

Mitsos looked up smiling.

"I was horribly afraid," he said, "but I tried not to show it. Big dogs

are fools; they never understand."

"You will find that men are even greater fools; they always mistake

bluff for bravery," said Petrobey, walking off.

Yanni got up from where he was lying and sat himself in his father's

chair. He was a big-made young Greek, rather above the average height,

with a look of extreme fitness about him. His movements were all sharp

and nimble, like the movements of some young animal, and he rolled

himself a compact and uniform plug of tobacco for his chibouk with a

few passes of his quick fingers. His hands, like his father's, were

long and finely made, and Mitsos watched him admiringly nip off the

loose ends of the tobacco.

"How quickly you did that," he said. "Will you fill my pipe, too? I am

so glad we are going together, cousin."

"I, too. It is good to hunt in couples. It is a halving of the cold and

the tiredness, and a doubling of all that is pleasant. This is Turkish

tobacco, Mitsos, and it is better than ours. Father never smokes. So

when a Turk sends him a present of tobacco it is good for me. Have you

ever smoked the Turkish?"

Mitsos started, and a flush spread under the brown of his cheek.

"Yes, the other day only. I found it very good. Tell me more of the

journey."

"Old clothes, even very old clothes," said Yanni, "like poor peasants,"

and his Mavromichales's nose went in the air. "Old mules, and very

slow-going; but a pistol each, new pistols with two mouths that speak

like the lightning. Father gives us one each. On the mules a load of

stupid oranges and a couple of blankets each. Come to the other side of

the house, cousin; we can see our first day's journey from there."

Panitza stood high on the scrub-covered slope leading up to the pine

forests and the naked crags of Taygetus. Sixteen miles to the north

rose the spearhead of the range, Mount Elias, sheathed in snow for a

couple of thousand feet down, and cut against the intense blue of

the sky with the keenness and edge of steel. From Panitza their path

lay for five or six miles along the upward slope, and where it struck

the ridge they could see the huddled roofs of a village, which Yanni

said was Kalyvia, where they delivered their first message. From there

the track crossed a pass and went down the other side towards the

sea. It was rough, cold going on the heights, and it would be a full

day's journey to get down to Platsa, where they would sleep. After

that they would travel chiefly by night, and sleep when and where they

could, avoiding as far as possible all villages but those where they

were charged with messages. "Oh, it will be very good," said Yanni.

Mitsos' thoughts went aching back to the bay of Nauplia; but he agreed.

Besides, he would go to Nauplia again soon.

It had been an immense relief to him that he was not going alone,

though in that moment when Nicholas had told him that the time was come

he had made his self-surrender absolute, and would have taken upon him

any outrageous task which might have been imposed. But the four days

of travelling alone from Nauplia had been like a sick man's dream. He

had set off at daybreak, and taking the same path by which Nicholas had

come the evening before, he reached in an hour the little bay where he

had fished, and sat down under the clump of rushes where they had sat

together, looking at the well-known places with the eyes of a dog that

comes back to a deserted house which has once been home. In the sand he

could see the footprints made by his own bare feet as he came up from

the water, and close beside them the print of Suleima's little pointed

shoes. They had overlooked two or three small fish, which were lying

still fresh and clean after the cool night, where they had emptied

the creel to count their spoils, and by them was the dottle of the

pipe he had smoked. And at the sight of these little things the child

within him cried out against his fate. Nothing in the world seemed of

appreciable account except the need of Suleima. Yet it was no less

impossible to go back: even as he said to himself that he would return,

he knew that Nicholas's gray, questioning eyes were unfaceable. He was

hedged in by impossibilities on every side. And then because there was

something more than the child within him, some stuff out of which real

men are made, he got up, and mounting again went on his way. All that

day and the next days his heart-sickness rode him like a night-hag,

and it was but a heavy-souled lad who trudged so bravely into Panitza

cracking his whip. But to be among people again, and men who received

him cousin-fashion--for in those days the tie of blood was a warm

reality--had an extraordinary sweetness for him, for he felt lonely

and sick for home; above all, to find that for the present he would be

with Yanni, a boy of his own age, who took for granted that they were

going to have the best of hours together, and only knew one side of

things, and that the cheerful side, was surpassingly pleasant. Again,

because he was beginning to be a man, the confidence placed in him

made him feel self-reliant, and because he was still a boy the unknown

adventurous days in front of him were very tonic to the spirit. And so

it was, that when they set out early next morning, Petrobey, looking

after them, said to Demetri that Nicholas was a very wise man; and

Mitsos whacked his mule gayly over the rump, and whistled the "Song of

the Vine-diggers" with more than cheerfulness of lip, and took the road

with an open heart.

CHAPTER II

MITSOS AND YANNI FIND A HORSE

It was a morning to make the blood go blithely. There had been a slight

frost during the night, and the rough grass in the ditches was stiff

and sprinkled with the powdered cold, and the air was brisk in the

nostrils. To the right the ground fell away sheerly to the outlying

hills bordering the plain, which lay unrolled beneath them like a

colored map, with extraordinary clearness, in counties of yellow-green,

where the corn was already springing, alternating with territories of

good red earth, showing where the leafless vineyards stood. Beyond

again lay the dim, dark blue of the sea, and across that, more guessed

at than seen, the stencilled shapes of the hills beyond the gulf. Their

path, a cobbled Turkish road, ascended steadily, skirting about the

edges of the deep ravines, and making detours round the acuter slopes

which rose above them to the top of the mountain ridge; and the mules

ambled slowly along with their panniers of oranges on either side,

while Mitsos and Yanni walked behind, dressed in their roughest peasant

clothes, talking of the thousand things of which boys talk. It took

them nearly three hours to reach the foot of the last slope on which

the village stood, and here they halted for half an hour to eat and

drink, in order that they might pass straight through without waiting

after giving the message.

Yanni, who knew the village, soon recognized the house to which they

were going, which stood somewhat apart from the others, and had a low

outlying building a stone's-throw below it.

"That is the house," he said, "and that shed near is the mill. There

is a big stream coming down from the mountains there which turns the

wheel."

"They should grind quickly, then. Shall we go on?"

The house in question they found was entered from a yard, the door of

which was closed, and their knocking only seemed to rouse a dog inside

to the top pitch of fury. But at last a woman came out on the wooden

balcony overlooking the street, and asked them what they wanted.

"We want Yorgi Gregoriou," shouted Yanni. "Ah, do you not remember me?"

The woman took up a piece of wood and threw it, as a man throws with

force and precision, at the dog inside. The barking broke off short in

a staccato howl, and Mitsos guessed that she had hit.

"Yanni Mavromichales, is it not?" asked the woman.

"Surely."

She disappeared into the house, and in a moment her step was heard

across the yard. As soon as the door was opened the dog flew out like

a cork from a bottle, only to find himself between the devil and the

deep sea--his mistress, an authentic terror, standing on one side, and

Mitsos' whip flirting out at him like the tongue of a snake on the

other. So he scuffled away to a safe distance and barked himself out of

all shape.

"Come in, Yanni," said Gregoriou's wife. "What brings you here?"

"A message from Petrobey to Gregoriou."

The woman's eye travelled slowly up to Mitsos' face, as if she could

only take him in by sections.

"And the giant?" she asked. "Is he from a fair?"

Yanni shouted with laughter.

"No; it is my cousin. But we are in a hurry, as we go far to-day. Where

shall we find Gregoriou?"

"He is at the mill. You will find him there, and then come back and

drink a glass of wine."

The stream that worked the mill was confined within a masonry-laid

bed for a hundred yards above the house, to narrow its course and

concentrate its energy. From the end of the yard ran out a tall,

stout-built wall; along the top of this the water was conducted to a

wooden shoot, below which was the mill-wheel. The mill seemed to be

in full working order, for an ear-filling booming came from within,

shaking the rickety door on its hinges. The two tried the latch, but

found it locked, and it was not till Yanni had shouted his name that it

was cautiously opened.

"Yanni Mavromichales?" queried a voice from inside.

"No other."

"What do you want?"

"This only. Are you grinding corn?"

There was a pause, but the door was still held ajar only.

"Corn for the hungry, or corn for the Turk?" asked the voice.

"Black corn for the Turk."

The door was opened and a little wizened man appeared on the threshold.

He had a white beard, cut close and pointed, and a pair of heavy

eyebrows. His face was a map of minute wrinkles, as the sea is covered

with ripples under the land-breeze, and two suspicious eyes peered

narrowly out from under their overhanging brows. Mitsos was standing

close to the door, and this grotesque little apparition, as he opened

it, gave a shrill squeal of dismay, and would have shut it again had

not Yanni prevented him.

"Who is that?" asked the little man, pointing to Mitsos.

"My cousin," said Yanni, "who comes with me on the business of the

corn. Oh, all our necks are in one noose. Do not be afraid."

The little old man seemed strangely reassured at this brutality of

frankness, and setting the door wide--"Come in, both of you," he said,

shortly.

Inside the noise of the mill was almost deafening, but Gregoriou pinned

the wheel, the two stones stopped grinding, and only the water splashed

hissing down the channel.

"Black corn, did you say; black corn for the Turk?" said the little

old man, peering into Yanni's face, with blinking eyes, like a noonday

owl. "I grind corn all day, for there will be many hungry mouths. Look

you, I am no fighting man; I leave that to those who are taller than

the pillars in the church, like this cousin of yours; but where would

the fighting be without such as I? But, lad, don't give hint of this to

the woman-folk, else I shall have the clan of them a-screaming round me

like the east gale in the mountains."

He rubbed his hands together and broke out into a screeching cackle of

a laugh, which showed a row of discolored, irregular teeth.

"Look here," he said, opening a bin behind the door, "is not this good,

strong corn? I have ground it all myself. None but I have ground it."

His face took an expression of diabolical cunning.

"They have promised to buy it of me, all at a sound price," he said;

"but it is not that so much that makes my heart go singing--it is that

I want it to do its work well, and give the Turk an indigestion of

lead. This is good business for me. I will be a rich man, and I shall

have brought death to many devils."

He slipped back to the lever that brought the wheel under the stream,

and as the stones began to turn again, from their lips there dribbled

out a black powder, which he scooped up in a wooden ladle and emptied

into a cask. Then, seeing that the door was still open, he gave another

shrill animal cry of fright and sprang to lock it. "Charcoal!" he

shouted to them across the rumbling din of the stone, "charcoal ground

fine, for so it is the more nourishing. And here are the sulphur and

saltpetre. To-night I shall mix them carefully--oh, so carefully--and

I shall be glutted with the thought that there will be a red death for

every stroke in the mixing."

And then he got him back to the stones and fed them tenderly with fresh

lumps of charcoal, as one would feed a sick dog.

Mitsos and Yanni were in a hurry to take the road again, and so they

left him absorbed in the grinding, and heard the key grate in the lock

as soon as they got outside.

From Kalyvia their road topped the watershed of the mountain, and

thereafter descended in leaps and strides, almost due west, down to

the plain which skirts the bay of Kalamata. They got to Platsa, where

they were to sleep that night, an hour before dark, and for the sake

of appearances drove their mules to the market-place, and made a

display of selling their cargo of oranges. The khan where they put up

consisted of two rooms, one occupied by the owner and his family, the

other being the café of the village. They sat up smoking and talking

till it emptied, and then made themselves beds of their blankets and

saddle-bags. The village was inclined to inquisitiveness, but Mitsos

told them that they had come from Sparta with oranges and were going

home to Tsimova--a possible, and even a plausible, explanation of their

presence; and with that the village must be content.

They descended next day onto the coast and into the warm fresh air of

the Greek lowlands in winter, and Mitsos called the hierarchy of Heaven

to witness that only the shrewdest pinch of cold would drive him again

into foul khans while there were trees to sleep under and good grass

beds for the limbs. If rooms untenanted by the grosser vermin were

supposed to be beyond the reach of orange-sellers, he would have no

room at all, but only God's out-door inn.

Mid-day brought them to Prastion, and to the delivery of the second

message. They had no trouble in finding the recipient, for he was

the mayor of the village, and was known to be in his vineyard hoeing

vines. Yanni waited with the mules in the street, while Mitsos went to

seek him. He looked up as the lad came striding towards him across the

hollowed vine-beds.

"You are Zaravenos?" asked he.

Zaravenos assented slowly and suspiciously, as if he would sooner have

been some one else.

"Are you grinding corn?"

The man put down his mattock and looked round suddenly to see that

there was no one within hearing.

"Yes, yes," he said, quickly. "But of what corn do you speak--corn for

the hungry, or corn for the Turk?"

"Black corn for the Turk."

"Praise the Virgin. But is the time come? Tell me who sent you; was it

Nicholas, whom I know well?"

Mitsos thought of Petrobey's injunctions.

"Nicholas? Who is Nicholas?" he said. "But this I have to tell you: if

you have not begun, begin, and grind quickly. That is all."

The man looked at him again.

"Surely you are Mitsos," he said. "Nicholas told me about a mountain of

a Mitsos, whom perhaps he would send to us. Why do you not tell me? I

have no better friend than Nicholas. He was here a month ago. Where is

he now? Is he safe?"

But Mitsos shook his head.

"I do not know whom you mean," he said, though his heartstrings

thrummed within him.

For six days the two went on travelling in a northerly direction,

sometimes keeping close to the coast, sometimes visiting strange, gaunt

little villages perched high on the flanks of Taygetus. They travelled

for the most part at night, trying if possible to come by daybreak

within a mile or two of the village whither they were bound. They would

then turn off into some wood, or, if they were close to the coast, down

onto the beach, and, after tethering and feeding their mules, would

breakfast and sleep till about mid-day, when they entered the village,

delivered their message, and passed on. Sometimes it would be received

eagerly and with shining eyes, and the news would spread at once that

the time for which they were waiting had come. Sometimes, if there

were Turks about, it would be taken and answered with guardedness and

caution, and once the man to whom they had been sent shook his head and

said he knew nought of the matter. This was beyond doubt an occasion

when running away was necessary, and little time was lost in running.

They reached Kalamata on the seventh day--little did Mitsos think how

or when he would see it again--and after spending two nights there (for

they had been instructed not only to give messages to three leading

Greeks, but also to inquire of the strength of the Turkish garrison,

and see to the truth of the report which had reached Petrobey that the

fortifications there, as well as at Tripoli, were being repaired), took

a boat down the coast to the port of Tsimova, whence their road lay

southward through Maina, and then eastward back to Panitza, and it was

in this district that red-handed adventure met them.

They had now been twelve days from home, and Yanni remarked

discontentedly that there were only four more to come. He had never

spent more enchanting days than these in the company of Mitsos, with

whom in a healthy, boyish manner he had fallen completely in love.

Mitsos never lost his temper, and maintained an immense, great serenity

under the most disquieting conditions; as, for instance, when they lost

one of the mules during their morning's sleep the day before, when they

were up on the spurs of Taygetus, and had to hunt it high and low in a

blinding snow blizzard, and came back to find that the other mule had

made use of his solitude in rolling himself in some thorn bushes while

they were away, converting their blankets into one prickly fricassee.

The splendid cousin had gazed at them ruefully a moment, and "I would I

were a tortoise" was his only comment.

Mitsos had fully responded to the frankness of his cousin's adoration,

and had confided to him his interrupted love-story, which raised him in

Yanni's eyes to hero rank. Besides, he was big and strong and entirely

magnificent.

Mitsos had just awakened Yanni on this particular morning, reminding

him that it was after mid-day and they had a long tramp ahead of them

that afternoon. Nymphia, the next village to which they had a message,

lay below them on the plain, a mile or two distant. But Yanni refused

to go before he had eaten somewhat, and as remonstrance was vain, they

fished out bread and meat from the saddle-bags and made a meal. They

were sitting thus some thirty yards from the path, which lay through

the heart of an upland pine forest, when they heard the going of

four-footed steps, and Yanni got up to see if either of their mules had

slipped its tether and was preparing to give them another hunt. But it

proved only to be a Turkish soldier riding down in the direction of the

village to which they were bound. He asked the bush-bowered Yanni what

was his business there, and Yanni, who had a wholesome dislike of all

Turks, very rudely replied, "Breakfasting, pig," went back to Mitsos,

and thought no more of the matter.

The soldier rode quickly on through the village and turned into a

house that lay some half-mile below. He found no one there, and tying

his horse up went down across a couple of fields to a low, huddled

building, beside which stood a mill-wall. He knocked at the door and

was admitted at once.

"Krinos," he said to the man who opened it, "I passed a boy on the road

through the wood, whom I am sure I saw yesterday at Kyta, and two days

ago at Akia, only before there were two of them. It is worth while

waiting to see if he comes with a message to you."

"But if there are two of them," said Krinos (for God had made a

coward), "there are only two of us."

"Nonsense; admit one only; and this is a boy, and we are men. Besides,

there is no time to send to the village, and whom should we find there?

They are all Greek of the Greeks. And the boy may be here in a few

minutes. Remember, he is not to be killed yet. He has to speak first."

"If it is a Mavromichales he will never speak," said Krinos.

"That is yet to be seen. I will stand behind the door, seize him as he

enters, and if there are two of them, lock the door behind the first."

Now from Pigadia, where the boys had delivered the message to a man who

said he knew nought of the matter, they had been quite right to go on

their way as quickly as they could. The Turks had set spies all over

the country, since the rumors of an approaching outbreak had reached

them, who were instructed to affect sympathy and co-operation with

the revolutionists, and give information at headquarters of all they

could learn. The day after Mitsos and Yanni had left Pigadia, still

going northward towards Kalamata, this spy had had occasion to make a

journey southward. At Tsimova he had inquired whether the boys had been

seen, and hearing they had not, for they were then at Kalamata, gave

information to the Turkish magistrate, and went on his way. At Nymphia

he visited Krinos, who was also in Turkish pay, and told him to extract

any information he could if they came his way. From there he had taken

ship and gone on to Gythium, which was out of the boys' route.

The magistrate at Tsimova, with characteristic Turkish indolence,

holding a clew in one hand, would scarcely trouble to move the other in

pursuit. He just let the soldiers of the place know that there would

be some small reward given to any of them who apprehended either of

the boys; and one of them, the same who had seen Yanni on the wooded

path, being anxious that no other should bite at his cherry, had

obtained leave of absence and went a-hunting alone. He had seen Yanni

on the previous days at Kyta and Akia, and thought it worth while to

follow him on to Nymphia, where, as he knew, there was a Greek whom

his countrymen supposed to be a revolutionist, but who was really in

Turkish pay.

So the soldier hid behind the door, and Krinos went on grinding powder,

which he intended to sell eventually--not to the Greeks, but to the

Turks. The trap was neatly laid, and smelled of success.

Krinos's mill was of an old-fashioned type, consisting not of two

stones, but of one, which was hung with its axle horizontal to the

floor, in size and shape resembling a stone-roller, and underneath it

ran the long tray in which the corn or charcoal was ground. The tray

could be withdrawn for the emptying and filling, and he had just slid

it out, as the charcoal was already sufficiently powdered, when the

interruption for which he and the soldier had been waiting came. Krinos

had not time to put it back, and the stone remained revolving about

eight inches from the ground.

Yanni and Mitsos had gone cheerily down the hill-side ten minutes after

the Turk into the village, where Yanni met a slightly intoxicated

cousin, who grinned, and queried "Black corn?"

Yanni looked so important and mysterious at this that Mitsos burst out

laughing, and they all three stood in the road and laughed together

for no reason, except that one was drunk and two were of a merry mind.

Yanni went so far as to explain that they were in a hurry, but no

more; and, having inquired where Krinos lived, they passed through the

village and out towards the house.

Just below Krinos's house the ground sloped sharply away, so that

from the door only the roof of his mill could be seen. This prevented

Krinos, who was peering out of the mill-door to learn whether there

were two of them, from seeing either till they should pass the house

and begin to descend towards the mill. Mitsos tapped at the house

door, then knocked, and then shouted; but there was no answer. Yanni

followed, and in the court-yard saw a horse tied up. Mitsos had given

up the attempt to make any one hear, and he said to Yanni:

"He's not in. What are we to do?"

Yanni scratched his head thoughtfully.

"There's another building farther down which looks like a mill," he

said; "we will go there. But wait a minute, cousin; there is a thought

in my head."

"Out with it, then."

"Have you in your mind how that when we were breakfasting we heard a

horse on the path, and I went to see if it was either of our mules? You

remember it turned out to be a Turkish soldier; and this is the horse,

or my mother did not bear me."

Mitsos' eye brightened.

"Let us think a moment," he said. "What do you make of it?"

Yanni put his head on one side, like an intelligent but puzzled collie

dog.

"It is a nice horse," he said, vaguely, "and that is why I noticed it.

It would be rather amusing if--hush, I can hear the mill going! Krinos

must be there, and--and I shouldn't at all wonder if the Turk was there

also!"

Mitsos smiled serenely.

"It is a little trap," he said; "very pretty. What shall we do? What a

devil Krinos must be."

"It isn't certain," said Yanni; "but we'll make sure. This is the way.

The Turk saw only me, therefore I will go down there alone. I wonder if

there are any windows this side. Wait a minute while I see."

He stole out to the edge of the hill, and reconnoitred from behind a

bush.

Krinos was standing at the door, and even as Yanni looked, a head

wearing a red soldier's fez popped out and back again, and he crept

back with suppressed excitement in his eyes.

"They are both there," he said; "two of them and two of us. Oh,

Mitsos, this is very good! You see, we must go to deliver our message,

otherwise we should be doing better to run away now; but there is the

message to deliver, and that is the first order. This is what I will

do: Tie up your mule here, and get behind that bush. Then I will walk

down to the mill with my mule, and I expect when Krinos sees me he will

go back into the mill and wait; if he does, run down ever so quickly

and quietly--there are no windows this side--and hide behind the corner

of the house. Then will I come and knock at the door, and I expect

that when I give the message Krinos will let me in, and if you hear me

shout, in with you. There will be no running away."

"It won't go," said Mitsos; "there will be two of them. They may kill

you before I can get in."

"O best and biggest of fools!" whispered Yanni, excitedly; "this is

no time for talk. They will not want to kill me, for what would that

profit them? They will wish to take me to the Turks--and be damned to

all Turks!"

"You are right; come on."

Mitsos crept to his post behind the bush, after tethering his mule well

out of sight, and Yanni went unconcernedly down the hill-side. As he

had expected, as soon as Krinos saw him he strolled back into the mill

and shut the door. Yanni waited a moment, and beckoned to Mitsos, who

strode noiselessly down and stood behind the corner of the wall, while

Yanni came slowly on, reached the mill, and tapped at the door. A voice

from inside answered him.

"Who is that?" it asked.

"It matters not," said Yanni. "Are you grinding corn?"

"Corn for the hungry, or corn for the Turk?"

"Black corn for the Turk."

The door was thrown open and Yanni entered. The moment after it was

flung to again, and a half-muffled shout came from inside. Mitsos

sprang out and threw himself against the door, and went reeling in.

Yanni was struggling in the grasp of two men, the Greek and the Turk,

and Mitsos, without losing a moment, flung himself onto Krinos, who was

nearest him, and dragged him off with a throttling grip. Krinos dropped

his hold on Yanni and turned round to grapple with his new assailant,

whom, to his dismay, he saw towering half a head above him. At that

moment all Mitsos' cheerfulness and good spirits were transformed into

a white anger at the treachery of the man, and, tightening his hold, he

wrestled for his life. His extra four inches were counterbalanced by

Krinos's extra ten years of hardened bone and knitted muscle, and for

the first few seconds they toppled wildly about, and either might have

won the fall. But then Mitsos' height began to tell; he heard, with a

fierce joy, the cracking of some bone in its joint, and knew it came

not from him.

Then, for a moment, he felt his adversary's right arm slacken, and knew

that his hand was fumbling at his belt, whether for a knife or pistol

he could not tell. His own pistol was in his belt, but tumbling, as he

had, headlong into the middle of the fight, he had forgotten to take

it out. But there was no doubt what that fumbling at the belt meant,

and, throwing all his force into one effort, he lifted his opponent

off his feet and threw him. Krinos's left hand, with which, alone, he

was holding Mitsos, lost its grasp, and the man went head over heels

backward, and Mitsos, by the force of his own throw, fell forward half

across him. Just in front of them the millstone was turning with a slow

relentlessness, and for a moment Mitsos thought his own head was going

to strike it; but he fell free. Not so the other; there was a moment's

cessation of the noise; then came a hoarse cry of agony, a horrid

crack, and the stone began to turn again. Krinos's head had fallen

right beneath it, and it was cracked as a nut may be cracked in a hinge.

[Illustration: "YANNI WAS STRUGGLING IN THE GRASP OF TWO MEN, THE GREEK

AND THE TURK"]

There was no time for exultation. Mitsos picked himself up and gained

his feet just as Yanni and the Turk, who were still struggling

together, fell--the Turk uppermost. Mitsos saw him reach his hand to

the butt of his pistol and draw it, keeping his knee on Yanni while he

cocked it with the other hand. But in a moment he had done the same,

and the two reports were almost simultaneous. Just above Yanni's head

there appeared on the wooden floor a raking furrow, as if some wild

beast's claw had struck and torn it; but the Turk fell back, shot

through the head.

The smoke cleared away, and Mitsos pulled Yanni from under the soldier;

he lay quite still, and the edge of his black curls was singed and

burned. Mitsos propped him up against the wall, and ran to get water

from the millstream outside. When he came back Yanni's eyes were open,

and he was looking about in a dazed, confused way. Mitsos poured a

draught of it down his throat and sluiced his head, whereat Yanni

looked up and smiled at him.

"Did I not say it would be very good?" he murmured. "Oh, Mitsos, the

black devils!"

He sat up and looked round, then pointed at the dead body of the Turk.

"I think I was stunned by the fall," he continued. "I remember falling

and hitting my head an awful bang. So you shot him. Where is the other?"

He staggered to his feet and looked round at the millstone; it was

streaked and clotted with something dark and oily, and its edges

dripped with the same. Krinos's fingers, though he had been dead two

minutes at the least, still opened and shut, like seaweed under the

suck of a ground-swell, and the nails scratched impotently on the

rough-splintered floor.

"We fell--he fell there," said Mitsos. "Come outside, Yanni. It is not

good to stop here. Here, let me put my arm round you; you are unsteady

yet."

Mitsos looked anxiously round as they got out, but no one was in

sight. Yanni's mule had strayed into the field; and, after depositing

his cousin against the wall, Mitsos went after it, and, muffling its

bell with grass, led it round to the back of the mill, where Yanni

was sitting. The latter was quickly recovering, but he felt his head

ruefully.

"An awful bang!" he said. "Did he fire at me? My hair is burned."

"Yes," said Mitsos, "and I at him. Fancy a soldier so bad a shot; but

he was made silly at the sight of my pistol, I think. If he hadn't been

a fool of a man he would have first fired at me; for, indeed, he had

you safe. But I suppose there was no time to think."

"That was well for me," said Yanni.

Mitsos spat thoughtfully.

"Yanni," he said, "we must think very hard what we are to do next. If

Uncle Nicholas was only here! No one seems to have heard the shots,

and we must get away as quickly as we can. Are we just to leave things

as they are and go? Oh, do think, Yanni, and think quickly! My head is

just one buzzing."

"The black devils!" snarled Yanni. "Treacherous, black devils!"

"Oh, never mind them," cried Mitsos; "they are in hell. What are we to

do?"

Yanni's eye brightened.

"This will we do," he said. "There is much powder here. Blow up the

whole place. If we leave it as it is they will find those dead things.

Yes, Mitsos, that is the way."

Yanni got up.

"Come inside," he said, "and see if there is plenty of powder."

The two went back and stopped the mill-wheel, for it was a

blood-curdling thing to see its shredded burden carried round and

round. Mitsos dragged the headless wreck away and laid it by the Turk

in the centre of the room, while Yanni searched for the powder.

"Look," he said, at last, "here is a whole barrel. That will do our

work. I know how to make a train. I have done it at home to blow up

rocks. We must waste no time. Go back to the house, Mitsos, and bring

your mule--oh yes--and the Turk's horse, too; it will not do to leave

that, and take the lot into the woods above the path, lower down there.

Then come back here. I shall be ready. I will make a train that will

give us about three minutes."

Mitsos ran up to the house, as Yanni suggested, and led the two animals

down. He stopped at the mill to tie Yanni's mule to his own, and then

struck straight off the path into the trees, and tethered them all

some three hundred yards off where the trees grew thick. Then he went

back to Yanni.

Yanni had laid a train from the centre of the room, where the bodies

were, out under the door, making it of moist powder wrapped in thick

paper. He had waited for Mitsos to lift the barrel, for he was still

weak and unsteady, and they bored a hole through it, so that the dry

powder ran out into the end of the train, and then closed the lid tight

to increase the force of the explosion. Mitsos put the barrel in the

centre of the room, laid the two bodies on it, and placed over it all

the loose articles he could find.

"I will fire it," said he, "because it will be best to run, and you

can't run just now. Come out, Yanni, and I will show you where the

horses are. Look; do you see that big white trunk at the edge of the

wood? Walk there and keep straight on; you will find them two hundred

yards inside. Now go."

Mitsos waited till Yanni had disappeared, and then, locking the door

and pushing the key underneath it, fired the end of the train and ran

as hard as his legs would move after Yanni. He found him with the

beasts, having taken from the Turk's horse the trappings and saddle,

which bore the star and crescent, and thrown them into a thick bush. A

few moments afterwards a great quiver and roar came to them from the

direction of the village, and they knew that the powder had done its

work.

Mitsos made Yanni mount the Turk's horse, and they hurried off through

the trees, meaning to make a long detour and come down upon the next

village from the far side.

CHAPTER III

MITSOS HAS THE HYSTERICS

For a space they went on in silence; it was as much as Yanni could do

to grip his horse, for he still felt nauseous and giddy reelings in his

head, and Mitsos trotted behind, with an incessant stick for the mules

to make them keep up the pace. They were of the sedater sort, that

hitherto had strolled through life, and they did not take kindly to a

higher rate of going. But at the end of some half an hour Yanni reined

in.

"Let's go slow a bit," he said, "for we are out of the range of risks.

We are in our own country again; no one saw us go to the mill except my

cousin Christos, and they might pull his tongue out before he spoke.

Besides, there is nothing to say. The mill blew up. The matter is

finished."

Mitsos assented, and threw himself down on the ground panting and

blown, for the pace had been stiff. However, a few minutes' rest and a

drink from the wooden wine-flask set his blood to a slower time, and he

opened his mouth, and, to Yanni's intense astonishment, began to swear.

He was in a white-hot rage, and he cursed Krinos in the name of every

saint in heaven and every devil in hell, and labelled him with each

several vile and muddy epithet he knew, and of these the Greek tongue

boasts an inimitable profusion.

Yanni was still looking on in surprise when Mitsos' mood veered, and

he began to laugh, rocking himself to and fro.

"Did you hear his head crack?" he jerked out. "It cracked like a green

nut in September. No, it was more like a pomegranate under the heel.

Is my head as messy inside as that, think you, Yanni? He thought his

powder would make him a rich man, and the powder has made chicken-food

of him. Oh, Yanni, what shall I do? I shall laugh till the Judgment

Day."

Yanni's experience had not included an exhibition of hysterics, but

he judged that they were not healthy things, and must be stopped if

possible.

"Mitsos," he said, angrily, "don't make a fool of yourself. Stop

laughing at once. Stop laughing!" he shouted.

Mitsos stared at him a moment like a chidden child; the fit ended

as suddenly as it had begun, and he sat still a minute or two, idly

plucking the fragrant shoots of thyme, or tossing them in the air.

"It has been a great day, Yanni," he said. "This sort of adventure is

like wine to me. I think it must have made me drunk. And now I have

cursed that devil I feel better. But I was so angry all the way here

that I thought I should have burst. I wonder what made me laugh just

now. Uncle Nicholas told me once that men sometimes went crazed the

first time they killed any one. He told me that I should probably be

blooded before I came home again. My eyes! it was so funny," and he

began laughing again.

"Oh, Mitsos, dear Mitsos, for God's sake don't laugh. It's horrible to

hear you," said Yanni, with a sudden panic fear that Mitsos was indeed

possessed.

Mitsos made a great effort and checked himself.

"That's right," said Yanni, soothing him as he would soothe a child.

"Drink some more wine, and then stop quiet a while. Go to sleep if you

like."

Mitsos drank some wine, shifted to an easier position, and putting

his head on Yanni's knee, who was leaning against a tree-trunk just

above him, stretched out his great length, and in a couple of minutes

was fast asleep. Yanni was not very comfortable, but he sat as still

as a stone for fear of waking Mitsos. How odd it was, he thought to

himself, that this great cousin of his should have behaved so queerly.

He had been so perfectly cool and collected while there was anything

to be done, but as soon as the need for doing anything was over he was

just a baby. During his struggle with the Turk he remembered seeing

Mitsos' face as he threw Krinos, and that mask of fury seemed to bear

no resemblance to the cheerful cousin; he was like a wild beast. If

anything had been wanting to put the final touch on Yanni's conviction

that Mitsos was the king of men, it was that uprising of the wild beast

within him.

The sun had come out as they sat there and shone full onto Mitsos'

face, and Yanni, as gently as a woman, pushed his cap over his eyes

that it should not waken him, and with infinite craft filled his pipe

and managed to get a light from his flint and steel. He felt almost

jealous of this girl whom Mitsos loved. It was not fit that he should

go a-mooning after womankind, who were--so Yanni thought--an altogether

inferior breed. It was Mitsos' business to fight, and do the work of

fifty men. How splendid he had been one night at Kalamata, when they

sat in the café after supper! The keeper of the house had tried to

make Mitsos drunk, for the sport of seeing so long a pair of legs in

mutiny, and had promised him that if he could drink two okes of wine

he should not pay for them. This had suited Mitsos excellently, for

he was as thirsty as Sahara. He had drunk them in less than half an

hour, and, to show that he was as sober as a woman, he had played

draughts afterwards with one of the Greeks there, and beat him easily

in the first two games. Then his misguided little opponent had tried to

cheat, and Mitsos rising up, a tower of wrath, had dealt the other so

shrewd a blow over the head with the draught-board that he was fain to

play no more, for other reasons than that the draughts had rolled to

all corners of the café. Several men looking at the game had seen him

cheat, and applauded most cordially Mitsos' method of correction. They

then asked him to drink more wine, but Mitsos thanked them and refused,

saying he was thirsty no longer. However, they stopped on, smoking and

talking, as there was to be no journey the next day, and Mitsos had

sung the "Song of the Vine-diggers" as Yanni had never heard it sung

before, for his heart and voice were in harmony. Decidedly there was no

one in the world like him.

The inimitable cousin stirred in his sleep, woke, and stretched himself.

"Oh, little Yanni," he said, "what a brute I am! Have you been sitting

here all the time with my head on you? Why didn't you knock it off? But

the sun is getting low, and we must be on the road. How's the head?"

"Oh, it's all right," said Yanni; "a bruise like a walnut, but it

doesn't ache any more. You ride, Mitsos. I can walk perfectly."

Mitsos wrinkled up his nose.

"Indeed! Get on the horse."

And he broke out again with:

"Dig we deep around the vines."

They struck straight down the hill, guessing that they had gone

beyond the village where they meant to sleep, threading their way

slowly through the aromatic-smelling pines, and going softly on the

fallen needles. A gentle wind from the south whispered in the boughs

overhead, and Mitsos, purged by his sleep from the unwonted trouble

of his nerves, whistled and sang as they went along. The sun was near

its setting when they got out of the wood, but they found their guess

had been correct, and soon struck the road leading into the village

from the north. This village, Kalovryssi, was a stronghold of the

Mavromichales, and Yanni knew that they would have a great welcome when

they appeared. At the same time, there was a small depot of Turkish

soldiers there, and it had been worth while to take the precaution of

making a detour and entering from the north.

This Turkish garrison of Kalovryssi had a strangely comfortless life

of it, for the scornful clan, secure in their remote position, made

it quite clear that they were not to be interfered with in any way.

If the government thought fit to keep soldiers there, well and good,

they should be unmolested till the time came; but in the interval they

would be wise to keep exceedingly quiet, buy their provisions at double

price without a murmur, and if they ventured to meddle in any way with

the Mavromichales's womankind, why the Mavromichales would see to it.

Otherwise they did not interfere with the soldiers, except perhaps on

festa days, when the clan got drunk in honor of the saint and demanded

diversion in the evening. Then it is true they called them by shocking

names, and warned them for their own sakes to keep within barracks,

lest ignominious things should happen to them.

The two boys entered the village unmolested and went to the café,

where they were sure to find friends, and no sooner had they got there

than a great bearded man, as tall as Mitsos, came tumbling over chairs

and tables and took Yanni off his horse as if he had been a child; for

this clan were warm-hearted, Irish-souled folk, and the two were kept

like kings that night.

The great bearded man was Petrobey's brother, and to him Yanni knew

they might freely tell everything. Never in his life had that genial

giant been the prey of so many conflicting emotions. He positively

trembled with suspense when Yanni described how he had gone into the

mill alone, and kept interrupting him to say "Go on, go on." He stared

at Mitsos admiringly when he heard how that young man had won the fall

with Krinos, and gave a whistle of keen appreciation and cracked his

fingers when he learned that Krinos' skull had been crunched beneath

the stone. He wiped his forehead nervously when Yanni told him how he

had been thrown; he bit his lip when the Turk drew his pistol; and

finally, when Mitsos shot the soldier through the head, he sprang off

his chair, danced excitedly around the room, and embraced Mitsos with

much fervor. He choked with laughter when he heard how they had decided

to blow the mill up, and said "Pouf!" with loud solemnity when he was

told that the explosion had taken place satisfactorily; finally, when

Yanni came to Mitsos' hysterical fit in the wood his face clouded with

anxiety, and he ran to the cupboard and fairly forced down his throat

about half a pint of raw spirits.

"Well," he said, when the recital was over, "but this is a great day

for the clan. And you, too, are of the clan," he said, turning to

Mitsos, "and by the God above who made the clan, and the devil below

who made the Turk, the clan is proud of you. Ah, but there will be

a score of them in presently, and if the dear little Turks happen to

meet any of them in the street as they go home again, I would not

be surprised if we find them hanging upsidedown by the heels in the

morning. You will be near two metres high, Mitsos!"

[Illustration: "KATSI AND A FINE SELECTION OF COUSINS ACCOMPANIED THE

TWO"]

The clan, as Katsi Mavromichales had prophesied, soon learned that

there was something going forward, and dropped into his house in groups

of three and four to learn what it was. The recital had to be gone

through again to a most appreciative audience, for Katsi took on his

own broad shoulders the responsibility of making it public, and the

only thing that failed to make the harmony of the evening complete was

that the little soldiers had all gone home before the clan came out.

The latter contemptuously supposed the soldiers were tired, for were

they not little men? A few of the younger of the members had gone in

a party to the barracks and tried to rouse the little men by throwing

stones at the windows, but without result, and had subsequently

quarrelled so violently at the café over the rival merits of the two

corollaries, "The little men sleep sound" and "The little men are very

deaf," that Katsi had to go out and knock their heads together, which

he did with cheerful impartiality, the one against the other.

Confirmatory news of the effects of the explosion came from Nymphia

next morning, and fulfilled the most sanguine hopes. The mill, so said

the Greek who brought word, was blown to atoms, and as for Krinos,

he was as if he had never been. A broken skull had been found some

yards off, but of the rest of him no adequate remains were extant. It

appeared also that there had been another man with him at the same

time, for over forty teeth had been found by the enterprising youth of

the village, which was more than Krinos ever had.

Katsi and a fine selection of cousins accompanied the two for a mile or

so out of the village next morning to set them on their journey. There

were no more messages to deliver, for they were now in the country of

the clan, which was worked from Panitza by Petrobey, and Mitsos, as

the slayer of the Turk and the treacherous Krinos, enjoyed the sweet

sacrifices of hero-worship offered by his cousins. Two of them in

particular, of about his own age, could only look at him in a state of

rapt adoration, and feebly express their feelings by quarrelling as to

which should lead his mule. Yanni, good lad, grudged Mitsos not one

word or look of this admiration which was so showered on him; it warmed

his heart to see that others like himself recognized the greatness of

their splendid cousin.

On the brow of the hill above the village Katsi and the elder men

stopped and went back to their work, but the younger ones escorted them

as far as their mid-day halt--lithe, black-eyed young Greeks, girt

about with the dogs of the clan, Morgos and Osman, Brahim and Maniati,

Orloff and Machmoud, Psari and Drakon, Arapi, Cacarapi, Vlachos,

Mavros, Tourkos and Tourkophágos, Maskaras and Ali, all great, stately

dogs, shaggy-haired and eyed like wolves, and a contingent of smaller

dogs of the most rascally kind, Pyr and Perdiki, Canella and Fundouki,

who prosecuted an eternal feud with each other to keep themselves

fighting fit, and allowed no man to pass along the road until a passage

had been whipped through them by one or other of their masters. To

Mitsos, who had lived so much alone, with only the companionship of

his father, to be thrown suddenly among this crowd of boys of his own

age, who welcomed him as a cousin and hailed him as a hero, was an

incomparable pleasure, and with Nauplia, and all that Nauplia held,

getting nearer day by day, he was utterly content.

All that afternoon they travelled quietly on, keeping close to the

coast, and about sunset saw Mavromati, where they were to sleep,

perched high upon the hills below an eastern spur of Taygetus. The tops

of the range were covered with snow, and the low sun for a few minutes

turned the whole to one incredible rose. But below in the plain there

was already a hint of spring in the air; the worst of the winter was

passed, its armory of storms and squalls was spent, and the earth had

stirred and thrown forth the early crocuses. And something of spring

was in the hearts and in the eyes of the boys as they wondered, not

knowing that they wondered, what the year would bring. For another more

glorious spring was ready to burst forth, and that, which in Greece

through a winter of bleak and storm-smitten centuries had lain battered

by the volleyings of oppressive clouds, and bitten and stung with

frost, had meanwhile so drunk life into all its fibres from that which

would have done it to death, that already the green of its upspringing

was vivid on the mountain-side, and held promise of a perfect flower,

tyranny being turned into the mother of freedom, and smiting into

strength.

CHAPTER IV

YANNI PAYS A VISIT TO THE TURK

Their last day's journey to Panitza was no more than a five hours'

going, and by mid-day the two boys had crossed the ridge of mountain

which toppled above it, and saw it nestled in a hollow below them.

There, too, they found Petrobey himself, who had ridden out to meet

them, both to give them news and take theirs. After they had eaten,

Mitsos told their story, at which the soul of Petrobey was lifted high

within him, and he was filled with an exceeding joy when he heard of

the fate of Krinos.

"But all this spying and suspicion among the Turks make the next order

the more necessary," he said, when Mitsos had finished. "Yanni, lad, I

am very sorry, but it is Tripoli for you and Nauplia for Mitsos."

Yanni looked up at Mitsos.

"Oh, lucky one!" he said, below his breath, "see that Suleima has

forgotten you not."

Then aloud:

"When shall I have to go to that kennel, father?" he said.

"You can stay here two days or three, and then you and Mitsos will go

together. That Mehemet Salik has a sharp nose; but you shall be red

herring to him, Yanni, and he will smell no farther afield."

Yanni wrinkled up his face with an expression of pungent disgust.

"I want no Turk smelling round me," he said. "It is the devil's

business. How long must I be there, think you?"

"Not long, I hope. A month, perhaps. It will be an experience worth

paying for, even for you. They will treat you royally, for they have no

desire to make enemies among the clan. I want Mitsos to go with you as

your servant for a day or two, so that he too may have free access to

the governor's house and know where you will be in case they get more

alarmed and keep you close, so that when the time comes for your escape

he may easily find you."

"That will be a fine day for me," said Yanni.

"And what for me," asked Mitsos, "after I leave Yanni there?"

"You go to Nauplia with a letter from me for Nicholas, but I expect

you will stay there just as long as the gull when he dips in the sea

and out again. There will then be another journey for you northward

to Patras to speak with Germanos. However, Nicholas will tell you all

that."

Yanni sat up and pulled Mitsos' hair.

"O lazy dog," he said, "is it for this I pay you wages, that you should

lie in the grass by your master"--and he felt in his pouch and found

his tobacco gone--"and, by the Virgin! take his tobacco, and then not

be able to fill a pipe fit for a Turk to smoke?"

"Fill it for me, Yanni," said the other, returning the tobacco, "and

let go my hair before there is trouble for a little cousin of mine."

"You shall brush my clothes and sew my buttons," continued Yanni, "and

lay my supper, and eat of my leavings. It is a fine thing to have a

good strong servant. There's your pipe."

Mitsos reached out a huge hand, plucked Yanni's pipe from his mouth,

and lit his own at it.

"There is a good clean smell abroad to-day," he said. "It is the first

of spring. Just think; last year only I went out picking flowers with

the little boys and girls on this day, and here am I now a man of war.

It was good to sleep under the pines and wake to them whispering; was

it not, Yanni? Perhaps that will come again when the kennel-work is

over."

"Easter candles give I to the Mother of God," said Yanni, "for the days

that are gone, and a candle more for every day we journey together,

Mitsos."

"The Blessed Mother of God will have a brave lighting up one night,

then," said Petrobey, "if things go well with us. There's many a tramp

for you both yet. And who will be paying for the candles, little Yanni?"

The third day after, the two set out for Tripoli, Yanni trinketed out

in his best clothes, as was fit for the son of a great chief, and going

forward on a fine gray horse, Mitsos behind him on his own pony, in the

dress of a servant, leading the baggage-mule. Four days' travelling,

for they rode but short hours, being in no way very eager to get to

the "kennel-work," as Mitsos called it, brought them to Tripoli, where

Yanni went straight to the governor's house, leaving Mitsos outside in

the square with the beasts.

The house stood on one side of the square, but to those outside

showed only a bald face of wall, pierced here and there with a few

iron gratings. As Mitsos waited he saw a woman's face thickly veiled

peering out from one of these, and guessed rightly that here were the

women's quarters. An arched gateway leading into the garden and closed

by a heavy door, which had been opened to Yanni by the porter, and

shut again immediately after he had entered, alone gave access to the

premises. After waiting a few minutes the door was again opened, and a

Turkish servant came out to help him to carry in the luggage. But the

luggage was but light and Mitsos carried it all in himself, while the

porter, leaning on his long stick, and resplendent in his embroidered

waistcoat and red gaiters trimmed with gold, looked at him with

indolent insolence, playing with the silver-chased handle of his long

dagger. Behind the gate stood a small room for the porter, and on the

left, as he entered, the side of the block of building he had seen from

the street. A door was pierced in the middle of it, but the windows,

as outside, were narrowly barred. The path was bordered on each side

by a strip of gay garden-bed, and following the porter's directions he

went straight on and past the corner of the main block, from the end

of which ran out another narrow building right up to the bounding wall

away from the street. In front of this lay a square garden planted with

orange-trees and flowering shrubs, the house itself running from the

square to the bounding wall at the back.

This second block of narrow buildings was two-storied, the upper

story being faced by a balcony which was reached from below by an

outside staircase. Four rooms opened onto this, and, still following

his directions, he knocked at the first of the doors and a young Turk

came out, who, seeing Mitsos with the luggage, reached down a key and

proceeded to open the doors of the next two rooms. These, he said to

Mitsos, were his master's rooms, and the end room was a slip of a place

where he could sleep if his master wished to have him near. So Mitsos,

as Yanni did not appear, unpacked his luggage and waited for him.

Yanni came up presently, accompanied by the porter, and was shown into

his rooms, where Mitsos was busy arranging things. He shut the door

hastily, and, waiting till the steps of the porter had creaked away

down the balcony steps, broke out with an oath.

"The very devil, Mitsos," he said; "but this is no good job we are on.

Here am I, and from within this kennel-place I may not stir. I sleep

and am fed, and for exercise I may walk in that pocket-handkerchief of

a garden and pick a flower to smell, but out of these walls I don't

move."

Mitsos whistled.

"It is then good that I came," he said. "I suppose this Turk next door

is your keeper. Oh, Yanni, but we shall have bitter dealings with him

before you get out of this. I shall stop here to-night--there is a room

I may use next this--and you inside and I outside must just examine the

lie of things. I will go out now, round to the stables to see if the

horses are properly cared for, and before I come back I will have gone

round the outside of this place and seen what is beyond these walls.

And you look about inside."

Mitsos returned in about an hour. "It wasn't good," he said, "but it

might have been worse." From the square it was impossible to get into

the place, except through the gate, and equally impossible to get out.

To the right of the gate stood the corner house of the square, and

next to it a row of houses opening out on the street leading from the

square, and there was no getting in that way. On the left the long wall

of the back of the house looked out blankly into another corresponding

street running into the square, but farther down things were not

hopeless; for the house next Mehemet's stood back from the street in

the middle of its garden, and was enclosed by an eight-foot wall. "None

so high," quoth Mitsos, "but that a bigger man than you could get up."

Standing on the top of the wall, it would be possible to get onto the

roof of the block of buildings in which they were, and from there down

onto the balcony, which was covered in and supported by pillars, one of

which stood in front of Yanni's door. "And where a man has come, there

may two go," said Mitsos, in conclusion; "so do not look as if the

marrow had left your bones; Yanni."

"It's all very good for you," said Yanni, mournfully; "but here am

I cooped up like a tame hen for a month, or it may be more, in this

devil-kennel place, with a garden to walk in and an orange to suck. Eh,

Mitsos, but it will be a gay life for me sitting here in this scented

town. A fat-bellied, slow-footed cousin will you find when you come for

me. I doubt not I shall be sitting cross-legged on the floor with a

narghilé, and a string of beads, and a flower in my hair."

"Oh, you'll soon get fit again on the mountains," said Mitsos,

cheerfully. "I expect it will be quick going when I come to fetch you

out of this."

Yanni nodded his head towards the Turk's room next door.

"Some night when you come tramping on the roof overhead," he said,

"will he not wake and pluck you by the two heels as you come down onto

the balcony?"

Mitsos grinned.

"There will be fine doings that night," he said. "If only you looked

into the street we could arrange that you should be at the window every

night, and I could whistle you a signal; but here, bad luck to it! I

could whistle till my lips were in rags and you would not hear. I shall

have to come in myself."

Mitsos stopped in Tripoli two days, and before he left Yanni had

plucked up heart again concerning the future. However much the Turks

might in their hearts distrust the scornful clan, they could not afford

to bring that nest of hornets about their ears without grave reason.

Yanni had but to ask for a thing and he had it; it was only not allowed

him to set foot outside the house and garden. About his ultimate safety

he had no shadow of doubt. Mitsos had examined the wall again, and

declared confidently that he would not find the slightest difficulty in

getting in, and that their exit, with the help of a bit of rope, was

in the alphabet of the use of limbs. The Turk who was Yanni's keeper

was the only other occupant of that part of the house, the story below

being kitchens and washing-places not tenanted at night. "And for the

Turk," said Yanni, "we will make gags and other arrangements." In the

mean time he announced his intention of being a model of discretion and

peacefulness, so that no suspicion might be aroused.

Mitsos was to start on the third day, and it was still the grayness

that precedes sunrise when he came into Yanni's room equipped for

going. Yanni had told Mehemet Salik that his father could not spare him

longer, and that he was to go home at once; whereat Mehemet had very

courteously offered to put another Turkish servant at his disposal,

a proposition which Yanni declined with some alacrity, as such an

arrangement would mean another Turk in that block of building.

"And, O little Mitsos," said Yanni, "come for me as quick as may be. I

shall be weary for a sight of you. Dear cousin, we have had good days

together, and may we have more soon, for I have a great love for you."

Mitsos kissed him.

"Yes, Yanni," he said, "as soon as I can come I will, and nothing,

not Suleima herself, shall make me tarry for an hour till you are out

again."

"Ah! you have Suleima," said Yanni; "but for me, Mitsos, there is none

like you. So, good-bye, cousin; forget me not, but come quickly."

And Mitsos swore the oath of the clan to him that neither man, woman,

nor child, nor riches, nor honor, should make him tarry as soon as it

was possible for him to come again, and gave him his hand on it, and

then went down to saddle his pony with a blithe heavy-heartedness about

him, for on one side he was leaving an excellent good comrade, but on

in front there was waiting Suleima.

All day he travelled, and the moon which rose about midnight showed

him the bay just beneath him, all smooth and ashine with light. He had

taken a more roundabout path, so as to avoid passing through Argos at

night, and another hour of quick going brought him down to the head of

the sandy beach where he had fished with Suleima, and when he saw it

his heart sang to him. A southerly breeze whistled among the rushes,

and set tiny razor-edged ripples prattling on the pebbles, and sweet

was the well-remembered freshness of the sea, and sweet, but with how

exquisite a spice of bitterness, the remembrance of one night three

weeks ago. Then on again down the narrow path, where blackthorn and

olive brushed him as he passed, by the great white house with the

sea-wall he knew well, and into the road just opposite his father's

house. The dog rushed out from the veranda intent on slaughter of this

midnight intruder, but at Mitsos' whispered word he jumped up fawning

on his hand, and in a couple of minutes more Nicholas, who was a light

sleeper, and had been awakened by the bark, unfastened the door.

"Mitsos, is it little Mitsos?" said the well-known voice.

"Yes, Uncle Nicholas," he said, "I have come back."

Mitsos slept late the next morning, and Nicholas, though he waited

impatiently enough for his waking, let him have his sleep out, for

though he despised the necessities of life, such as eating and

drinking, he had the utmost respect for the simpler luxuries, such as

the fill of sleep and washing, and it was not till after nine that

Mitsos stirred and awoke with a great lazy strength lying in him.

Nicholas had had the great wooden tub filled for his bath, and while he

dressed made him coffee and boiled his eggs, for times had gone hard

with Constantine, and he could no longer keep a servant. And as soon as

Mitsos had finished breakfast he and Nicholas fell to talk.

First Mitsos described his adventure down to his parting with Yanni,

and the man of few words spoke not till he had finished. Then he

said--and his words were milk and honey to the boy:

"It could not have been better done, little Mitsos. Now for Petrobey's

letter."

He read it out to Mitsos:

"Dear Cousin,--This will Mitsos bring you, and I desire

no better messenger. He will tell you what he has been

doing; and I could hear that story many times without

being tired. Yanni, poor lad, is kennelled in Tripoli,

and in this matter some precision will be needed, for

now we are already being rung to the feast ['Petrobey

will not stick to home-brewed words,' remarked

Nicholas], and my poor lad must remain in Tripoli till

the nick of the moment. Once he is safe out we will

fall to, and he must not be out till the last possible

moment. Oh, Nicholas, be very careful and tender for

the boy. Again, the meeting of primates is summoned for

early in March. Moles and owls may not see what this

means. Some excuse must be found so that they go not;

therefore, cousin, lay hands on that weaving brain of

yours until it answers wisely ['What a riddling fellow

this is!' growled the reader], and talk with Germanos

through the mouth of Mitsos. A further news for you. The

monks of Ithome have turned warmly to their country, so

there will be no lack of hands in the south, and they

from Megaspelaion had better keep to their own country,

and outbreak at the same time as we at Kalamata, so

shall then be the more magnificent confusion, and from

the north as well as the south will the dogs run into

Tripoli. Some signal will be needed, so that on the day

that we rise in the south they too may make trouble in

the north; some device of fiery beacons, I should say."

Here Petrobey's epistolary style broke down and he finished in good

colloquial Greek:

"Oh, cousin, but a feast day is coming, and there will

be a yelp and a howl from Kalamata to Patras. By God!

I'd have given fifty brace of woodcock, though they

are scarce this year, to see that barbarian nephew of

yours throw Krinos under the millstone; and my boy Yanni

has the cunning of an old grandfather. I think Mitsos

can tell you all else. Come here yourself as soon as

you safely may. The mother of God and your name-saint

protect you!

"Petros Mavromichales.

"Tell Mitsos about the devil-ships. There will not be

much time afterwards."

Nicholas thumped the letter as it lay on the table.

"Now, Mitsos," he said, "tell me all that you have to do. Yes, take a

pipe and give yourself a few minutes to think."

Mitsos smoked in silence a few minutes, and then turned to Nicholas.

"This is it," he said. "First of all, I go to Patras--no, first I shall

go to Megaspelaion to tell the monks that they will be wanted in the

north and not the south, and arrange some signals, so that we from

Taygetus or Panitza or Kalamata can communicate with them. Then I go

to Patras, bearing some message from you to Germanos, whereby he shall

excuse himself from going to Tripoli with all the primates, for that

is a trap to get them into the power of the Turk. Then there is some

business about devil-ships which I do not understand, and at the last I

have to get Yanni safely out of Tripoli. But before that I imagine you

will have gone to my cousin Petrobey."

Nicholas nodded approvingly.

"You have a clear head for so large a boy," he said, "though apparently

you are not so crafty as Yanni. Now what we have to do, now this

moment, is to invent some excuse whereby Germanos and the primates will

find means to disobey Mehemet Salik when he summons them to Tripoli.

Oh, Mitsos, but it is a wise man's thoughts that we want."

Mitsos knitted his forehead.

"Can't they go there and then escape, as Yanni is to do?" he said,

precipitately.

Nicholas shook his head in reproof.

"Fifty cassocked primates climbing over a town wall! Little Mitsos, you

are no more than a fool."

Mitsos laughed.

"So Yanni often told me," he said. "I'm afraid it's true."

"Try and be a shade more sensible. Think of all the impossible ways of

doing it, and then see what is left, for that will be the right way.

Now first, they must either refuse to go point-blank or seem to be

obeying. Certainly they must not refuse outright to go; so that leaves

us with them seeming to obey."

"Well, they mustn't get there," said Mitsos; "so they must stop on the

way."

"That is true. Why should they stop on the way? We will go slow here."

"There must be something that stops them," said Mitsos, with extreme

caution.

"Yes, you are going very slow indeed, but it is a fault on the right

side. Something must stop them, which even in the eyes of the Turks

will seem reasonable and enable them all to disperse again, for they

will all go together from Patras. Oh, why did my mother give birth to a

fool?"

Mitsos suddenly got up and held his finger in the air.

"Wait a minute," he cried, "don't speak to me, Uncle Nicholas.... Ah,

this is it. We will imagine there is a Turk in Tripoli friendly to

Germanos. We will imagine he sends a letter of warning to Germanos. Do

you see? Germanos reads the letter aloud to the fathers, and they send

to Tripoli demanding assurance of their safety, and so disperse. Quick,

Uncle Nicholas, write a letter from the friendly Turk in Tripoli to

Germanos, which he will read the fathers on the journey."

Nicholas stared at Mitsos in sheer astonishment for a moment.

"Out of the mouth of big babes and sucklings!" he ejaculated. "Oh,

Mitsos, but it is no less than a grand idea. Tell me again."

Mitsos was flushed with excitement.

"Oh, Uncle Nicholas, but it's plainer than the sun," he cried. "I go to

Patras, and before now the summons for the primates and bishops will

have come. I take to Germanos your instructions that they assemble

as if to go, and make a day's journey or two days' journey. Then one

morning there comes to Germanos a letter from Tripoli, from a Turk to

whom he has been a friend. 'Do not go,' it says, 'without an assurance

of your safety, for the Turks are treacherous.' So Germanos sends back

a messenger to Tripoli to ask for an assurance of safety, and meantime

they all disperse again, and by the time the Turks can bring them

together with an assurance of safety or what not, why the feast, as my

cousin Petrobey says, will be ready."

Nicholas sat silent a moment.

"Little Mitsos," he said, at length, "but you are no fool. I was one to

say so."

Mitsos laughed.

"Will it do then?"

"It is of the best," said Nicholas.

The more Nicholas thought it over, the more incomparable did Mitsos'

scheme appear. It was amazingly simple, and, as far as he could see,

without a flaw. It seemed to solve every difficulty, and made the whole

action of the primates as planned inevitable. It would be impossible

for them to go to Tripoli, and by the time the demand for safety had

reached Mehemet Salik, and been granted, they would have dispersed.

The second piece of business was to let them know at the monastery

that their arms and men would not be needed, as Nicholas had expected,

in the south, but for a simultaneous outbreak in the north; and there

was also to be arranged some code of signals that could travel in

an hour or two from one end of the Peloponnesus to the other. The

simplest system, that of beacon-fires, seemed to be the best, and was

peculiarly well suited to a country like the Peloponnesus, where there

were several ranges of mountains which overtopped the long intervening

tracts of hills and valleys, and were clearly visible from one another.

From Taygetus three intermediate beacons could probably carry news to

the hills above Megaspelaion, and two beacons more to Patras.

There were, then, two messages to be conveyed to Megaspelaion--the

first, that their arms would be required in the north, so that there

was no need of their beginning to make depots of them southward, as

Nicholas had suggested in his last visit there; and the second, to

arrange a system of beacons with them. It was not necessary that Mitsos

should give the first message himself, as Nicholas had told them to

be ready to receive a messenger--man, woman, or child--who spoke of

black corn for the Turk, though it must be delivered at once; but for

the second it were better that he carried with him not only a letter

from Nicholas, but also one from Germanos, with whom they would have to

arrange the beacons between Patras and the monastery. Also, he wished

Mitsos to take a message to Corinth, and go from there to Patras,

where he would see Germanos, and thence return by Megaspelaion, not to

Nauplia, for Nicholas would already have joined Petrobey, but back to

Panitza.

Mitsos nodded.

"But who will take the first message to Megaspelaion?" he asked.

Nicholas turned to Constantine.

"Whom do we know there? Stay, did not one Yanko Vlachos, with his wife

Maria, move on to monastery land a month or two ago?"

"Maria?" said Mitsos. "Maria is a very good woman. But I doubt if

Vlachos is any use. He is a wine-bibbing mule."

"Where does he live?" asked Nicholas.

"At Goura, a day's journey from Nemea."

"Goura? There are plenty of good folk there. You had better go out of

your way at Nemea, Mitsos, spend the night with Yanko, and arrange for

the message being taken; and then go back next day to Nemea, and so

to Corinth, where you will take ship. Pay him horse-hire and wage for

four days, if it is wanted. I will give you letters to Priketes and

Germanos. What else is there?"

"Only the business of the devil-ships, of which I know nothing; and to

get Yanni out of the kennel."

"The devil-ships can wait till Panitza. When will you be ready to

start?"

Mitsos thought of the white wall, and his heartstrings throbbed within

him.

"I could go to-morrow," he said. "The pony will need a day to rest."

Nicholas rose from the table and walked up and down once or twice.

"I don't want Yanni to stop at the house of that Turk longer than

is necessary," he said. "It was a bold move and a clever one of

Petrobey's, but it may become dangerous."

Mitsos said nothing, for it was a hard moment. Had not the thought

of this evening--the white wall, the dark house on the bay with

Suleima--been honey in the mouth for days past, and become ineffable

sweetness as the time drew nearer? Yet, on the other hand, had he not

sworn to Yanni the oath of the clan--that neither man, woman, nor child

should make him tarry? He desired definite assurance on one point.

"Uncle Nicholas," he said, at length, "if I went to-day would Yanni get

out of Tripoli a day sooner?"

Nicholas turned round briskly.

"Why, surely," he said; "when this business is put through there is

still but little more to do, but until it is all done Yanni is clapped

in his kennel. The moment it is over he is out."

Mitsos sat still a moment longer.

"I will start to-day," he said. "It is only a short day's journey to

Nemea. Write your letter, please, Uncle Nicholas, and then I will go."

"I don't know whether it really matters if you go to-day or

to-morrow," said Nicholas, seeing that the boy for some reason wished

to stop.

"No, no," broke out Mitsos. "You think it is better for me to go

to-day. The sooner the business is over the sooner Yanni comes out. You

said so."

Nicholas raised his eyebrows at this outburst. He did not understand it

in the least.

"I will write, then, at once," he said. "It is true that the sooner

Yanni comes out the better."

Mitsos stood with his back to him, looking out of the window, and two

great tears rose in his eyes. He was giving up more than any one knew.

Nicholas saw that something was wrong, but as Mitsos did not care

to enlighten him, it was none of his business. But he had a great

affection for the lad, and as he passed he laid his hand on his

shoulder.

"You are a good little Mitsos," he said. "The letters will be ready

in an hour. You will have dinner here, will you not, and set out

afterwards? You cannot go farther than Nemea to-night."

So after dinner Mitsos set out again, and it seemed to him as he went

that the heart within him was being torn up as the weeds in a vineyard

are rooted for the burning. And on this journey there was no thought

that he would soon come back. He was to return, Nicholas told him,

not to Nauplia, but to Panitza, where there would be work for him

to do until the time came for him to get Yanni out of Tripoli. By

then everything would be ready, the beacons would flare across the

Peloponnesus, and simultaneously in the north and at Kalamata the

outbreak would begin. The reason for this was twofold. The Greek forces

were not yet sufficiently organized to conduct the siege of Tripoli,

which was strongly fortified, well watered, and heavily garrisoned.

Kalamata, however, was a more pregnable place, the water supply was

bad inside the citadel, and the garrison not numerous. Again, it was a

port, and by getting possession of the harbor, which was not defended,

and separate from the citadel, they would drive those who escaped

inland to Tripoli. The movements in the north, too, would have the same

effect. Tripoli was the strongest fortress in the Peloponnesus, and by

the autumn, when, as Nicholas hoped, the Greeks would be sufficiently

organized to undertake the siege, it would be the only refuge left for

the Turks who were still in the country. Then it would be that the

great blow would be struck which would free the whole Peloponnesus. In

the interval the plan was as far as possible to cut the country off

from the rest of the world by a fleet which was being organized in

the islands, and by means of the fire-ships which should destroy the

Turkish vessels seeking to leave it, and prevent others from coming

into the ports. For practical purposes there were only four ports--at

Corinth, Patras, Nauplia, and Kalamata. The first two would be the

care of the leaders of the revolution in the north; for Kalamata and

Nauplia, Nicholas and Petrobey had arrangements in hand.

That night Mitsos slept at Nemea, and all next day travelled across the

great inland plain where lie the lakes. Through the length and breadth

of that delectable country the spirit of spring was abroad--crocuses

and the early anemones burned in the thickets, and the dim purple iris

cradled bees in a chalice of gold. Brimming streams crossed the path,

and the sunlight lay on their pebbly beds in a diaper of amber and

stencilled shadow, and Mitsos' pony at the mid-day halt ate his fill of

the young, juicy grass. But in the lad's heart the spring woke no echo;

he went heavily, and the glorious adventure to which he had sacrificed

his new-found manhood, fully indeed and without a murmur, seemed to

him a thing of little profit. And if he had known what hard days were

waiting for him, and the blank agonies and bitterness through which he

was to fulfil his destiny, he would, it is to be feared, have turned

his pony's head round and said that an impossible thing was asked of

him. But he knew nothing beyond this two-week task now set him, and to

this he was committed, not only by his promise to Nicholas--and, to do

him justice, his own self-respect--but by the oath of the clan, which

rather than fail in he would have sooner died.

The second evening a little before sunset he saw Goura close before

him, standing free and roomily on a breezy hill-side, and ringed with

vineyards. Behind lay the great giants of the mountain range--Helmos

cowled in snow, and Cyllene all sunset-flushed. Yanko's house proved to

be at the top of the village, and there he found Maria with a face all

smiles for his welcoming. Yanko was still in the fields, and Mitsos and

Maria talked themselves up to date with each other till he came home.

Oh yes, he was a good husband, said Maria, and he earned a fine wage.

He was as strong as a horse, and when he let the wine-shop alone he

did the work of two men. "And I am strong too," said she, "and when he

doesn't come home by ten in the evening it will be no rare thing for me

to bring him back with a clout over the head for his foolishness. And

why are you here, Mitsos?"

"Business," he said; "business for Nicholas. It is Yanko who can do it

for us. I may tell you about it, Maria, for so Nicholas said. He is

wanted to take a message to the monastery. Four days' horse-hire, if

he wishes, will be paid, and he will be doing a good work for many."

"On business against the Turk?" asked Maria.

"Surely."

Maria shook her head doubtfully.

"Yanko is a good man," she said, "but he is a man of the belly. So long

as there is food in plenty, and plenty of wine, he does not care. But

he will not be long; you shall ask him. It is so good to see you again,

Mitsos. Do you remember our treading the grapes together in the autumn?

How you have grown since then! Your height is two of Yanko, but then

Yanko is very fat."

Maria looked at him approvingly with her head on one side; she

distinctly felt a little sentimental. Mitsos reminded her of Nauplia,

and of the days when she was so proud of being engaged to Yanko while

still only seventeen, and of having Mitsos, whom she had always thought

wonderfully good-looking and pleasant, if not at her feet, at any rate

interested in her. She had been more than half disposed, as far as her

personal inclination had gone, to put Yanko off for a bit and try her

chance with the other; but she was safe with Yanko, and he did quite

well. But it both hurt her and pleased her to see Mitsos again--he

was better looking than ever, and he had a wonderful way with him, an

air of breeding--Maria did not analyze closely, but this is what she

meant--to which the estimable Yanko was quite a stranger. And this

brave adventure of his, of which he told her the main outlines; his

kinship to, and rapturous adoption by, the great Mavromichales' clan,

lent him a new and powerful attraction. And when Yanko's heavy step

was heard outside Maria turned away with a sigh and thought he seemed

earlier and fatter than usual.

[Illustration: "AFTER SUPPER MITSOS EXPOUNDED"]

Yanko, always sleek, had grown rather gross, and his red, shiny face

and small, boiled-looking eyes presented a strong contrast to Mitsos'

thin, bronzed cheeks and clear iris. But the husband seemed glad to see

him, and agreed that Mitsos' errand had best wait till after supper.

So after supper Mitsos expounded, and Yanko shifted from one foot to

the other, and seemed uncomfortable. "And," said Mitsos, in conclusion,

"I can give you horse-hire for four days."

Yanko sat silent for a while, then abruptly told his wife to draw

another jug of wine. Maria had a sharp tongue when her views were

dissentient from his, and he would speak more easily if she were not

there. Maria, who had listened to Mitsos with wide, eager eyes and a

heightened color, went off quickly and returned in equal haste, anxious

not to lose anything.

"It's like this," Yanko was saying. "What with this and that I've a lot

of farm work on my hands, and, to tell the truth, but little wish to

mix myself up in the affair; and as for four days' horse-hire, it will

pay my way, but where's my profit?"

Mitsos frowned.

"You won't go?" he said, half rising; "then I mustn't wait, but find

some one else."

At this Maria burst out:

"Shame, Yanko!" she said. "I have a mule-man for a husband. It is that

you think of nothing but piastres, and are afraid of taking on yourself

for two days such work as Mitsos spends his months in. Am I to sit here

and see you drinking and eating and sleeping, and never lift a hand

for the sake of any but yourself? Ah, if I was a man I would not have

chosen a wife with as little spirit as my husband has."

Maria banged the wine-jug down on the table, and cast a scornful look

at Yanko. Then she crossed over to Mitsos and took his glass to fill

it, filling her own at the same time.

"This to you," she said, clinking her glass at his, "and to the health

of all brave men."

Then with another scowl at Yanko:

"Can't you even drink to those who are made different to yourself, if

they are of a finer bake?" she said; "or is there not spirit in you for

that? I should have been a mile on the way by this time," she said to

Mitsos, "if it had pleased the good God to make me a man and send you

with such a message to me."

"You, Maria?" said Mitsos, suddenly.

"Yes, and how many days of horse-hire does Yanko think I should have

asked for my pains? Nay, I should have lit candles to the Virgin in the

joy of having such work given me to do, if I had had to beg my way."

Mitsos remembered Nicholas's directions.

"Will you go?" he said. "You would do it as well as any man. It is just

Father Priketes you have to ask for, and give the message."

"Nonsense, Maria," said Yanko; "a woman can't do a thing like that."

Maria's indignant speeches had a touch of the high rhetorical about

them, but Yanko's remark just stamped them into earnestness.

"You'll be drawing your own wine for yourself the next few days," she

said, "and I shall be over the hills doing what you were afraid of. I'm

blithe to go," she said to Mitsos, "and to-morrow daybreak will see me

on the way."

Yanko, on the whole, was relieved; it would have been a poor thing to

send Mitsos to another house in quest of a sturdier patriot than he,

and Maria's offer had obviated this without entailing the journey on

himself. Poor Yanko had been born of a meek and quiet spirit, and the

possession of the earth in company with like-minded men would have

seemed to him a sufficiently beatified prospect. He had no desire

for brave and boisterous adventure, new experiences held for him

no ecstasy: even in the matter of drinking, which was the chiefest

pleasure of his life, he maintained a certain formula of moderation,

never passing beyond the stage of a slightly fuddled head; and a

wholesome fear of Maria--not acute, but steady--as a rule, drove him

home while he was still perfectly capable of getting there. The rule

of his life was a certain sordid mean, which has been the subject for

praise in the mouth of poets, who have even gone so far as to call it

golden, and is strikingly exemplified in the lives of cows and other

ruminating animals. He was possessed of certain admirable qualities, a

capacity for hard work and a real affection for his eminent wife being

among them, but he was surely cast in no heroic mould. He had no fine,

heady virtues which carry their own reward in the constant admiration

they excite, but of the more inglorious excellences he had an average

share.

Mitsos arrived at Corinth next night after a very long day, and found a

caique starting in an hour or two for Patras. He had just time to leave

Nicholas's message to the mayor of the town, get food, and bargain for

a passage to Patras for himself and his pony. The wind was but light

and variable through the night, but next day brought a fine singing

breeze from the east, and about the time that he landed at Patras Maria

saw below her from the top of a pass the roof of the monastery ashine

with the evening sun from a squall of rain which had crossed the hills

that afternoon.

Her little pinch-eared mule went gayly down through the sweet-smelling

pine forest which clothed the upper slope below which the monastery

stood, and every now and then she passed one or two of the monks

engaged on their work--some burning charcoal; some cleaning out the

channels which led from the snow-water stream, all milky and hurrying,

after a day of sun, down to the vineyards; others, with their cassocks

kilted up for going, piloting timber-laden mules down home, and all

gave Maria a "Good-day" and a "Good journey."

Outside the gate a score or so of the elder men were enjoying the last

hour of sunlight, sitting on the stone benches by the fountain, smoking

and talking together. One of these, tall and white-bearded, let his

glance rest on Maria as she rode jauntily down the path; but when,

instead of passing by on the road, she turned her mule aside up the

terrace in front of the gate, he got up quickly with a kindled eye and

spoke to the brother next him.

"Has it come," he said, "even as Nicholas told us it might?" and he

went to meet Maria.

"God bless your journey, my daughter!" he said, "and what need you of

us?"

Maria glanced round a little nervously.

"I want to speak to Father Priketes, my father," she said.

"You speak to him."

"Have you corn, father?" she said.

A curious hush had fallen on the others, and Maria's words were audible

to them all. At her question they rose to their feet and came a little

nearer, and a buzzing whisper rose and died away again.

"Corn for the needy or corn for the Turk?" asked Priketes, while round

there was a silence that could have been cut with a knife.

"Black corn for the Turk. Let there be no famine, and have fifteen

hundred men ready to carry it when the signal comes, and that will

be soon. Not far will they have to go. It will be needed here, at

Kalavryta."

Maria slipped down from her mule and spoke low to Priketes.

"And oh, father, there is something more, but I cannot remember the

words I was to use; but I know what it means, for Mitsos, the nephew of

Nicholas, told me."

Father Priketes smiled.

"Say it then, my daughter."

"It is this: if you have guns stored in readiness southward, get them

back. It will not happen just as Nicholas expected. You will want all

your men and arms here."

"It is well. What will the signal be?"

"I know not; but in a few days Mitsos will come from Patras. Oh, you

will know him when you see him--as tall as a pillar, and a face like a

spring morning or a wind on the hill--and to see him does a body good.

He knows and will tell you."

"I will expect Mitsos, then," said Priketes. "You will stay here

to-night; there shall be made ready for you the great guest-room--for

you are an honored guest--the room where the daughter of an emperor

once lodged."

Maria hesitated.

"I could get back to some village to-night," she said. "I ought not to

delay longer than I need."

"And shame our hospitality?" said Priketes. "Besides, you are a

conspirator now, my daughter, and you must use the circumspection of

one. What manner of return would you make at dead of night to where

you slept before, with no cause to give? To-morrow you shall go back,

and say how pleased your novice brother was to see you--and the lie

be laid to the account of the Turk, who fill our mouths perforce with

these things--and how you had honor of the monks. Give your mule to the

lad, my daughter. It shall be well cared for."

So Maria had her chance, and took it. An adventure and a quest for

the good of her country were offered her, and she embraced them. For

the moment she rose to the rank of those who work personally for the

good of countries and great communities, and then passed back into her

level peasant life again. Goura, as it turned out, took no part in the

deeds that were coming. Its land was land of the monastery, and the

Turks never visited its sequestered valley with cruelty, oppression,

or their lustful appetites. Yet the great swelling news that came to

the inhabitants of that little mountain village, only as in the ears of

children a sea-shell speaks of remotely breaking waves, had to Maria

a reality and a nearness that it lacked to others, and her life was

crowned with the knowledge that she had for a moment laid her finger

harmoniously on the harp which made that glorious symphony.

Mitsos' work at Patras was easily done. Germanos was delighted with the

idea of the forged letter from the Turk, and was frankly surprised to

hear that the notion was born of the boy's brain. Being something of

a scholar, he quoted very elegantly the kindred notion of Athene, who

was wisdom, springing full-grown from the brain of Zeus, for Mitsos'

idea, so he was pleased to say, was complete in itself, mature from its

birth. Mitsos did not know the legend to which the primate referred,

and so he merely expressed his gratification that the scheme was

considered satisfactory. The affair of the beacons took more time,

for Mitsos on his journey south back to Panitza would have to make

arrangements for their kindling, and it was thus necessary that their

situation should be accessible to villages where Nicholas was known,

and where the boy could find some one to undertake to fire the beacon

as soon as the next beacon south was kindled. Furthermore, though

Germanos knew the country well, it would be best for Mitsos to verify

the suitability of the places chosen, "for," as the archbishop said,

"you might burn down all the pine-woods on Taygetus, and little should

we reck of it if Taygetus did not happen to be visible from Lycaon; but

we should stand here like children with toy swords till the good black

corn grew damp and the hair whitened on our temples."

As at present arranged, Mitsos would be back at Panitza on the 10th

of March, after which, as Nicholas had told him, there would be more

work to do before he could go for Yanni at Tripoli. It was, therefore,

certain--taking the shortest estimate--that the beacon signal could

not possibly occur till March 20th, but that on that evening and every

evening after the signalmen must be at their posts waiting for the

flame to spring up on Taygetus. For the beacons between Patras and

Megaspelaion there would be no difficulty; two at high points on the

mountains would send the message all the way, and the only doubtful

point was where to put the beacon which should be intermediate between

that on Taygetus and that on Helmos, which latter could signal to one

directly above the monastery. Germanos was inclined to think that a

certain spur of Lycaon, lying off the path to the right, some four

miles from Andritsaena, and standing directly above an old temple,

which would serve Mitsos as a guiding point, would answer the purpose.

If so, it could be worked from Andritsaena, and the priest there, at

whose house Mitsos would find a warm welcome if he stayed for the

night, would certainly undertake it.

Mitsos went off again the next day, with the solemn blessing of the

archbishop in his ears and the touch of kindly hands in his, and

reached Megaspelaion in two days. Here he had news of Maria's safe

arrival. "And a brave lass she is," said Father Priketes. The business

of the beacons was soon explained, and next morning Father Priketes

himself accompanied Mitsos on his journey to the top of the pass above

the monastery, in order to satisfy himself that from there both the

points fixed upon--that on the spur of Helmos, and also that towards

Patras--were visible.

Their way lay through the pine-woods where Maria had come three days

before, and a hundred little streams ran bubbling down through the

glens, and the thick lush grass of the spring-time was starred with

primroses and sweet-smelling violets. Above that lay an upland valley,

all in cultivation, and beyond a large, bleak plateau of rock, on the

top of which the beacon was to burn. Another half-hour's climb saw them

there, a strange, unfriendly place, with long parallel strata of gray

rock, tipped by some primeval convulsion onto their side, and lying

like a row of razors. In the hollows of the rocks the snow was still

lying, but the place was alive with the whisper of new-born streams. A

few pine-trees only were scattered over these gaunt surfaces, but in

the shelter of them sprang scarlet wind-flowers and hare-bells, which

shivered on their springlike stalks.

A few minutes' inspection was enough to show that the place was well

chosen--to the south rose the great mass of Helmos, and they could

clearly see a sugarcone rock, the proposed beacon site, standing

rather apart from the main mountain, some fifteen miles to the south,

just below which lay the village of Leondari, whither Mitsos was

bound, and towards Patras the contorted crag above Mavromati. Here, so

Priketes promised, should a well-trusted monk watch every evening from

March 20th onward, and as soon as he saw the blaze on Helmos, he would

light his own beacon, waiting only to see it echoed above Mavromati,

and go straight back with the news to the monastery. And the Turks at

Kalavryta, so said Priketes--for it was on Kalavryta that the first

blow was to descend--should have cause to remember the vengeance of the

sword of God which His sons should wield.

CHAPTER V

THE VISION AT BASSAE

From the village of Leondari, held in a half-circle of the foothills

of Helmos, where was to be the second link in the chain of beacons,

it was impossible to see Andritsaena; but the mass of Mount Lycaon

stood up fine and clear behind where Andritsaena was, and a series of

smaller peaks a little to the west would prove, so Mitsos hoped, to be

the hills above the temple. He and his host climbed the beacon-hill

and took very sedulous note of these, and next morning the lad set

off at daybreak to Andritsaena, which he reached in a day and a half.

The country through which he travelled, an unkind and naked tract,

was not suspected by the Turks to be tinged with any disaffection to

their benignant rule, and his going was made without difficulty or

accident. He found welcome at the house of the priest to whom Germanos

had given him a letter, and after dinner the two rode off, on a fair,

cloudless afternoon, to the hills above the temple, to verify its

visibility from Taygetus on the south and the crag of Helmos on the

north. An Englishman, whom the priest described as a "tall man covered

with straps and machines," had been there a year or two before making

wonderful drawings of the place, and had told them it was a temple to

Apollo, and that the ancient Greek name for it was Bassae. "Yet I like

not the place," said Father Zervas.

An hour or so after their departure, fleecy clouds began to spin

themselves in the sky, and as they went higher they found themselves

involved in the folds of a white fabric of mist, which lay as thick

as a blanket over the hill-side, and through which the sun seemed to

hang white and unluminous, like a china plate. This promised but ill

for the profit of their ride, but Zervas said it was worth while to

push on; those mists would be scattered in a moment if the wind got up;

he had seen them roll away as the housewife rolls up the bed-linen.

But as they got higher the mist seemed to thicken, and the sun was

expunged, and when, by the priest's computation, they must be near the

temple, they could scarcely see ten yards before them, and the gaunt,

contorted oak-trees marched swiftly into their narrow field of vision,

and out again, like ghosts in torment. Shoulder after shoulder of

gray hill-side sank beneath them, dripping with the cold, thick mist,

and unutterably waste, when, after moving ten minutes or more across

a featureless flank of hill, gigantic shadows peered at them from in

front, a great range of columns faced them, and they were there.

Mitsos' pony, tired with the four days' journey, was lagging behind,

and Mitsos had got off to relieve it on the steeper part of the ascent,

when suddenly there came from out of the chill, blank fog a scream like

that of a lost soul. For one moment a superstitious fear clutched at

the boy, and his pony, startled, went off at a nimbler pace to join the

other, and Mitsos had to break into a run to keep up. Then suddenly

the sun stared whitely through the mists, and in five seconds more the

wind, which had screamed so shrilly, was upon them. In a moment the

hill-side was covered with flying wreaths of vapor, which the wind tore

smaller and smaller till there was nothing left of them; it ripped

off ribbons from the skirts of the larger clouds, which it drove like

herded sheep down the valleys, and as Mitsos gained the ridge where the

temple stood, a brilliant sun sat in cloudless blue, looking down upon

the great gray columns. At their feet in every direction new valleys,

a moment before muffled in mist, were being carved out among the

hill-sides, and already far to the south the plain of Kalamata, rimmed

with a dim, dark sea, sparkled green through thirty miles of crisp

air. Down in the valley through which they had come some conflicting

current of air tilted the mist up in a tall column of whirling vapor,

as if from some great stewing-pot below, and as it streamed up into the

higher air it melted and dissolved away, and in five minutes the whole

land--north, south, east, and west--was naked to the incomparable blue.

Mitsos gazed in wonder at the gray columns, which seemed more to have

grown out of the hill than to have been built by the hands of men; but

the priest hurried him on.

"It is as I hoped," said he; "the wind has driven the clouds off; but

they may come back. We must go quickly to the top of the hill."

The lad left his pony grazing by the columns and ran up the brow of

the hill some two hundred feet above the end of the temple. Northward

Helmos lifted a snowy finger into the sky, and clean as a cameo on its

south-eastern face stood the cone above Leondari, as if when the hills

were set upon the earth by the stir of the forces of its morning it had

been placed there for their purpose. Then looking southward they saw

Taygetus rise shoulder above shoulder into the blue, offering a dozen

vantage points. But Father Zervas was a cautious man.

"It seems clear enough, Mitsos," he said; "but Taygetus is a big

place. This will I do for greater safety. You go straight south, you

say, and will be at Kalamata two evenings from now, and on the third

night you will sleep at some village on the pass crossing Taygetus over

to Sparta. On that night directly after sundown I will kindle a beacon

here, and keep it kindled for two hours, and in that time you will be

able to choose a well-seen place for the blaze on Taygetus. Look, it

is even as I said, the mists gather again; but the winds of God have

favored us, and our work is done."

Even as he spoke a long tongue of mist shot up from the valley

below, and came licking up the hill like the spent water of a wave

on a level beach, and Mitsos ran down quickly in order to find his

pony in case it had strayed even thirty or forty yards, before the

clouds swallowed them up again. But he found it where he had left it,

browsing contentedly on the spicy tufts of thyme and sweet mountain

grass, and for a couple of minutes more, before the earth and sky were

blotted out, he stared amazedly at the tall gray ruins which stood

there crowning the silence and strength of the hills, still unknown to

all but a few travellers and to the shepherds that fed their flocks

in summer on the hill-tops--a memorial of the life and death of the

worship of beauty, and the god of sunlight and health and imperishable

youth.

He waited there till the priest joined him, and was surprised to see

him cross himself as he passed by the door into the temple, and asked

why he did so.

"It is a story of a devil," he said, "which folks tell about here.

Whether I believe it or no, I know not, and so I am careful. We will

make haste down this valley, for it is not good to be here after night."

The mists had risen again over the whole hill-side, but not thickly,

and as they turned to go Mitsos looking back saw a strange shaft of

light streaming directly out of the ruined door of the temple--the

effect, no doubt, of the sun, which was near its setting, striking

through some thin layer of cloud.

"Look," he said to the priest, "one might almost think the temple was

lit from within."

Father Zervas looked round, and when he saw it dropped lamentably

off his horse and onto his knees on the ground, and began muttering

prayers, crossing himself the while.

Mitsos looked at him in surprise, and saw that his face was deadly

pale, and a strangling anguish gripped at the muscles of his throat.

The light cast through the temple door meantime had been choked by the

gathering mists, and when Father Zervas looked up from his prayers it

was gone.

"Quick, quick!" he cried to Mitsos; "it is not good to be here," and

mounting on his pony he fairly clattered down the hill-side, and did

not draw bridle till they had reached the main road from Andritsaena.

Mitsos followed, half amused, but conscious of a lurking fear in his

mind, a fear bred by the memory of the winter evenings of his childhood

when he used to hear strange stories of shapes larger than human, which

had been seen floating like leaves in the wind round the old temples on

the Acropolis, and cries that came from the hills of Ægina, where stood

the house of the god, but no human habitation, at the sound of which

the villagers in the hamlets below would bolt their doors and crouch

fearfully round the fire, "making the house good," as they said, by the

reiterated sign of the cross. Then as he grew older his familiarity

with morning and evening and night in lonely places had caused these

stories to be half forgotten, or remembered only as he remembered

the other terrors and pains of childhood--the general distrust of the

dark, and the storms that came swooping down from the gaunt hills

above Nauplia. But now when he saw the flying skirts of Father Zervas

waving dimly from the mist in front, and heard the hurried clatter of

his pony's feet, he followed at a good speed, and in some confusion of

mind. Zervas had stopped on reaching the high-road, and here Mitsos

caught him up.

"Ah, ah!" he gasped, "but it is a sore trial the Lord has sent me, for

I am no braver than a hare when it comes to dealings with that which is

no human thing. It is even as Demetri said, for the evil one is there,

the one whom he saw under the form of a young man, very fair to look

upon, but evil altogether, a son of the devil."

And he wiped a dew of horror from his brow.

Mitsos must have felt disposed to laugh had not the man's terror been

so real.

"But what did you see, father?" he asked. "For me I saw naught but a

light shining through the door."

"That was it, that was it," said Zervas, "and I--I have promised

Germanos to see to the beacon business, and on that hill shall I have

to watch while perhaps the young man, evil and fair, watches for me

below. I cannot pass this way, for my heart is cold water at the

thought. I shall have to climb up from the other valley, so that I pass

not the place; and then, perhaps, with the holy cross on my breast and

the image of the Crucified in my hand, I shall go unhurt."

"But what was it Demetri saw?" asked Mitsos.

"It was this way," said Father Zervas, who was growing a little more

collected as they attained a greater distance from the temple. "One

evening, a spring evening, as it might be to-day, Demetri, of our

village, whom I know, was driving his sheep down from the hill above

the temple, where the beacon will be; and, being later than he knew,

the sun had set ere he came down to where the temple stands; therefore,

as he could not herd the sheep in the dark down the glen, he bethought

himself to encamp there, for the night was warm and he had food enough

with him and wine for two men. Inside, the temple is of two rooms, and

into the hindermost of these he penned the sheep, and in the other

he lit a sparkle of fire and sat himself down to eat his supper. And

having finished his supper he lay down to sleep, but no wink of sleep

came near him, and feeling restless, he sat up and smoked awhile. But

his unrest gained on him, twitching at his limbs and bidding him go; so

out he fared on the hill-side to see if he could find sleep there--or,

at any rate, get air--for it seemed to him that the temple had grown

unseasonably warm, and that it was filled with some sweet and subtle

perfume. Outside it was cooler, and so, laying himself in a hollow of

the hill opposite the temple gate, he nestled down among the grasses

and again tried to sleep.

[Illustration: "IN THE CENTRE OF THE GREAT CHAMBER STOOD ONE WHOM IT

DAZZLED HIS EYES TO LOOK UPON"]

"But it seemed to him that from below there came dim songs such as

men sing on feast-days, and looking down to see whence such voices

came, he saw, even as you saw and I, a strong great light shining out

of the temple door, and next moment came a clattering and pattering

of feet, and out through the door rushed his sheep, which must have

leaped the barrier of boughs he had put up, and ran, scattering, dumb,

and frightened, in all directions. He got up and hurried down to stop

any that were left, for as for herding those that were gone he might

as well have tried to herd the moon-beams, for the night was dark but

for the space illuminated by that great light that shone out from the

temple. So down he ran, but at the temple door he stopped, for in

the centre of the great chamber stood one whom it dazzled his eyes to

look upon. Fair was he and young, and lithe as a deer on the mountains,

and from his face there shone a beauty and a glory which belong not to

mortal man; and the lines of his body were soft with the graciousness

of youth, but firm with the strength of a man. Over one shoulder was

slung a quiver of gold, and his left hand held a golden bow; golden

sandals were on his feet, and on his head a wreath of wild laurel. For

the rest, he was as naked as the night of full moon in May, and as

glorious. Two fingers of the hand which held the bow were rested on

the head of one of Demetri's rams, the father of the flock, and the

beast stood there quiet and not afraid. No other light was there in

the temple, but all the splendor which turned the place to a summer

noonday sprang from him. Only in front of the youth still smouldered

the fire by which Demetri had eaten his supper, and that seemed in the

blaze that filled the temple to have burned low and dim, like a candle

in the sunlight, and a little blue smoke from it came towards him, full

of some wonderful sweet perfume. The sheep, frightened, had collected

again round him, and in that light he could see to right and left score

upon score of their white heads and twitching ears; they stood close

to him and huddled, yet all looked at that immortal thing within the

temple. And as he stood there, stricken to stone, marvelling at the

beauty of the youth, and forgetting in his wonder to be afraid, the

god--yet no god was he, but only evil," said Zervas, hastily, again

crossing himself--"raised his eyes to him and said:

"'Thou that makest a sheep-pen of my sanctuary, art thou not afraid to

do this thing?

"But he spoke, so said Demetri, not harshly, and in the lustre of his

eyes there was something so matchless and beyond compare that he knelt

down and said:

"'Forgive me, Lord, for I knew not that it was thine.'

"Then said the other:

"'For penalty and yet for thine honor this ram is mine,' and he struck

the beast lightly on the head, at which it sank down and moved no more.

Then said the god again:

"'It is long since I have looked on your race; not so fair are they

now as they were in the olden days'--and in truth Demetri is an

ugly loon--'but this shalt thou learn of me, how joy is better than

self-sacrifice, and beauty than wisdom or the fear of God. Look at me

only, the proof is here.'

"And at this he held out his hand to him, but Demetri was suddenly

smitten by the knowledge that this beautiful youth was more evil than

the beasts of the field, and in wild despair he bethought himself of

his only safety, and made in the air, though feebly, for his heart

was nigh surrendered, the sign of the cross. With that a shuddering

blackness came over his spirit and his eyes, and when he came to

himself he was lying on the dew-drenched pavement of the temple, and

close to him the ram, dead, but with no violent mark upon him; and

looking in at the temple door, but coming not in, the rest of the

flock, of which none was missing; and morning was red in the east. That

is ten years ago, but Demetri will scarce speak of it even to-day, and

I had half thought before that it was an idle tale; but when I saw the

light shining out through the temple door an hour ago, it was freshly

borne to me that it was true, albeit one of the dark things of the

world at which we cannot even guess. Yet, as Christ protected Demetri,

He will surely protect me when I go on the beacon work, for it is His

work; but lest I tempt God, I will climb up that hill on the other side

and keep my eyes away from the temple, and plant the holy cross between

me and it."

Mitsos knew not what to make of all this. The fact that Demetri had,

in Zervas's phrase, wine for two men with him might have explained the

significance of what he had seen; but, being a Greek, his mind was

fruitful soil for all things ghostly and superstitious.

"It is very strange," he said; "yet, father, you will not go back from

the work?"

"I will do it faithfully," said Zervas, "for thus I shall be in the

hands of the Lord."

CHAPTER VI

THREE LITTLE MEN FALL OFF THEIR HORSES

It was the middle of March when Mitsos again found himself climbing

the steep hill-side into Panitza. Night had fallen two hours before;

clear and keen was the sky, and keen the vigor of the mountain air. The

crescent moon, early setting, had slipped behind the snowy spearhead

of Taygetus, but the heaven was all aglow with stars burning frostily.

His work had all been done quickly and well, and after he had seen the

beacon at Bassae, three nights before, shine like a glowworm to the

north, and then shoot out a little tongue of flame and lick a low-lying

star, he had travelled night and day, only giving himself a minimum of

sleep, and walking as much as he rode to spare the pony, that seemed,

as they came into Panitza with Mitsos only resting a hand on its neck,

to be the more weary of the two. He went up the village street to

Petrobey's house, but found the door into the court-yard closed, and

only Osman at first answered his knocking by furious barking.

"Osman, oh, Osman," called Mitsos, "be quiet, boy, and let them hear

within."

Osman recognized his voice and whined impatiently while Mitsos knocked

again. At last he heard the house door open, and Petrobey's voice

calling out:

"Who is there?"

"It is I, cousin," shouted the boy; "it is Mitsos."

Petrobey ran across the court-yard, and the next moment Osman tumbled

out to welcome Mitsos of the clan, and he led the pony in.

"Ah, it is good to see you, little Mitsos," said Petrobey. "You have

come very quick; we did not expect you till to-morrow."

"Yes, I have come quick," said Mitsos; "and, oh, cousin, do not talk to

me before I have eaten, for I am hungrier than the hares in winter, and

the pony is weaker than I for weariness."

"Give him me," said Petrobey, "and go inside; you will find supper

ready, and Nicholas is here."

"Nay, it is not fitting that you should look to the pony," said Mitsos.

"Little Mitsos, get you in," said Petrobey; "there are woodcocks for

supper and a haunch of roe-deer, but Nicholas and I have eaten all

the eels"; and he led the pony off, for he had heard from Nicholas

of Mitsos' oath to Yanni, and how, though for a reason Nicholas did

not understand, Mitsos had been very loath to leave Nauplia, but had

gone at once; and with that fine instinct, so unreasonable and yet so

beautiful, to wait on those a man admires, he wished to do this little

service for the boy. Nicholas and he had talked the matter over, and

Petrobey said it was clear that Mitsos was in love, and Nicholas was

inclined to agree, though as to the engager of his affections they

could risk no guess.

Mitsos ate a prodigious supper, and Nicholas having given him a handful

of tobacco for his pipe, he declared himself capable of talking, and

put forth to them a full account of his journey, and in turn asked what

news.

"Much news," said Petrobey, "a little bad and a great deal good. The

bad comes first, and it is this: Nicholas is afraid that it will soon

be known at Tripoli that he is here, and that will be an unseasonable

thing. Four days ago he met two Turkish soldiers, and he thinks they

recognized him. They were going to Tripoli, and it will not suit me at

all if they send again to ask me to find him, for we have other work to

do, and already the clan is moving up into the mountains so as to be

ready for the work, and to send twenty men again after Nicholas is what

I will not do."

"That is but a small thing, cousin," said Nicholas; "but it is the

thought of Yanni in Tripoli which sits heavy on me. At present, of

course, he is perfectly safe, but supposing a message comes that you

and I are ordered to be at Tripoli in three days."

Petrobey laughed.

"Mehemet Salik dare not," he said; "absolutely he dare not. How fat

little Yanni will be when he comes out. Turks eat five times a day.

They have no cause to suspect me, and if the worst comes to the worst,

he can but send out men to search for you."

Mitsos yawned.

"Yet I wish Yanni were here," he said, "for I love Yanni, and I have

sworn to him the oath of the clan. But I am sleepier than the wintering

dormouse. When do you suppose I may go for him, cousin?"

"In a week or less, I hope, and in the interval there is the fire-ship

work for you to learn. Of that to-morrow, so get you to bed, little

Mitsos."

Mitsos got up with eyes full of sleep and stretched himself.

"A bed with sheets," he said; "oh, but I thank the Mother of God for

beds."

"Also for woodcock and roe-deer," remarked Petrobey. "Good-night,

little one."

The next two days Mitsos spent in learning the working of the

fire-ship. Every morning before daybreak Nicholas used to leave the

village and lie hidden in the pine-woods on the hills above, returning

with Mitsos at nightfall. But on the second evening, as they got near

the house, they saw a Turkish soldier in the road, himself on horseback

and holding two other horses. Nicholas stepped quickly out of the

moonlight into the shadow, and beckoned to Mitsos to do the same.

"This means trouble," he said; "I knew it, I knew it. Go you in,

Mitsos, and I will wait in the alder clump by the mill, going out of

the village, for there will be news for you to bring me."

And he stole along in the shadow of the wall until he was out of sight.

Mitsos waited till he was gone, and then walked unconcernedly forward,

whistling the while. At the gate the soldier stopped him.

"Yassak," he said, which means "There is no passing."

Mitsos stared and stood silent a moment, running over in his mind his

small vocabulary of Turkish abuse.

"Ugh! cross-legged one, where is your hat?" he said, rudely and

cheerfully. "But why should I not see my cousin?"

"There is no passing," said the Turk, and with that he drew out his

pistol.

Mitsos hesitated a moment. He was quite willing to rush in and take his

chance of the bullet going wide, for he held the Turks in light esteem

as marksmen since the adventure with Yanni; but he doubted the wisdom

of the scheme, for there were, as the horses showed, at least two more

inside. So he turned on his heel.

"I shall go back home, then," he said. "Shall I find more little men

there saying I may not see my father? Go home, too, my little man, if

you are as wise as you are little, and eat sweets with the women of

your master's harem, and wash your dirty face."

The man answered nothing, for he knew well that to fire a shot in

a village of the Mavromichales was to put his own head into a nest

of hornets that could sting sore. He and the others had entered the

village very quietly after dark so as not to provoke any attention,

and had been fortunate enough to get to Petrobey's house without being

noticed. Mitsos went along quietly enough till he was out of sight, and

then ran as he had never run before to the alder clump where he would

find Nicholas.

"Quick, quick!" he whispered; "tell me what to do. There are Turkish

soldiers at Petrobey's, and they will not let me in. Oh, uncle, this

bodes no good for Yanni! What shall I do?"

"Ah, it is even so!" said Nicholas. "Sit you, Mitsos, and let us think."

For five minutes or so they sat quite silent. At last Nicholas spoke.

"I make no doubt what has happened," he said, "and it is all bad. These

men have come to Petrobey from Mehemet Salik, and it means his arrest.

They have him in the hollow of their hand, for if he goes not there

is Yanni in Tripoli, and go he must. What is before us is this: Yanni

must be got out of Tripoli at once, and Petrobey must escape on his

way there. How shall we do it? Oh, little Mitsos, think as you thought

before, and ask the blessed saints to speak to you and me."

Nicholas crushed his hands to his temples.

"And that is not all," he added. "The clan must be warned at once what

has happened, and it is useless for them to attempt the rescue of

Petros before Yanni is out of Tripoli, for so his life will be forfeit.

And I, too, I must--ah, I shall give myself up to those Turks!"

"But why, Uncle Nicholas?" asked Mitsos, fairly puzzled.

"Because it is easier for two men to escape than one, and also because,

if they get away from the village with me and Petrobey without alarm

given to the clan, they will make less haste to Tripoli, for if I am

with them they will not fear that I should get to Yanni first. Oh,

Mitsos, this is a good thought of mine! but the clan must keep very

quiet, and let the little men think they do not know what is happening."

"Then I am off for Yanni?" asked Mitsos.

"On the instant. Where is your horse?"

"At Petrobey's."

"Then go round to the house of some cousin; go to Demetri and get a

horse, and off with you. There is no time to lose. Stay, you do not

know where you and Yanni are to go from Tripoli. You must escape by

night and go straight over the hills to the edge of the upper Arcadian

plain, where stands Megalopolis; there strike southward over on to

Taygetus and find your way to the hill above Lada, on the top of the

pass, where you watched for the beacon from Bassae. We shall be there.

I shall go round the village and see that the whole clan know what has

happened and where they will join us on Taygetus; then I shall give

myself up. And now, little Mitsos, God speed; remember that we love

you, and be very careful and very quiet. Yanni's life depends on you."

So Mitsos stole off in the darkness to go to Demetri's house, and

Nicholas went back to the village to warn the clan. In an hour's time

messengers had started to the villages round saying what had happened,

and giving the clan to know where they were to go when the few

preparations which remained with regard to the storing of the powder

were completed, and also definitely saying that the outbreak would

begin, as soon as possible, by the siege of Kalamata. Then Nicholas

went to Petrobey's house and found the soldier still in the road

opposite with the horses.

"There is no passing," he said.

"You do not know to whom you are speaking," said Nicholas, haughtily.

"I am Nicholas Vidalis, of whom you may have heard."

The answer was what he anticipated, and he found himself covered by

the soldier's pistol, while the latter shouted to those inside: "Here

is Nicholas Vidalis!" Then, addressing Nicholas, he said, "Move, and I

shoot."

Nicholas stood quite still, for he had no wish either to move or to be

shot, while another soldier ran out from the house.

"I suppose you have authority for this," he said, "or there will be a

settling between us."

"The authority of Mehemet Salik," said the second soldier, "the

Governor of Tripoli, to arrest you and Petros Mavromichales and bring

you to Tripoli."

They had been speaking in Turkish, and Nicholas, with intention, asked

the next question in Greek.

"For what am I arrested?"

"I do not know Greek," said the soldier.

"God be praised for that!" thought Nicholas, and he repeated his

question in Turkish.

"For seditious designs against the sovereign power of the Sultan and

his deputy in Tripoli, Mehemet Salik."

Nicholas laughed.

"That sounds serious. Shall I go inside, gentlemen? I am your prisoner,

and I deliver up my arms," and he handed the soldier his pistol and

knife and stepped in. "I should advise you," he added, "to come in,

too, for if some of this hot-headed clan see a Turk standing there

he will not stand there long entire. Come in, friend, for though I am

maliciously accused that is no fault of yours, and I would not see your

blood nor the blood of my clan shed."

The soldier followed his advice and led the horses inside, barring the

gate behind him.

Petrobey had heard Nicholas's voice, and a great wave of relief came

over him. He had been sitting there quite silent, guarded by two

soldiers, in a dumb agony of fear, not for himself, but for Yanni. That

he himself could escape somehow or other on the way to Tripoli he did

not doubt, but his escape meant death to Yanni if still in the town,

as the letter from Mehemet said; while if he delivered himself up at

Tripoli, the moment the war of independence began, death to both of

them. His only consolation had been that Nicholas, at least, was safe.

He would have been back an hour before, unless in some way the alarm

had been given him, and his appearance now, coming in peacefully and

calmly, must mean that he knew what had happened, and had some wise

thought within him. Mitsos--and at the thought of Mitsos he looked up

suddenly at Nicholas, in the sudden hope that Mitsos had started for

Tripoli--and as he caught Nicholas's eye the latter nodded and smiled,

and Petrobey felt certain that Nicholas had answered the question he

had silently asked him.

Nicholas sat down cheerfully and continued to speak in Turkish:

"This is some strange mistake," he said, "but I shall not be sorry

to pay my respects to his Excellency in Tripoli, a duty which I have

hitherto neglected."

One of the soldiers smiled.

"And his Excellency will not be sorry to see you. He sent for you, if

you remember, last autumn, and your cousin wrote him a letter saying

that his bastard kinsman should be sought for and sent when found."

This was a little disconcerting, but Nicholas waved his hand lightly.

"A private quarrel merely between myself and my cousin," he said,

"which has long ago been made up. Eh, cousin?" Then, in Greek, "They

don't talk Greek, God be thanked!"

Petrobey nodded assent.

"We set off to-morrow, Nicholas," he said, "and that very early in the

morning. To-night we have guests with us, and it is time for supper.

Please seat yourselves, gentlemen. Poor fare, I am afraid, but we did

not know that we should be honored by your presence to-night."

Petrobey clapped his hands, and the servant brought the supper. He

was a big, strong lad of Yanni's age, the son of a small farm-holding

tenant on Petrobey's land, who had been left an orphan while still

quite a young boy. Petrobey had brought him up in his own house, as

half servant and half companion to Yanni, exacting little service, but

receiving complete devotion.

"Put on supper," he said, in Greek, "and keep your ears well open."

The boy brought in the food, and they all sat down together. The meal

had only been prepared for three, but as Mitsos was to have been one

of the three, and the Turks were small eaters, there seemed to be

plenty of food. All three soldiers, from living among the Greeks, had

relaxed their religious abstinence from wine, where the wine was good,

and the meal went on merrily enough, Nicholas, in particular, talking

and laughing with them, and speaking Turkish with wonderful fluency

and accuracy. Under pretext of Petrobey's not speaking Turkish at all

easily, it was soon arranged between him and Nicholas that he should

speak in Greek and Nicholas act as interpreter, translating into

Turkish the remarks he made to his guests, and his guests' conversation

into Greek; and so it came about that long before the meal was over

Petrobey was fully acquainted with Mitsos' departure for Tripoli and

also Nicholas's idea for the next day, and they discussed at some

length, without arousing the least suspicion, their own manner of

escape.

This, Nicholas suggested, should be made as soon as possible on the

journey; if it could be managed, at the first halt, for Mitsos would

have had twelve hours' start, and should have had time to get Yanni

safely out. The advantage of doing this early would be that they would

still be travelling in the country of the clan, who would, were it

necessary, turn out to cover their retreat; and Nicholas suggested

that they should have recourse to a very simple expedient, which he

had tried with success once before. The lad Constantine would come

with them, he proposed, carrying food for the mid-day meal, as it was

six hours to the next village; Nicholas, Petrobey, and the boy would

be quite unarmed; and the Turks, secure in the knowledge that Yanni

was still hostage, would not, he thought, attempt to bind them. That,

however, he would ascertain. During their meal, which should be ample

and full of wine, the boy should be instructed to cut the girths of

the Turks' horses, and get away home as fast as might be. Then after a

decent interval they should think about going on, and Petrobey and he,

mounting as quick as they could, should ride cheerfully off at full

speed across country towards Taygetus. "The soldiers," added Nicholas,

with admirable gravity, "will attempt to do the same, and I wish

little Mitsos was here to see them, for it does me good to see Mitsos

laugh."

All this was conveyed in short sentences, interpolated with Petrobey's

supposed replies to the Turks; and Petrobey, who had taken care that

Constantine should be in the room while it was going on, said to him,

carelessly, holding out his glass:

"If you completely understand, Constantine, fill my glass with water,

and then go; if not, give wine to Nicholas."

Constantine took the water-jug in his hand, filled Petrobey's glass,

and left the room.

Incidentally, Nicholas, while speaking in Turkish, had begged the

soldiers that they might start very early, for there would be big

trouble, he thought, among the clan, if they saw their chief riding

off guarded by Turks. His desire, he explained, was to get to Tripoli

as soon as possible, for, as they knew, Petrobey's only son was held

hostage there by Mehemet Salik, and he feared that if there was a

disturbance among the Mavromichales, or if--which God forbid!--the

clan were so foolish as to fire upon them, Petrobey might be held

responsible, and it would go hardly with the son. To this they

assented, saying also that, provided their two prisoners would come

unarmed, the hostage in Tripoli should be considered security enough,

and they should go like gentlemen upon a journey.

Though it was not very early next morning when they started, the

village, following Nicholas's directions of the night before, showed

no sign of life. But a closer observer might have noticed stealthy

faces at the windows hastily and suddenly withdrawn, for the clan,

who would have laid their money on Nicholas and Petrobey if all the

Ottoman forces were out against them, and who had a keen sense of

humor, regarded the affair as a practical joke of the most magnificent

order, for Nicholas had told them the night before what the method

of escape was to be. So the procession, with one soldier in front,

Nicholas and Petrobey in the centre, guarded on the outside by the

other two, with Constantine behind driving a pony laden with food and

wine for their mid-day meal, went unmolested, though watched by an

appreciative audience, out of the village and down the steep hill into

the plain. Nicholas relieved the tedium of the way with the most racy

and delightful stories, and then all went on in the utmost harmony.

Some three hours later they were come to a large and pleasant-smelling

pine-wood, and about half-way through this, where another bridle-path

joined the one they were in, leading up towards the farther

hill-villages of Taygetus, they chanced upon a clear way-side stream,

and here Petrobey proposed they should halt for their dinner. Abundance

of juicy grass grew round the water some thirty yards farther down, and

tethering the horses there so that they could not stray, for they would

be just out of sight of the place where their masters ate, Petrobey

told Constantine to get ready the food. However, the sun shone rather

warm on this spot, and at the suggestion of one of the soldiers they

moved a little higher up into the shade of the trees. Constantine

waited assiduously on the guests until all had eaten their fill, and

then, bringing more wine from a cold basin in the stream, where he had

put it to regain its coolness, he retired a little distance off to eat

of the remains of the dinner, execute his orders, and steal homeward.

The others drank and smoked and chatted for some quarter of an hour

more, till Nicholas, observing that the sun had already passed its

meridian, suggested that, as they had a long day before them, if they

were, as he trusted, to reach Tripoli the next night, it would be wise

to start. The soldiers assented, but drowsily, for they had again drunk

somewhat freely at their prisoners' expense, and they all moved off

to where they had left their horses and accoutrements. Nicholas could

not suppress a chuckle of amusement when he saw that Constantine had

taken the precaution of loosening the flint from the hammers of their

guns, and then saying suddenly to Petrobey, "Now!" the two ran forward,

unpicketed their horses, and swinging into the saddle, spurred them

through the belt of trees which separated them from the pathway towards

Taygetus. They heard an exclamation of dismay and surprise from the

soldiers, and the feeble click of a loose flint against the steel, and

the next moment they were off full gallop up the steep hill-road.

Then followed a scene which would have made the mouths of the clan to

be full of laughter, for the first soldier vaulted with some agility

into the saddle and started gallantly off in pursuit, closely followed

by the second, who had done the same. The first went bravely for about

six yards, the second for rather less, and then they rolled off right

and left, clutching wildly at their horses' manes, the one into the

stream, the other into a fine furze bush. The third, a bulky man,

was rather more fortunate, for, being incapable of jumping into the

saddle, he put his foot nimbly into the stirrup, only to find his horse

standing beside him barebacked and with an expression of innocent

surprise, and himself with the curious feeling experienced when we are

fain to walk up a step and find there is no step to walk up.

The next half-hour went wearily and hotly for them. By sacrificing

one girth they patched up the other two, and one went up the pathway

towards Taygetus in pursuit, while the other rode on to Tripoli. The

two most agile, as being the lighter weights, took these tasks upon

themselves, while the heavier one, who could not ride bareback without

pain to his person, walked sorrowfully on, a heavy saddle in one hand,

his horse's bridle in the other, a three-hours' tramp to the next

village, where he hoped to have his dilapidations repaired.

The adventures of the first who rode after the escaped prisoners

were short. Half an hour's ride brought him to the outskirts of a

village which was all humming like a hive of bees, and the humorous

Mavromichales, who inhabited it in some number, and who were excellent

marksmen, sent a few bullets whistling close round him--one went a

little to the right, another slightly to the left, a third sang sweetly

over his head, and a fourth raised a little puff of dust at his feet.

It occurred to him that they might perhaps be able to aim straighter

if they wished, for there was a devilish precision about the closeness

of the shots that made his heart turn cold, and with one more glance,

sufficient however to show him Nicholas and Petrobey bowing politely in

the midst of their clan, he turned tail, and just galloped back along

the road he had come.

CHAPTER VII

MITSOS DISARRANGES A HOUSE-ROOF

From Panitza to Grythium it was reckoned two days of twelve hours,

or three of eight, but Mitsos, who set off about ten at night, got

there within thirty hours of the time he started, thus arriving well

before daybreak on the second morning; and at sundown that day, looking

over the valley of Sparta from the hills leading up to the pass into

the plain of Tripoli, he timed himself to be there two hours before

sunrise, thus allowing plenty of time for Yanni and himself to get out

of the town before the folk were awake. But for the present, as the

moon was up, he pushed forward along the road, reserving his halt for

the two dark hours after midnight. He had eaten but little that day,

and his eyelids felt like the eyes of dolls, laden with weights that

would drag them down; but knowing that if he slept he would gravely

risk an over-sleeping, he paced up and down by the edge of the field

where he had tethered Demetri's pony, eating a crust of bread, which he

washed down with some rather sour wine he had got at Gythium. Now and

then he would pause for a moment, but he felt physically incapable of

keeping awake except by moving, and fearing to fall down and sleep if

he stopped, he began tramping up and down without cessation. Luckily

he had a pouch of tobacco and his pipe and tinder-box, and he smoked

continuously.

But it was better to be moving than waiting, and when he judged that

his pony--of which, like all wise men, he was more careful than of

himself--had had sufficient rest, he set out again. He had wrapped

his capote close round him, for the night was cold, and he was just

beginning to feel that if he hoped to keep awake, he had better get

down and trot by the pony's side, when the beast stumbled on a heap of

stones, and in trying to recover itself stumbled again, and pitched

forward right onto its knees, throwing Mitsos off.

Mitsos was unhurt and picked himself up quickly, but the poor brute was

cut to the bone, and stood trembling with pain and terror as Mitsos

examined it. For one moment the boy broke down.

"Oh, Holy Virgin!" he cried. "But what shall I do?" But the next moment

he steadied himself, and paused to think. It was still four hours

before daybreak, but by that time he and Yanni would have to be out of

the town, and Tripoli was still a two-hours' ride distant. To get there

in time with the pony was hopelessly out of the question, and to get

there on his own legs seemed out of the question too, for he was as

weary as a young man need ever hope to feel. But if there was a choice

it lay there. Meanwhile, what to do with the beast? To leave it there,

all cut, bleeding, and in pain, through the night, only to die on those

bare hills, was a cruel thing, and Mitsos decided quickly. He led it

very gently off the road among the trees, and with a strange feeling

of tenderness, for that it had carried him gallantly, and done all it

could do for him and Yanni, and had met death in the doing, kissed the

white star on its down-dropped head. Then drawing his pistol, he put it

to its ear, and, turning his eyes away, fired. The poor beast dropped

like a log, and Mitsos, with a sob in his throat, looked not behind,

but went back through the trees, and throwing away his coat, which only

encumbered him, set his teeth and went jog-trotting to Tripoli.

How the next hours passed he scarcely knew. He felt so utterly tired

and beaten that he was hardly conscious of himself, his very weariness

probably dulled his powers of sensation, and all he knew was that as

he pushed on with limbs dropping from fatigue, eyes aching for very

weariness, and a hammering of the pulse in his temples, the trees

by the road-side seemed to pass, of their own movement, by him like

ghosts. Now and then he tripped over the uneven, stony road, and it

scarce seemed worth while to make any effort to recover himself; and

more than once he felt and knew, but only dimly, that his trousers were

torn on the stones, and his knees were cut and bleeding. He thought of

the pony which had fallen and cut itself, and felt vaguely envious of

its fate.

Lower down the pass where the hills began to melt into the plain it

grew warmer, and in a half dream of exhaustion for a moment he thought

that a treeless hollow of the hills was the bay of Nauplia, lying cool

and dark beneath the night. Nauplia, the bay, the white wall--it seemed

that that time belonged to a boy called Mitsos, but not himself; a boy

who had been happier than the kings of the earth, whereas he was a

foot-sore, utterly beaten piece of consciousness, that would plod along

the white ribbon of road forever.

Then suddenly as he thought the sky lightened and grew gray with dawn,

and the next moment the day had broken with the swiftness of the South,

and when the sun lifted itself above the hills to the east, it showed

him Tripoli all shining in the dawn, still about a mile off.

Mitsos stopped dead. He was too late. During the day it would be

impossible for him to get into the governor's house, and during the

day, some time before the blessed night fell again, the soldiers from

Panitza would be there; Petrobey would have escaped, trusting to his

getting to Tripoli first; and Yanni would be.... Who was Yanni? Oh,

a boy he had travelled with once; they had had a fine time, and he

believed he had promised to come and get him out of Tripoli....

Then suddenly with a sob he beat his hands together.

"Oh, Yanni, Yanni!" he cried; "little Yanni!"

There had been a white frost during the night, and the fields were

all stiff and glistening. He had just enough sense to strike off the

road and lie down under the shade of a tree, sheltered from the sun

and untouched by the frost, and there rolled over on his side, and

next moment was sleeping deep and dreamlessly like a child tired with

play. There he lay without moving, one arm shielding his face from the

light, and when he woke it was past mid-day, the blessed gift of sleep

had restored him body and mind, the trouble in his brain had run down

like the tainted water of a spate, leaving it clear and lucent, and the

strength had come back to his limbs.

He sat there some quarter of an hour longer, thinking intently. He

had no self-reproach to interpose itself between him and his quest;

the accident had been purely out of his own control, and he had done

what would have seemed to himself impossible if he had not done it.

Then he took stock of the position; and the position was that the

soldiers might be expected at any time after four that afternoon; and

as it would not be dark till six, there was nothing to do but go on to

Tripoli and wait, watching the road from Sparta. If they came before

dark he determined to make an attempt to get in, desperate though it

might be, for when once they had given their report to Mehemet Salik,

there would be no more Yanni.

So he went on and ate at a Greek khan within the town, and then

strolled back to the square and examined the house again. Once the door

opened, and he went quickly down a side street for fear the porter, who

had seen him before, might recognize him; then he took another look

at the wall by which he hoped to get access to the house. Under the

influence of food and sleep the spirit of his courage had revived, and

about two o'clock he went back again down the street leading into the

Sparta road, and sitting down a little distance from it, kept his eyes

fixed on the point where it vanished round the first hill-side. Three

o'clock passed, four and five, and thin white clouds in the west began

to be tinged with rose, and Mitsos' heart tapped quicker; in another

hour it would be dark, and time for his attempt. He sat on there till

nearly six, and the darkness began to fall in layers over the sky, and

the colors to fade out of things; then giving one last look up the

road, he turned and went into the town again.

When he arrived at the square the little oil-lamps at the corners were

already lit, and the figures of men seemed like shadows. He turned

down the street where the low wall stood, but found to his annoyance

that only a few paces down was a café, which had been empty during

the day, but was now beginning to fill with guests--for the most part

Turkish soldiers; and he was obliged to wait. But these had apparently

only come in for a glass of mastic before dinner, and in a quarter of

an hour there were only left there the café-keeper, who seemed to be

dozing over his glass, and an old Greek countryman in fustanella dress.

Mitsos, who had stationed himself some hundred yards off, drew a deep

breath, and stole noiselessly back in the shadow of the wall.

By standing on a heap of rubbish which lay there he could get his

fingers on the top of the wall, and slipping off his shoes, so that his

toes might more easily make use of the crevices between the stones, he

worked himself slowly up, and in a moment was crouching on the top.

Then came the easier but the more dangerous task, for as he crept along

the roof of the house where Yanni was his figure would be silhouetted

against the sky; but the roof was not more than four feet above the top

of the lower garden wall, and bending over it he raised himself up and

wriggled snake-wise along the edge. Yanni's room, in front of which

stood the pillar by which he meant to climb down into the balcony, was

the second room from the end, and, judging the distance as well as he

could, he glided along for about nine feet, and then began to make

his way slowly down the roof. He had calculated the distance well,

and when he was about half-way down, the tiled roof, which was but

lightly built over laths, and was not constructed to bear the weight of

superincumbent giants, suddenly creaked beneath him, and next moment

gave way, and with a crash fit to wake the dead he was precipitated

with a shower of tiles right into Yanni's room, and within a few feet

of where Yanni was sitting, with his arms tied behind him.

Mitsos did not think whether he was hurt or not, but picked himself up

and showed himself to Yanni. Yanni gave one wild gasp of astonishment.

"Oh, dear Mitsos," he said, "you have not come too soon. Quick, cut

this rope!"

He whipped out his knife, and had hardly cut the rope when they heard a

key grate in the lock, and Mitsos, taking one step to behind the door,

sprang out like a wild-cat on Yanni's keeper--who lived next door, and

had not unnaturally come in to see what had happened--and threw him to

the ground, while Yanni without a second's hesitation bound a thick

scarf round his mouth by way of a gag.

"Now the rope," said Mitsos, and they tied his arms to his sides and

his legs together, and looked at each other a moment.

"There is the porter!" said Yanni; "he will be here. Shut the door,

Mitsos, and lock it inside."

Next they moved the bedstead and all the furniture they could against

the door, and barred the windows, and Yanni gave an additional twist to

the scarf that bound the Turk's mouth.

"There is not much time," said Mitsos; and pulling the table out of the

heap of furniture they had piled at the door, he climbed onto it, and

with one vigorous effort brought down all the tiles which were lying

loosely between the hole his entrance had made and the outside wall.

From the table he could easily spring up onto the top of the wall, and

lying along it reached down two great hands to Yanni. Yanni grasped

them, and with much kicking and struggling, not having Mitsos' inches,

he got himself on the top.

Mitsos turned to him with a suppressed bubble of laughter.

"Eh, Yanni," he whispered, "but it was truth you said when you told me

you would grow very fat. Come quickly. Ah, but there's the porter at

the door--one outside and one inside, and we two on the roof."

The descent was easily accomplished; by good luck the street was empty;

and waiting a moment for Mitsos to put on his shoes again, the two ran

as hard as they could down it, away from the square, keeping in the

shadow of the walls. From the end of it a cross street led out to the

western gate of the town, and drawing near cautiously they saw it had

been already shut, and a sentry was standing by it.

Once again Yanni's wit, wedded to Mitsos' strength, was to stand them

in good stead.

"Mitsos," he whispered, "he will open the gate for you, for it has been

market-day. Go, then, down the road, and I will follow in the shadow of

the wall. Then, when he opens the gate to you, hold him very fast, and

I will take the key from him and run through. And oh, cousin--but we

must be quick."

Mitsos did not quite understand the object of taking the key, but,

walking straight on, he asked to be let out.

"From the market?" asked the sentry.

"Surely, and going home to Thana," said Mitsos, naming a village near.

The man took out the key, unbarred and unbolted the door, and the

moment the lock was turned Mitsos grasped him tightly round the arms

from behind. The sentry was but a little man, and his struggles in

Mitsos' grasp were of the faintest; and when Mitsos, with a brilliant

smile, whispered, "You scream, I kill!" enforcing his fragmentary

Turkish with a precautionary nudge of the elbow, he was as silent as

the grave. In the mean time Yanni had passed them, and taking the

key from the lock fitted it into the outside of the gate and said,

hurriedly, to Mitsos:

"Quick, cousin! throw him away!"

Mitsos, still smiling kindly, lifted the Turk off his feet, and, with

a mighty swing, threw him, as Yanni suggested, onto the road, where he

fell, pitiably, in a heap, and, once free from Mitsos, called, in a

lamentable voice, for Mohammed the Prophet. Next moment Yanni had shut

the gate, locked it, and thrown the key away into the bushes that lined

the road.

The two looked at each other for a moment, and then Mitsos broke

into a roar of good, wholesome laughter, as unlike as possible to

the exhibition to which he had treated Yanni after the affair of the

powder-mill. Yanni joined in, and for a few seconds they stood there

shaking and helpless. Mitsos recovered himself first.

"Oh, Yanni!" he cried, "but I could laugh till morning were there not

other things to do! Come away; there will be no sleep for us this

night. No, we keep to the road at present and go westward. Come, we

will talk afterwards."

For two hours they jogged on as fast as Yanni could, for a month of

living in the confinement of a house and garden "has made a hole," as

he said, "in my bellows; and as for the fat of me, why, Mitsos, it's

a thing of shame." But there was no wind in him for more than the

running, and it was in silence they climbed the steep road into the

mountains between Tripoli and the plain of Megalopolis. These were cut

in half by a small valley lying between the two rows of hills, with

a sharp descent into it from each side, going down into which Yanni

recovered his wind a little. On the edge of the valley, as Mitsos knew,

stood a small khan, the keeper of which was his father's friend, and as

a light still shone in the window he and Yanni entered to rest awhile

and get provisions for the morning. Anastasis was glad to see him, and

asked him what he was doing there and at that time; and Mitsos, knowing

his man, told him in a few words the story of the escape, and begged

him, if there was pursuit from Tripoli, to say that they had just

passed, going to Megalopolis. "For you see," put in Yanni, observing

that their host's wits were not of the quickest, "we are not going to

Megalopolis, and it will be a fine gain of time to us if they seek us

there."

After an interval this appeared to Anastasis to be a most admirable

joke, and for five minutes more, as he was cutting them bread and meat,

he kept bursting out into a chuckle of delight, and turned to Mitsos,

saying, "Then they'll find you not at Megalopolis. Eh, who would have

thought it?"

But Mitsos hurried Yanni off again. They had not probably more than

half an hour's start, "though it will take them not a little time to

clear a way into your room," said Mitsos; and though, through the

steepness of the ascent, a horse could go no quicker than a man,

there was no time to waste, and they struck off the road a little

southward, straight in the direction of Taygetus. All night they went,

sometimes walking, but more often running, and when morning dawned

they found themselves on the lower foot-hills of Taygetus, but still

a day's journey from their rendezvous. But Yanni declared he could go

no farther for the present. His eyes were full of sleep; his stomach

was dust within him, and his legs were one ache. So Mitsos, after a

five-minutes' climb to the top of a neighboring ridge, came back with

the tidings that he could not discern man, beast, or village, and

decreed that they should lie here all day and not start again till near

sunset.

Then said Yanni: "It will be a long talk we shall have before sunset;

but, Mitsos, if the day of judgment was breaking not one word could I

say for myself till I have slept. Ah, but it is good to be with you

again!"

And he turned over and was asleep at once.

Mitsos was not long in following his example, but he woke first, and,

seeing by the sun that it was not much after mid-day, got up quietly,

so as not to disturb Yanni, and went in search of water. This he found

some quarter of a mile below and returned to Yanni, who had just awoke.

They took their food down to the spring and ate there, and then, at

Mitsos' suggestion, went back again to their first camping place, "for

where there is a spring," he said, "there may be folk, and we want folk

but little."

"And now," said Yanni, as they settled themselves again, "begin at the

beginning, Mitsos, and tell me all."

"I went straight to Nauplia the first night," he said, "and arrived

there very late--after midnight; then, next day, I went off."

"Next day?" asked Yanni. "Is that all you care about Suleima? Oh, tell

me, how is Suleima?"

Mitsos frowned.

"Oh, never mind Suleima," he said. "She is my affair. Well, next day--"

But Yanni interrupted him.

"Did you not see Suleima?" he asked.

"No."

"Why did you not wait that night and see her?"

"Uncle Nicholas had other work for me to do."

Yanni looked at Mitsos a moment and then laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Mitsos, dear Mitsos!" he said. "Oh, I am so sorry! It was not that,

you know, that made you go; it was the oath of the clan you swore to

me. Mitsos, don't hate me for it. Surely there is no one like you."

Mitsos looked up, smiling.

"Nonsense, Yanni! Is a promise and an oath a thing to make and break?

Besides, it seems to me it is pretty lucky I came when I did. What do

you suppose I should be thinking now if I had got back to Panitza and

found it was too late, for, in truth, I was not much too soon? What

if I had come to Tripoli, as it were, to-night, instead of last night?"

[Illustration: "'AH, BUT IT IS GOOD TO BE WITH YOU AGAIN!'"]

"I will tell you afterwards what you would have found," said Yanni,

suddenly looking angry. "Go on, little Mitsos."

Mitsos grinned.

"Little, who is little? I have a cousin smaller than I. Well, for my

story."

And Mitsos told him of his journey, of his expedition to Patras and the

monastery, and of the coming of the soldiers to Panitza.

"And for the rest," he concluded, "we shall have to ask Uncle Nicholas

and your father. There are not many things in the world of which I am

certain, Yanni, but one is that we shall find them safe and sound on

Taygetus."

Yanni pulled up a handful of sweet-smelling thyme and buried his face

in it for a moment.

"Ah, but it is good to be on the hills again, Mitsos," he said, "and

to be with you. I shall not forget the Mother of God. My story is very

short; I am glad it has not been longer."

"Tell me," said Mitsos.

"Well, for a week, or perhaps a fortnight, I ate and slept, and one day

was like another. I saw Mehemet Salik not more than once or twice, and

he used always to ask me if I was comfortable and had all that I wished

for. It is true that I wished for the hills and for you, but they were

things which he would not have given me, so I always said I wanted

nothing. Then for another week or so he would come and see me oftener,

and asked me about my father and the clan, and whether Nicholas had

been seen there again. And I, you may be sure, always told him that the

clan were good men and quiet livers, who worked hard in the fields,

and thanked God every day that their masters, the Turks, were kind and

just to them. That, it seems, was a mistake, for he smiled--these Turks

know not how to laugh, Mitsos, not with an open mouth--and said it was

very interesting to hear that from one of the clan themselves. And

about Nicholas, I said I had seen him when I was little."

"You were never otherwise," remarked Mitsos.

"Oh, cousin," said Yanni, "but your mother bore a silly loon. Am I not

to go on with my story, then?"

"Go on, big Yanni," said Mitsos.

"And so it went till but five or six days ago. And then on one

morning," said Yanni, suddenly flushing with anger, "he came in looking

white and cunning, with an evil face. The Turk who was my guardian

followed him--he is a good man, Mitsos, save that he comes of the

accursed race--and Mehemet said to me, 'So the clan are good men and

quiet, and they thank their God that they have such kind masters. And

you, Yanni, who are of the clan, you think they do wisely?'

"I don't think I answered him, for it seemed to me he wished for no

answer. And at that his anger suddenly flared up, and he said, 'Answer

me, you dog, or I will have your hide flayed off you.' And I noticed

it as curious, Mitsos, that his face grew white as he got angry,

whereas when a proper man is angry his face is as a sunset. But he

did not give me time to answer, for he went on, 'You are dogs, though

you are handsome dogs, you Greeks. But it is necessary to tie dogs up

sometimes. Thank God you have such a kind master, Yanni, and let your

hands be tied behind you quietly.'

"'Why should you do this?' I asked.

"'Be wise,' he said; 'I do not threaten twice.'

"So as there was none to help me, I let it be done."

Mitsos gave a great gulp.

"Oh, Yanni, by a cross-legged Turk!" he said.

"What was I to do? Would it have helped me to fight, and afterwards to

be beaten? But Mehemet, I saw, was more at his ease when it was done,

and drew his chair a little closer.

"'We shall soon teach you to be quiet and obedient like the rest of

your clan,' he said. 'And now for what I came to say. You will soon see

Nicholas again, for I have sent for him and for your father. If they

come, well and good; I do not really care whether they come or not--for

barking dogs hurt nobody. However, they have been barking too loud. And

if they do not come, my little Yanni, we shall have to think what to

do with you. I have not decided yet'--and the devil came closer to me,

Mitsos, and looked at me as a man looks at the fowls and sheep in the

market. 'Perhaps there will be a rope for that big brown neck of yours;

and yet I do not know, for you are a handsome boy, and I should like to

see you about the house, perhaps to hand the rose-water after dinner.

Let us see, we would dress you in a blue waistcoat with silver braid,

and a red kaftan, I think, and red leggings, with yellow shoes; but I

think we would give you no knife or pistol in your belt, for I fancy

you have a temper of your own. It is a pity that a handsome boy like

you should be so fierce. Perhaps we might even arrange that you were

fitted to attend on the women-folk. In any case you will be mine--you

will belong to your good, kind masters.'"

Yanni's voice had risen, and he spoke quickly, with a red-hot anger

vibrating and growing.

"He said it to me!" he cried, rising to his feet. "To me--free-born

of the clan, who have never had any dealings with the accursed race,

except to spit at them as they went by! And I--I sat there and said

nothing, but for this reason, Mitsos, that I remembered the oath of the

clan you had sworn, and I believed, as I believe that the holy Mother

of God hears me, that you would come, be it soon or late, and that he

should eat his words with a sauce of death to them--the black curse of

her who mocked at Christ upon him!"

"Steady, Yanni!" said Mitsos, looking up at his blazing eyes. "Sit down

and tell the rest."

"What, Mitsos," cried Yanni, "are you a block of stone or a log, you

who are of blood with us?"

"You know I am not. But Mehemet Salik is not on this hill-side.

Tell me the rest. If he was here he should never more return to the

bestialities of his daily life."

Yanni sat down again.

"Even so. Then day after day he would come in all white and cursing

as before, and say, 'The time is drawing near, my little Yanni. They

will be here to-morrow or the next day,' as it might be. And yesterday

morning he said, 'They will be here to-night.' And I--for I never

doubted you, Mitsos--I thought to myself, 'Then I shall not be here

to-night'; and as for them, I knew that they would never sit in the

house of a Turk. And--and that is all, I think."

There was a short silence, and Yanni stretched out his hand to Mitsos:

"So to you, dearest of all," he said, "I owe my life--once at the mill,

and now, once again, life and honor and freedom. Yet is the debt no

burden to me, because I love you. But still I would it were the other

way. I have no skill of speech, Mitsos, but I know certainly that

gladly would I give my eye or my right hand for you, and this is no

figure of talk only."

Mitsos took the hand held out to him and shut it between his, looking

at Yanni with a serious mouth, but a smile in his dark eyes.

"God send me tears for water and salt for bread," he said, again

quoting the oath of the clan, "if I fail you in your need, or love not

those who love you and hate not those who hate you."

The sun was already declining to the western hills, and presently after

they went down to the spring to eat and drink before they began the

tramp through the night. Neither of them had been over this ground

before, but it was likely that they would soon come into some path

leading from the Arcadian plain to one or other of the villages near

the Langarda pass; in any case, even though there were a night's

plunging through the heather undergrowth before them, it could scarcely

be more than a twelve-hours' journey. Thus, starting at six, they

would be at the place by dawn; and, after stowing the remains of their

provisions in their pockets, they began the ascent.

Upward they went out of the day into the sunset, and through the

sunset into moonrise, and from moonrise into the declining of the

moon. The air, warm below, soon grew colder, and their breath, as they

walked, hung frostily in the still night. Now and then a whiff of

some sweet-smelling shrub streamed across them, or again a roosting

pigeon, with a bold noise of its uprising, started still sleepy from

its perch in among the whispers of the fir, or a hawk, more cautious,

slid into the air. To Yanni, born on the mountain and bred in the open,

the spell of the sounds and scents that wander along the hill-side

at night was unutterably sweet, and sweet the comradeship of the

incomparable cousin. In Mitsos, too, the feeling towards the friend he

had saved from death, and worse than death, was father to a very tender

affection, for it was a gentle heart that beat so boldly at the hint of

danger, and the sweetness of self-sacrifice made him most content. The

child within him spoke to his spirit of Suleima, but the boy found his

wants fulfilled in the comradeship of Yanni, and made answer with talk

of brave adventures done in part and more to do.

About midnight they halted, and already they could see the heights no

long distance above them, dappled with snow, and Mitsos, observing

this, knew that they had come as high as they had need to go, for the

beacon-ground, he remembered, was itself just below the line where the

fresh snow lay. They had, an hour before, struck a sort of sheep-track

which led in the right direction, but they found that here it went

still upward, and leaving it to climb by itself, they struck off to the

right, after eating the remains of their food, to follow the contour

of the mountain through tracts of pines and open places, and across

the scolding streams that rattled down from the snows above, and round

deep-cut ravines that broadened out into the larger valleys. By degrees

the stars paled at the approach of day, and the dark velvet-blue of

the Southern night brightened to dove-color; a few birds awoke in the

bushes with sleepy, half-tuned twitterings, and then the sun, great and

bold, looked up over the rim of the mountain.

"Look, it is day," said Yanni. "Are we nearly there?"

"Yes," said Mitsos, "there is the beacon-hill. And who is that?"

Swiftly down the hill-side towards them came a great man, leaping and

running like a boy.

"Oh, quick, down with you," said Mitsos. "I think there is but one man

who can go like that; but it is best. Ah, I thought so; show him we can

run, too."

And in two minutes Nicholas, with a face as welcome as morning, was

with them.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MESSAGE OF FIRE

The Greek camp which was being formed here, nestled airily on the

unfrequented side of Taygetus, was square, half of it lying on each

side of a rattling stream (loud at this time from the melting snows)

which flowed down a steep ravine into the plain of Kalamata. It lay

about five hundred yards below the site of the beacon, a conspicuous

and stony plateau on the top of an isolated hill, separated on all

sides by steep, narrow gullies from the main mass of the mountain. It

was Nicholas who had chosen the spot, and chosen wisely, for while the

camp itself lay concealed and sheltered from the northern winds, the

top of the hill just above it, from which a man could run down in two

minutes to headquarters, was an eyry for observation. On the north it

commanded the Arcadian plain, the corner of which Mitsos and Yanni

had just crossed; on the west, the whole valley of Messenia, with its

capital, Kalamata, lay unfurled like a map; and directly under it to

the south wound the Langarda pass over Taygetus from Messenia to Sparta.

The camp was walled with a robust barrier of brushwood and peopled

with small huts, built on a framework of poles, between which were

interwoven branches of fir and heather, and roofed with reeds or furze.

In the centre, just on the right of the stream, stood the hut shared

by Petrobey and Nicholas, built in exactly the same manner as the

others, and only distinguished by a blue-and-white flag which floated

over it, bearing prophetically the cross of Greece risen above the

crescent of Turkey. Towards the top of the enclosure had stood a belt

of pines, most of which had been felled for building purposes, one here

and there only having been left to give support to a structure of much

more solid and weather-proof workmanship. It was divided inside into

two chambers, in one of which were stored powder and ammunition; in the

other the rifles and swords. Additional protection was given to the

powder-magazine by a coat of felt which was nailed on above the boards

of its roof.

The camp was all alive and humming like a hive of bees when the three

arrived, for a train of mules from the district round which Yanni

and Mitsos had made their first journey had just come in, bringing

the secret grindings of the mills from Kalyvia and Tsimova. This

was the first consignment of powder which had arrived, and Petrobey

was superintending its stowage in the magazine. Elsewhere the thin

blue smoke of wood fires, over which men were cooking their coffee

for breakfast, rose up straight into the air, and the flicking and

flashing of axes in the morning sun showed others still at work on

pine-felling. During the last two nights many parties of the clan and

the patriots from the villages round had been arriving with their

arms and provisions, and a herd of sheep and goats were browsing on

the scrub-clad sides of the ravine below the camp. Already there were

not fewer than two hundred men there, and before three days Petrobey

hoped that the whole depot, consisting of eight hundred men with arms

and ammunition, would be assembled. Farther along the sides of the

mountain there were three similar camps, and thus the total number of

men who would march down from Taygetus onto Kalamata would be a tale of

over three thousand. These were all drawn from Laconia, Argolis, and

the south of Arcadia, and the number would be raised to close on five

thousand by additions from the populous Messenian plain. The patriots

in the north of Greece would, at the beacon-signal, rise simultaneously

in Achaia as soon as the camps all contained their complement of men.

In the camp discipline and organization were thoroughly ordered and

carried out. A body of the younger and more active were stationed on

the top of the hill with instructions to report at once any movement

they might observe in the country round, and to stop _vi et armis_ any

Turk who was seen going up the pass from Messenia into Sparta, for fear

of news being taken to Tripoli of the assembling of the patriots. This

danger, however, was inconsiderable. All the camps were nestled away

from view in hollows of the unvisited mountain-sides, and the only

circumstance of suspicion was that within a few days many Greeks had

left their villages with laden mules, and with their flocks. Even this

was not unusual at the spring-time of the year, for it was common, when

April opened up the hills, to drive the flocks higher up to the juicier

mountain pasture, where the shepherds would spend weeks at a time

cutting down pines and burning them for charcoal. But this flight of

Petrobey and Nicholas and the escape of Yanni might easily have become

a signal of warning to the Turks, and until all was ready it was most

important that no communication of alarm should pass from Kalamata to

Tripoli. For the last few weeks the fortification of Tripoli had been

undergoing repair, and it was evidently expected that if a rising took

place the first attack would be directed there; or at any rate the

Turks thought it was safer to have some fortress in a fairly central

position, where the families of their countrymen scattered about the

country could take refuge from local disturbances.

All the cattle, all the arms, the mules and horses brought to the camp,

were put under the disposal of Petrobey. As he was the head of the clan

of Mavromichales, of whom the camp was chiefly composed, Nicholas had

felt it better that he should have absolute supremacy in all matters,

and, as he had said to Priketes, all that he asked for himself was the

right to serve. Petrobey was loath to take advantage of his generosity,

and only did so on condition that Nicholas would promise to give him

advice and counsel on all points, dissent from him freely and promptly

where his judgment did not coincide with his own, and at the wish of

his men be willing himself to take over the sole command. Meantime,

would he take in charge the outposts and messenger corps of the camp,

on which devolved the duty of watching the roads and of carrying news

from one camp to another?

Nicholas's company had been relieved at the watch on the beacon-station

when the two boys arrived, and the three went together to Petrobey. He

was busy with the unlading of the powder-carrying mules when they came

up, but as they drew near he saw them and ran towards them.

"Now the Blessed Virgin be praised," he cried, "that you have come! We

expected you earlier. How was it you did not come before? Ah, Yanni,

but your father has wearied for you! Is it a long bill we have with

Mehemet? Oh, admirable little Mitsos, the Holy Father reward you for

bringing him safe. We will breakfast together when I have finished this

job. Get you to my tent with Nicholas."

The unlading of the powder was an operation in which, so Petrobey

thought, no caution would be superfluous. It arrived in big mule

panniers, covered over with charcoal or some country produce, and the

panniers were taken off and carried singly by men barefoot into the

magazine. Here others were stationed, whose duty it was to take off

the stuff under which the powder was concealed and empty it into small

skin bottles, which could be carried by a man, and held more than the

ordinary powder-flasks. There were eight hundred of these, one for

each man in the camp, and when they were full the remainder were to be

stored in light wooden boxes of handier shapes than the panniers for

transport on the ammunition mules.

All day fresh bands of men in eights and tens from the Maina country

arrived in camp, and news was passed from the other stations along the

mountain-side that they, too, were filling rapidly. Among others fifty

men had joined the patriots from Nauplia and the plain of Argos, one

of whom was Father Andréa, an incarnated vengeance more than priest,

and another was Mitsos' father. Mitsos himself, however, was to remain

in the camp of the Mavromichales, acting as aide-de-camp to Nicholas,

but otherwise the disposition of the men was strictly geographical,

since Petrobey's experience told him that men who have known each other

fight best side by side. Each camp was organized on the pattern of the

Mavromichales, and the captains of each had voluntarily put themselves

under the supreme command of Petrobey, for the dissensions which

subsequently broke out in the army had not yet appeared. Moreover, the

Hetairist Club, since the flight of Prince Alexander Ypsilanti, had

given express orders that the direction of affairs in the south was to

be in the hands of some local chieftain, suggesting for that office

either Petrobey or Nicholas.

A week passed, and the camps were all nearly full, and Petrobey waited

impatiently for the completion of his preparations. Partly by extreme

caution, and partly by good luck, there had as yet been no collision

with the Turks, and apparently no uneasiness felt in Kalamata. A report

had come in a couple of days before that two Turkish ships of war

had been ordered there for the defence of the town, and to carry off

the Turkish inhabitants in case of an outbreak; but, though the bay

was carefully watched by those on the beacon-point, no sign of them

had been seen. But about mid-day on the 2d of April a scout from the

beacon came into the camp, saying that a small band of Turks, twelve

in number, under arms, and followed by a train of baggage-mules, were

coming up the pass from Kalamata. Petrobey's answer was short and

decisive: "Stop them!" and some twenty men were sent out to reinforce

the outpost at the beacon. From the camp nothing could be seen of

the road, but a dozen more men were told off to hold themselves in

readiness. Then after a long pause, in which each man's eyes sought the

eyes of his fellow in a fever of expectation, shots were heard, and in

half an hour's time the message came back to Petrobey and Nicholas, who

were at dinner, that they had been stopped.

Then Petrobey rose, and his gray eye was fire.

"At last, at last!" he cried. "Oh, Nicholas, the vintage is ripe!"

He waited no longer. Yanni, who was his aide-de-camp, was despatched

at top speed to the next station, with orders that an hour before

sunset the army was to start on its march to Kalamata, and all the

afternoon the stir of going was shrill. The clan were half wild with

excitement and eagerness; but all were absolutely in control, and went

about their duties methodically and in perfect order, and the work of

lading and marshalling the ammunition and baggage-mules was finished

by four o'clock. Meanwhile another party had carried up to the top of

the hill the fuel for the beacon, which Petrobey had arranged was to

be the signal, not only across to the hill above Bassae, but to the

patriots collected lower down in the villages of the Messenian plain.

Mitsos, who was charged with the lighting of it, was to let loose the

tongue of fire which should shout the word all over Greece as soon

as dark fell, and then follow straight down the hill-side after the

main body. The whole disposition of the force round Kalamata, and the

routes by which, converging as they went, they were to march there, had

been already arranged, and by five o'clock the clan set out, spreading

themselves in open order over the hill-side, the mules alone following

the road of the pass, so as to prevent any one leaving the town by

other mountain-paths over Taygetus.

As soon as the clan had started, Mitsos, left to himself, ate his

supper, and sat down to wait till the darkness of the birthnight of

Greece should fall. It had been a hot, sultry day, with a heavy air,

and he had packed up and sent on with the mules a heavy woollen cloak,

which Nicholas had given him to replace the one he had left behind

in his race to Tripoli, and was dressed only in his linen trousers,

shirt, and open Albanian jacket. The still air hung like a blanket on

the mountain-side, but he saw that clouds had gathered on the top of

Taygetus and were moving down westward in the direction of the camp.

But they remained as yet high, and though before sunset they had

stretched right over from the mountain-top behind to the peak of Ithome

in the west, a gray floor of mottled marble, flushed here and there,

where they were thinner, with the reflected fire of an angry sunset,

the northern heaven was still clear, and his beacon-point close above

him stood out black and sharp-cut. Long before dark fell he had already

been up to the beacon, in order to arrange the brushwood and firing

most handily; the lighter and drier wood he put on the windward side,

so that such breeze as there was might drive the flames inward against

the larger bushes, which would take the flame less easily. He also

tore a quantity of dry moss from the sides of a couple of plane-trees,

which grew to the leeward of the hill, and made a core of this within

the brushwood, adding a train, in the manner of a fuse, leading outward

to where he would apply the light. He had just finished this to his

satisfaction, and was about to return to the camp to fetch up the

burning lumps of charcoal which he had fed during the afternoon, and

which in this wind that had sprung up would soon kindle the moss into

flame, when a few large raindrops fell splashing on the ground, and he

hurriedly covered the dry, tinder-like furze with thick branches of

pine, in order to keep it protected; then for a few moments the rain

ceased again, but Mitsos, looking up, saw that the clouds had grown

black and swollen with an imminent downpour, and that the storm might

break any minute. His next thought was for the burning charcoal below,

and he ran quickly down the hill-side in order to carry it under cover

of the ammunition magazine; but before he had gone fifty yards the

storm broke in a sheet of hissing rain, driven a little aslant in the

wind--but for heaviness a shower of lead. However, in hopes of saving

the charcoal, he ran on, and raking about in the embers of his fire,

already turning to a black slush under the volleying rain, he found a

lump of charcoal not yet extinguished. Then sheltering it in his cap,

he nursed it tenderly, and carried it into the ammunition magazine.

There he sat for half an hour, and from it managed to kindle a few more

lumps, while the noise of the rain continued as of musketry on the

resounding roof. Then looking out he saw that night had come, heavy and

lowering.

The position was sufficiently critical. The beacon fuel would be

soaked, and the dry kindling in the centre, he thought, would be

insufficient to start a blaze. Then he remembered a flask of spirits

which Petrobey had told him to keep with him in case of emergency, and

he ran across to fetch it from his hut. The clouds had lifted a little,

though the downpour was still heavy; but, looking up, he still saw the

outline of the beacon-hill a shade blacker than the sky, showing that

it was clear, at any rate, of mists. He groped about the walls of the

hut for some little time before finding the flask, and just as he put

his hand on it the wind fell dead, the rain stopped as when a tap is

turned back, and in the stillness he heard the sound of the footstep of

some man unfamiliarly stumbling up the stony hill-side just below. At

that he stopped, and then creeping cautiously to the entrance of the

hut, peered out. He could see nothing; but the step still advanced,

drawing nearer.

Who could it be? It was hardly possible, though still just possible,

that this man was some Greek of the clan--yet such would surely have

shouted to him--coming from Petrobey with a message, or it might be

some benighted peasant; yet, again, for fear it might be a Turk he must

needs go carefully, and with redoubled caution he crept out of the

hut, still keeping in the shadow, and looked round the corner. Whether

it was the rustle of his moving in the dead silence, or the faint

shimmering of his white trousers in the darkness, that betrayed him,

was only a thing for conjecture, but the next moment, from some fifty

yards in front, he saw the flash of a gun, and a bullet sang viciously

by him, cracking in half one of the upright posts which bound the sides

of the hut together. Mitsos stood up, as he knew he was seen, and

called out, cocking his pistol, yet seeing no one, "Speak, or I fire,"

and in answer he heard the sound of another charge being rammed home.

At that he bolted back round the corner of the tent and waited. The

steps advanced closer; clearly the man, whoever he was, finding that he

did not fire, concluded that he had no arms--the truth, however, being

that Mitsos, having seen nothing but the flash of the gun, thought

it more prudent to wait until he had a more localized target. But

presently the steps paused, and after a moment he heard them retreating

with doubled quickness up the hill towards the pass. Then a solution

flashed upon him--this could be no patriot, nor would a wandering

peasant have fired at him; it could only be some Turk who had seen the

Greek army advancing, had somehow eluded them, and was going hotfoot to

Sparta with the news. He must be stopped at all costs, and next moment

Mitsos was stretched in pursuit up the hill after him, keeping as much

as possible in the cover of the trees. Clearly the man had missed his

way in the darkness, and had come unexpectedly upon the Greek camp, and

seeing some one there had fired.

In three minutes or so Mitsos' long legs had gained considerably on

him, and he now saw him, though duskily, with his gun on his shoulder

still making up the hill. Another minute saw them within about fifty

yards of each other; but Mitsos had the advantage of position, for

while he was running between scattered trees the other was in the

open. He apparently recognized this, and changed his course towards

the belt of wood; but then suddenly, seeing Mitsos so near, he halted

and fired, and Mitsos felt the bullet just graze his arm. On that he

ran forward, while the man still stayed reloading his piece, and sent

a pistol bullet at him. The shot went wide, and Mitsos with a grunt of

rage ran desperately on to close with him. But the other, while he was

still some yards distant, finished loading, and his gun was already on

the way to his shoulder, when Mitsos, partly in mere animal fury at

the imminence of death, but in part with reasonable aim, took hold of

his heavy pistol by the barrel and flung it with all his force in the

Turk's face. He reeled for a moment, and, the blood, like the red of

morning, streaming over his face in a torrent that blinded him, Mitsos

was on him and had closed with him. When it came to mere physical

strength the odds were vastly in his favor, and in a moment, in the

blind gust of the fury of fighting, he wrested the man's gun from him

and, without thinking of firing, had banged him over the head with the

butt end. He fell with a sound of breaking, and Mitsos, still drunk and

beside himself with the lust of slaughter, laughed loud and hit him

again with his full force as he lay on the ground. There was a crack,

and a spurt of something warm and thick came out in a jet against his

trousers and over his hand. He paused only one moment to make sure that

this was a Turk he had killed, and then without giving him another

thought, or waiting to brush the clotted mess off his clothes, he ran

down again to set about the beacon.

The wound on his arm was but slight, though it bled profusely and

smarted like a burn, and only stopping to tear off a piece from his

shirt-sleeve, which he bound tightly round it, tying the knot with his

teeth and his right hand, he again put the charcoal, which was burning

well, into his cap, and with the flask of brandy set off for the top

of the hill. The rain had come on again, hissing down in torrents, and

Mitsos, knowing that the fear of failure strode faster every moment,

tore the cover of boughs off from the core of moss and furze, but found

to his dismay it was quite damp and would not light. It was necessary

to get a flame somehow; the spirits and the moss would do the rest if

once he could get that; and to get a flame, he must have something dry,

though it were but a twig. There was no time to waste; already a big

raindrop had made an ominous black spot on the middle of the glowing

charcoal, and meantime everything was getting rapidly wetter. In a

moment of hopelessness he clutched at his hair despairingly; the thing

seemed an impossibility.

Then suddenly an idea struck him, and, tearing off his jacket, he

removed his shirt, which had been kept quite dry, and kneeling down

with his back bare to the cold, scourging rain put the two lumps of

charcoal in the folds of it and blew on them. For a couple of seconds

the linen smouldered only, but then--and no Angel Gabriel would have

been a gladder sight to him--a little tongue of flame shot up. Mitsos

took the brandy bottle, and with the utmost care shook out a few drops

onto the edge of the flame. These it licked up, burning brighter, and

soon the whole of the back of the shirt took the fire. He crammed

it under the thick core of moss and brushwood, and feeding them

plentifully with brandy coaxed the flame into the driest part of the

stuff. Now and then a little spark would go running like some fiery

insect through the fibres, leaving a gray path of ash behind, only

to perish when it reached the damper stuff, and once even the flame

seemed to die down altogether; but meantime it had penetrated into the

centre of the pile, and suddenly a yellow blade of smoky fire leaped

out and licked the dripping branches of fir outside. These only fumed

and cracked, and Mitsos pulled them off, for they were but choking the

flames; and, running down to the edge of the wood, he tore up great

handfuls of undergrowth, which had been partially protected from the

rain by the trees, and threw them on. Then the fire began to take hold

in earnest, and through the thick volumes of stinging smoke, which were

streaming away westward, shot lurid gleams of flame. Now and then with

a great crash and puff of vapor some thicker branch of timber would

split and break, throwing out a cloud of ignited fragments, or again

there would rise up a hissing and simmering of damp leaves, like the

sound of a great stewing over a hot fire. The place where he had first

lit the beacon was all consumed, and only a heap of white frothy ash,

every now and then flushing red again with half-consumed particles as

some breeze fanned it, remained, and from the fir branches which Mitsos

had taken off ten minutes ago, but now replaced, as every moment the

hold of the fire grew steadier, there were bursting little fan-shaped

bouquets of flame.

Meantime, with the skin of his chest down to the band of his trousers

reddened and scorched by the heat, his back cold and dripping, and

lashed with the heavy whisp of rain which had so belabored him in those

first few moments of struggle between fire and water, his hair tangled

and steaming with heat and shower, his eyes blackened and burned with

the firing, Mitsos worked like a man struggling for life; now pushing a

half-burned branch back into the fire; now lifting a new bundle of fuel

(as much as he could carry in both arms), which pricked and scratched

the scorched and bleeding skin of his chest; now glancing northward

to see whether Bassae had answered him. With the savage frenzy of his

haste, the excitement of the deed, and the fury and madness of the

blood he had shed dancing in his black eyes, he looked more like some

ancient Greek spirit of the mountains than the lover of Suleima and the

boy who was so tender for Yanni.

In ten minutes more the rain had stopped, but Mitsos still labored

on until the heat of the beacon was so great that he could scarcely

approach to throw on the fresh fuel. The flames leaped higher and

higher, and the wind dropping a shower of red-hot pieces of half-burned

leaves and bark was continually carried upward, peopling the night with

fiery sparks and falling round him in blackened particles, or floating

away a feathery white ash like motes in a sunbeam. And as he stood

there, grimy and panting, scorched and chilled, throwing new bundles of

fuel onto the furnace, and seeing them smoke and fizz and then break

out flaring, the glory and the splendor of the deeds he was helping in

burst in upon him with one blinding flash that banished other memories,

and for the moment even Suleima was but the shadow of a shadow. The

beacon he had kindled seemed to illuminate the depths of his soul, and

he saw by its light the cruelty and accursed lusts of the hated race

and the greatness of the freedom that was coming. Then, blackened and

burned and sodden and drenched, he sat down for a few moments to the

north of the beacon to get his breath and scoured the night. Was that a

star burning so low on the horizon? Surely it was too red for a star,

and on such a night what stars could pierce the clouds? Besides, was

not that a mountain which stood up dimly behind it? Then presently

after it grew and glowed; it was no star, but the fiery mouth of

message shouting north and south. Bessae had answered.

[Illustration: "MITSOS TORE UP GREAT HANDFULS OF UNDERGROWTH AND THREW

THEM ON"]

There was still a little spirits left, and between his wetting and his

scorching Mitsos felt that he would be none the worse for it, and he

left his jacket to dry by the beacon while he went back to where the

body of the Turkish soldier lay to look for his pistol, which he had

till then forgotten. He searched about for some little while without

finding it, for it had fallen in a tangle of undergrowth; and taking it

and the man's gun, which might come in useful, he turned to go. Then

for the first time a sudden feeling of compassion came over him, and he

broke off an armful of branches from the trees round, and threw them

over the body in order to cover it from the marauding feeders of the

mountain; and then crossing himself, as the Greeks do in the presence

of the dead, he turned away; and going once more up to the beacon to

fetch his jacket, which had grown dry and almost singed in that fierce

heat, he ran off down the hill to join the clan.

They had gone but slowly, for they did not wish to reach Kalamata

till an hour before daybreak, and had, when Mitsos came up, halted at

the bottom of the range where the foot-hills begin to rise towards

Taygetus. He was challenged by one of the sentries, and for reply

shouted his own name to them; and finding Demetri was his challenger,

stopped to tell him of the success of the beacon and the answer flared

back from Bassae, and then went on to seek for Nicholas or Petrobey to

report his return.

Petrobey was sitting by a camp-fire when he came up, talking earnestly

to Nicholas and Father Andréa, who had come in from the Nauplia

contingent, and only smiled at Mitsos as he entered.

"That is the order, father," he was saying; "we want to take the place

at all costs, but the less it costs us the better. I should prefer if

it capitulated, and not waste lives which we can ill spare over it. All

the Turks inside the walls will be our prisoners, and them--"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps the moon will devour them," said Petrobey. "I shall make no

conditions about surrender. Good-night, father. And now, little Mitsos;

the beacon, we know, got lit. How in the name of the Virgin did you

manage to do it?"

Mitsos unbuttoned his jacket and showed the sore and reddened skin

beneath.

"There is much in a shirt," he said, laughing, and told his story.

When he had finished Petrobey looked at Nicholas with wonder and

something like awe in his eye.

"Surely the blessing of the Holy Saints is on the lad," he said, in a

low voice.

Part III

THE TREADING OF THE GRAPES

CHAPTER I

TE DEUM LAUDAMUS

During the night the wind swept the floor of heaven clean of clouds,

and an hour of clear starlight and setting moon preceded dawn. Before

starting, after an hour's halt about midnight, Petrobey called together

the captains of the other three camps and gave them their final

instructions. Three companies, those from Maina, Argolis, and Laconia,

were to besiege the citadel, while the company from Arcadia was to join

the two from Messenia, which would meet them on the plain, and invest

the harbor, destroy all the shipping except three or four light-built

boats which were to be kept in readiness for other purposes, and

watch for the coming of the two Turkish ships-of-war. The Messenians,

with a loyal and patriotic spirit, had asked Petrobey to name them a

captain for the three companies which would be employed on this work,

instead of pressing a local candidate; and in order to prevent jealousy

or dissent among them, he nominated one Niketas, of Sparta, who was

well known to most of the men, popular, and had seen service on an

English ship, where he had worked for two years abroad, for a price

had been placed on his head by the Turks for supposed brigandage. He

had returned to his country a month ago from the Ionian Isles, and had

hastened to put himself in the service of the patriots.

The citadel of Kalamata stood on rising ground about a mile from the

harbor, but it was small, and a large, unfortified suburb, chiefly

employed in commerce and the silk industry, had spread out southward

from its base, making a continuous street between harbor and citadel.

The latter was defended by a complete circuit of wall, and on three

sides out of the four the rocks on the edge of which the walls stood

were precipitous for some thirty feet. Under the western of these, and

directly below the wall, ran a torrent-bed, bringing down the streams

from the mountains to the north--dry in summer, but now flowing full

and turbid with the melting of the winter snows on the heights. On

this side the town was impregnable to the Greeks, who at present had

no field-pieces or arms of any kind larger than the ordinary muskets

then in use, and similarly it would have been waste of time and lives

to attack it either on the north or east. On the north, however, was

a picket-gate in the wall, communicating with a steep flight of steps

cut in the rock. Petrobey's plan, therefore, was to take possession at

once of the lower undefended town and blockade the citadel from that

side, for thus with a body of men to guard the northern picket, the

east and west sides being impassable both from within and without, the

blockade would be complete. Meantime the three companies, consisting

of Messenians and Arcadians, would cut off the harbor from the town,

leaving the Mainats, Argives, and Laconians to deal with the citadel

itself.

When day broke the secrecy of their advance was favored by a thick

mist, which rose some ten feet high from the plain, and under cover of

this, manoeuvring in some fields about a mile eastward from the town,

the army split in two, and one half marched straight down to the shore

of the bay, and from there, turning along the coast, ranged itself

along the harbor shore and on the breakwater, made of large rough

blocks of stone, which sheltered the harbor from southerly winds, and

the other three, leaving the citadel on their right hand, went straight

for the lower town. Half an hour afterwards the heat of the sun began

to disperse the morning mists, and as they got to the outskirts of the

town the vast vapor was rolled away, and the sentries on the citadel

looking out southward saw three companies of soldiers not half a mile

off. The alarm was given at once and spread through the lower town like

fire. From all the houses rushed out men, women, and children, some

still half clad or just awakened from their morning sleep, mothers with

babies in their arms, and old men almost as helpless, who ran this way

and that in the first panic terror, but gradually settled down into

two steady streams--the one up to the citadel to find refuge there,

the other to the harbor to seek means of flight. But the army came

on in silence, making its way slowly up the narrow streets towards

the citadel, without being attacked by the terrified and unarmed

inhabitants, and in its turn neither striking a blow nor firing a shot.

Two companies only had entered the town, the third remaining on the

outskirts to the east, acting like a "stop" in cover-shooting, to drive

the inhabitants back again, lest any should convey the alarm to Tripoli.

From the west of the town a bridge led over the torrent, and here

Petrobey stationed some hundred men to prevent any one leaving the

town across the river; but before long, wishing to concentrate all his

forces in the town, Yanni was sent to the party picketed there with

orders to destroy the bridge. This was made of wood, but preparations

were in hand for replacing it with one of iron, and several girders

were lying about on the bank for the approaching work. With one of

these as a lever, and twenty men to work it, it was an affair of

ten minutes only to prize up some half-dozen planks of the wooden

structure, and after that to saw in half a couple of the timber poles

on which it rested. The bridge thus weakened drooped towards the water,

and soon was caught by the swift stream below. Then, as some monstrous

fish plucks at a swimmer's limbs, it twitched and fretted against the

remaining portion, and soon with a rush and swirl of timbers and planks

it tore away a gap of some twenty feet across, sufficient to stop any

would-be fugitives.

Here and there in their passage up the town a house was shut and barred

against them, but for the most part the inhabitants streamed out like

ants when their hill is disturbed. Once only was resistance offered,

when from the upper window of a house a Turk fired upon the soldiers,

killing one man; and Petrobey, heading a charge himself, burst in the

door, and a couple of shots were heard from inside. Then, without a

word, he and the three others who had gone in with him took their

places again, and the column moved forward up the street.

The square of the lower town stood just at the base of the rising

ground leading up to the citadel, and on its north side was built a row

of big silk-mills, all of which had been deserted by their owners on

the first alarm, and in these the Maina division took up its quarters.

As soon as they and the Argives had made their passage through the

town, driving the inhabitants up into the citadel, or down to the

harbor, where they were taken by the Messenian division, Petrobey sent

to the Laconian corps, who had been acting as a "stop" on the east to

prevent the people escaping into the country, and brought them up on

the right to complete the line which they had drawn along the south

front of the citadel. The Argive corps, meantime, had been divided

into two, one-half of which blockaded the picket-gate on the north,

while the other was drawn up on the left of the Mainats, between them

and the river. This done, the blockade of the citadel was complete; on

the west the besieged were hemmed in by their own impregnable rock,

below which ran the current; on the south and southeast by the Greek

army; on the east again by the precipitous crags; and on the north

their escape through the picket-gate was impracticable, owing to the

detachment of Argives guarding it.

Three courses were open to them: to make a sortie as soon as the

expected Turkish ships would appear and regain communication with the

sea; or, by engaging and defeating the Greeks, establish connection

with Tripoli; or to support the siege until help came. In the utter

confusion and panic caused by the sudden appearance of the Greeks

the inhabitants had simply fled like a quail-flock, and the citadel

was crammed with a crowd of unarmed civilians. Each thought only

for himself and his own personal protection. Mixed in this crowd of

fugitives had been hundreds of Greek residents--some of whom, possessed

merely by the wild force of panic and without waiting to think what

this army was, had rushed blindly with the others into the citadel; but

the larger number had joined their countrymen--men, women, and children

together--imploring protection with horrible tales of outrage and

cruelty on their lips. All those who were fit for active service and

willing Petrobey enlisted, and employed them in making a more careful

search through the town for any Turks who might remain in hiding. These

were not to be killed or ill-treated, but merely kept as prisoners.

But the wild vengeance of those who had so long been slaves burst all

bounds when they saw their masters in their power, and all who were

found were secretly put to death.

The weakness of the citadel lay in its bad water supply. There was

only one well in the place, and that was not nearly sufficient for the

wants of the crowds who had taken refuge within it. But about mid-day

Demetri, the mayor of Nauplia, who was in charge of the division on

the north, observed buckets being let down from the top of the citadel

wall into the river and drawn up again full. The rocks here overhung a

little, and, taking with him some ten men, they dashed right under the

walls and to the corner abutting on the river. At that moment two more

buckets appeared close in front of them, and he and another, taking

hold of them, quietly undid the knots which tied them to the rope. The

grim humor of this amused him, and in half an hour there was a row of

some twenty buckets, which they had untied or cut. The besieged then

attempted to get water farther down, but the rocks there being not so

precipitous and sloping outward, the buckets stuck on some projection

of rock before reaching the water.

Meantime a column of smoke, rising from the harbor, showed that the

Messenians were at their work. One corps had deployed along the

shore and took in hand the work of burning all the shipping, while

the other was employed in making prisoners of the fugitives from the

lower town, who hoped to escape by sea. A few of these, striking

eastward across the plain, tried to get into the mountains, and were

shot, but the majority, finding themselves between two divisions of

the army, cut off from the citadel by Petrobey's division and from

the sea by the Messenians, and also being unarmed, surrendered to

Niketas, who, knowing no Turkish, but being proud of his English,

merely said "All-a-right" to their entreaties and prayers, and had

them incontinently stowed away in batches in the harbor buildings. The

Arcadians, meantime, had ranged themselves along the breakwater, where

they kept watch for the Turkish ships, and, having no work to hand,

spent the morning in smoking and singing.

About two in the afternoon word was brought to the captain of the

troops within the citadel--one Ali Aga--that two Turkish ships had

been seen in the offing approaching Kalamata. A steady south breeze

was blowing, and a couple of hours would see their arrival. Ali had

watched, in white, contemptuous anger that morning, the destruction

of the shipping by the Greeks. The ammunition within the walls was

very scanty, and the water supply for this irruption of fugitives was

wholly inadequate. Indeed, unless news of their straits was already

on the road to Tripoli--and this he could scarce hope, so swift and

complete had been the beleaguer--unless a relief expedition was even

now imminently starting, he saw that the only chance of saving the town

lay in concerted action with the approaching ships, and thus making an

attack on the Greek lines from both sides--the citadel and the sea.

Thus he determined to wait until the ships came up and engaged the

detachment of Greeks on the shore.

The wind still holding, in half an hour the Arcadian contingent on the

breakwater could see even from the beach the hulls of the approaching

ships, beyond all doubt Turkish men-of-war. The breakwater along which

the Greeks were ranged was still only half completed, and masses of

rough masonry lay piled and tumbled on the seaward end. Niketas rubbed

his hands gleefully as he made the dispositions for their welcome, and

exclaimed many times "This is very all-a-right"; then, relapsing into

Greek, he gave his orders, and mingled with them a chuckling homily.

"The Turk made the breakwater," he said, "but God and the holy saints,

having the Greeks in mind, were the designers. Hide yourselves ever so

thickly among these beautiful great stones, like anchovies in a barrel,

and when the ship turns into the harbor we will all talk loud to it

together. The water is very deep here; they will sail close to our

anchovy barrel, and they will see none of us till they turn the corner,

for the breakwater which God planned hides us from the sea."

He called up one division of Messenians to join the Arcadian corps,

leaving the other to guard the beach, and the sixteen hundred men

ranged themselves among the blocks of masonry along the inside of the

breakwater, so that until the ships turned the corner not one could be

seen, but once round they would be exposed to a broadside of muskets at

close range from marksmen concealed by the stones. Niketas himself--for

the foremost ship was now not more than a few hundred yards

out--crawled with infinite precaution to the end of the breakwater, and

smilingly watched its unsuspicious approach. It carried, he saw, many

heavy guns; but that was a small matter.

The wind was now light, and the ship was nearly opposite the end of

the breakwater when she began to take in sail, and a moment afterwards

her helm was put hard aport, and she slowly swung round, crumpling the

smooth water beneath her bow, and came straight alongside the wall at a

distance of not more than fifty yards. Niketas had told the men to fire

exactly when the ship came opposite them. She would pass slowly down

the line, and would be raked fore and aft again and again as she went

along.

Sixteen hundred men were crowded like swarming bees among the lumps

of tumbled stone. As many muskets waited hungrily. Overhead, above

the shelter of the breakwater, hummed the breeze; the little wavelets

tapped on the edge of the masonry; the stage was ready.

Tall and beautiful she came slowly on till her whole length appeared

opposite the ambush. Her decks and rigging were alive with the sailors,

who were swarming over the masts and furling sail, or stood ready to

drop the anchor on the word of command. On the bridge stood the captain

with two other officers, and, marshalled in rows on the aft deck,

about two hundred soldiers, carrying arms. Simultaneously through the

ambushed Greeks the same thought ran, "The soldiers first," and as the

great ship glided steadily past the end of the breakwater the fire of a

hundred men broke out, and they went down like ninepins. The ship moved

on, and, like the echo of the first volley, a second swept the decks,

and close on the second a third. The captain fell and two officers

with him, and a panic seized the crew. They ran hither and thither,

some seeking refuge below, some jumping overboard, some standing where

they were, wide-eyed and terror-stricken. A few of the soldiers only

retained their presence of mind, and with perfect calmness, as if they

were practising at some sham-fight, brought a gun into position and

proceeded to load it. But again and again they were mowed down by the

deadly short-range fire of the Greeks, while others took up the ramrods

and charge from their clinched hands, only to deliver it up from their

death-grip to others. But still the great ship went on, running the

gauntlet of the whole ambush, while every moment its decks grew more

populous with a ghastly crew of death. The well-directed and low fire

of the Greeks had left the half-furled sails untouched, and the wind

still blew steadily. But in a few moments more there were none left to

take the helm, and, swinging round to the wind, she changed her course

and went straight for the low, sandy beach on the other side of the

harbor. There, fifty yards off the shore, she grounded heavily, with a

slight list to starboard, striking a sand-bank on the port side; and

there, all the afternoon, she stood, white and stately, with sails

bulging with the wind, but moving not, like some painted or phantom

ship with wings that feel not wind nor any gale.

Not till then did Niketas, nor indeed any of his ambushed party, give

a thought to the other ship, but when the first ship with its crew of

dead turned in the wind and sailed ashore he looked round the corner

for the other. It was still some quarter of a mile away, but there

seemed to be some commotion on deck, and he was uncertain for a moment

whether they were preparing to bring their big gun into play. But

he was not left long in doubt, for in a couple of minutes more the

ship swung round and beat out to sea again. This disgraceful piece of

cowardice raised from the Greeks a howl, partly of derision and partly

of rage at being balked of their prey, and a few discharged their

muskets at the fleeing enemy until Niketas stopped them, telling them

not to waste good powder on runaway dogs. On the first ship the body

of soldiers had literally been destroyed, and of two hundred not more

than thirty remained. But these, with a courageous despair, after the

first few minutes of wild confusion were over, had sheltered themselves

at different points behind the bulwarks and furniture of the ship, and

were returning the fire coolly, while others began preparing the big

gun for action. But these were an easy mark for the Greeks, for they

were unprotected, and after five or six more men had been shot down

they abandoned the attempt and confined themselves to their muskets.

They were, however, fighting with cruel odds against them, for the

men on whom they were firing were sheltered by the blocks of masonry

on the pier, and hardly more could be seen than a bristling row of

gun-barrels. Hardly any of those who had flung themselves into the sea

lived to reach the shore, for they also were shot down as they swam,

and all over the bay were stains of crimson blood and clothes which

they had flung off into the water. One man, indeed, landed two hundred

yards away, but even as he stood there wringing the water out of his

clothes, which would clog his running, he was shot dead, and fell back

into the water again.

Meantime, from the citadel Ali Aga had watched the destruction of one

ship and the flight of the other. At the moment when the first had

entered the harbor he had opened fire on the Mainat corps; but they,

obeying Petrobey's direction, merely sheltered behind the mills, and

did not even take the trouble to return it. Encouraged by this, and

seeing heavy fighting going on below, Ali was just preparing to make a

dash for the harbor with some half of the troops, in order to establish

communication, when the firing on the shore suddenly slackened, and he

saw one ship sail off without firing a shot, while the other drifted

with half-furled sails across the bay, and then grounded. At that he

resolved again to wait, for he had no intention of going to the rescue

of those who should have rescued him, and indeed, without co-operation

from the ship, the attempt would have been madness.

At dusk the firing below ceased altogether, for a boat had put off

from the ship bearing the white flag of surrender, and all those who

were left on board were removed, their arms taken from them, and they

were put into custody. Niketas, who boarded the ship, felt a sudden

unwilling admiration for the man who had gone on fighting against such

fearful odds. The deck presented a fearful sight--it was a shambles,

nothing less. The list of the ship as she struck had drained the

blood in oily, half-congealed streams through the scuppers, and it

was dripping sullenly into the sea. The small-arms and powder the

Greeks transferred in boats to the land, where they were added to the

stock, and they made several unsuccessful attempts to get out one or

two of the larger guns, which might prove useful if Kalamata refused

to capitulate. But all their efforts, in the absence of fit tackling

and lifting apparatus, were useless, and after emptying the ship of

all that could be of service to them, including a sum of five hundred

Turkish pounds, which was found in the captain's cabin, they set light

to it for fear it should be got off by its sister ship and so return

into the enemy's fleet. All night long the hull blazed, and about

midnight it was a pillar of fire, for the sails caught and the flames

went roaring upward, mast high. And thus ended the first day of the

siege.

All next day the blockade continued without incident, and no attempt

was made on the part of the Turks to deliver an attack, nor on that

of the besiegers to force their way into the citadel. The pass from

Arcadia and that over Taygetus, across either of which any relief

expedition from Tripoli must march, were carefully watched, and before

such appeared Petrobey declined to make an attack, which must be

expensive to the Greek army, when simply waiting would do their work

for them; while Ali on his side would sooner capitulate, if the worst

came to the worst, than with his fifteen hundred men, ill-supplied

with ammunition, engage these six regiments of wolves; for such an

engagement, as he knew, would only end in his utter defeat, and the

massacre in all probability of all the Turks in the town.

Early on the third morning it was clear that help was not coming from

Tripoli, or, at any rate, that it would come too late. The water supply

had entirely given out and famine as well was beginning to make itself

felt. For two days and nights the citadel had been packed like a crate

of figs with defenceless and civilian humanity, more than half of whom

had to lie out under the cold of the spring night exposed to the dews

and the sun, some of them barely half clad, just as they had been

awakened from their sleep when they had fled panic-stricken to the

citadel. Below in the Greek army the utmost content and harmony still

reigned. The men were well quartered and had all the supplies of the

town in their hands, and a considerable amount of booty had been taken,

half of which was divided between the men and half reserved by Petrobey

for a war fund.

The first bugle had sounded half an hour, and they were preparing

their breakfast when a white flag was hoisted on the corner tower,

the gate opened, and Ali Aga, alone and unattended, except for a page

who carried his chibouk, walked down into the camp. Some Greeks, who

had lived under him and had felt his cruel and outrageous rule, saw

him coming and surrounded him, spitting at him and reviling him; but

here the devilish coolness of the man came to the front, a matter for

admiration, and turning round on them he cursed at them so fiercely,

calling them dogs and sons of dogs, that they fell back. By the side

of the road was sitting a blind Greek, begging. Ali, with splendid

unconcern, paused, threw open his red cloak trimmed with the fur of

the yellow fox, which he had wrapped closely about him against the

chill of the morning, and taking his pistol and string of amber beads

out of his belt, felt in the corners of it for some small coins, which

he gave the man and passed deliberately on, adjusting his fez with one

hand. Once again before he reached Petrobey's quarters he paused, this

time to take off one of his red shoes and shake a pebble out of it. Had

he blanched or wavered for a moment his life would have been forfeit a

dozen times before he reached Petrobey's quarters, but he treated the

howling crowd as a man treats snarling curs, and he silently commanded

one of the loudest-mouthed to show him the way to their commander.

Petrobey had seen Ali coming, and was sitting outside the house where

he had taken up his quarters, and when the Turk appeared he arose and

saluted him, telling a servant to bring a pipe for him; but Ali did

not return the salute, and merely indicated with one hand that he had

brought his own pipe with him, an insult of the most potent nature. To

him the Greeks were "all of one bake," and he looked at Petrobey and

spoke as if he were speaking to one of his own slaves.

"I find it necessary for me to capitulate," he said, in excellent

Greek, "and I am here to settle the conditions."

Petrobey flushed angrily. He was not a meek man, and had no stomach for

insults; so he sat down again, leaving Ali standing, and crossed one

leg over the other.

"I make no conditions," he said, "except this one: I will order no

general massacre; at the same time, it would be safer for all of you

not to assume insolent and overbearing airs."

Ali raised his eyebrows, and before speaking again sat down and

beckoned to the page who carried his pipe.

"You will not give us a safe conduct to Tripoli, for instance?"

"No."

"You will not allow us to retain our arms?"

Petrobey laughed.

"Such is not my intention. All I will do"--and his anger suddenly

flared up at the perfectly unassumed insolence of the man--"all I will

do is to forbid my men to shoot you down in cold blood. You will be

wise to consider that, for we may not care to grant such terms, no, nor

yet be able to enforce obedience to them if we did, on the day when

Tripoli is crushed like a beetle below our heel."

Ali shrugged his shoulders and took his chibouk from the hands of the

page who carried it.

"Oblige me with a piece of charcoal," he said to one of the Greeks who

stood by, and he lit his pipe slowly and deliberately before replying.

"Your terms are preposterous," he said; "I do not, however, say that I

will not accept them, but I wish for five hours more for consideration."

"Five hours more for relief from Tripoli, in my poor judgment,"

remarked Petrobey. "I am afraid that will not be convenient to me. I

require 'yes' or 'no'; neither more nor less."

Ali inhaled two long breaths of smoke.

"If I will give neither 'yes' nor 'no,' what then?"

"This. You shall go back in safety, and then when you are starved out,

or when we take the place, I will not grant any terms. And we have

a long score against you. Your rule has not been popular among my

countrymen; those who have lived here under you are full of very pretty

tales."

"I suppose the dogs are. I accept your terms."

Petrobey rose.

"Consider yourself my prisoner," he said, not even looking at him.

"Take charge of him, Christos, and Yorgi, and order all three corps

out, Yanni."

"Another piece of charcoal, one of you," said Ali. "This tobacco is a

little damp."

In half an hour's time all the Turkish soldiers and civilians were

defiled out of the citadel unarmed between the lines of the Greeks.

They were instantly divided up among the different corps, and from that

moment became the property of the soldiers as much as the Greek slaves

in the last years had been the property of their Turkish masters.

Many who had friends were ransomed, many became domestic slaves, and

many, in the Greek phrase, "the moon devoured." The flag of Greece was

hoisted on the towers, and the work which Mitsos had cried aloud in

fire from Taygetus to Bassae had begun.

[Illustration: "MIXED WITH THE NOISE OF THE SINGING, ROSE ONE GREAT SOB

OF A THANKFUL PEOPLE BORN AGAIN"]

And on that day which saw the dawning of the freedom of Greece it

seemed to these enthusiastic hearts, who for years had cherished and

fed the smouldering spark which now ran bursting into flame, that earth

and sea and sky joined in the glory and triumph. From its throne in the

infinite blue the sun shone to their eyes with a magnificence greater

than natural; to the south the sea sparkled and laughed innumerably,

and the meadows round the fallen town that day were suddenly smitten

scarlet with the blowing of the wind-flowers. And when the work of

distributing the prisoners was over, all the army went down to the

edge of the torrent-bed, and gave thanks, with singing mouths and

hearts that sang, to the Giver of Victory. There, half a mile above

the citadel, in a church of which the sun was the light, and the soft,

cool north wind the incense that wafted thanksgiving to heaven,

stood the first Greek army of free men that had known the unspeakable

thrill of victory since the Roman yoke had bound them a score of

hundred years ago. Some were old men, withered and gray, and ground

down in long slavery to a cruel and bestial master, and destined not

to see the full moon of their freedom; in some, like the seed on stony

ground, a steadfast heart had no deep root, and in the times of war and

desolation, which were still to come, they were to fall away, tiring

of the glorious quest; some were still young boys, to whom the event

was no more than a mere toy; but for the time, at any rate, all were

one heart, beating full in the morning of a long-delayed resurrection.

Standing on a mound in the centre were four-and-twenty priests, in the

front of whom was Father Andréa, tall, and eyed like a mountain hawk,

with a heart full of glory and red vengeance. And, when lifting up the

mightiest voice in Greece, he gave out the first words of that hymn

which has risen a thousand times to the clash of victorious arms, the

voice of a great multitude answered him, and the sound was as the sound

of many waters. All the ardor and hot blood of the Greeks leaped like

a blush to the surface, and on all sides, mixed with the noise of the

singing, rose one great sob of a thankful people born again. Petrobey,

with Nicholas on one side and Mitsos and Yanni on the other, hardly

knew that the tears were streaming down his tanned and weather-beaten

cheeks, and to the others, as to him, memory and expectation were

merged and sunk in the present ineffable moment. There was no before

or after; they were there, men of a free people, and conscious only of

the one thing--that the first blow had been struck, and struck home and

true, that they thanked God for the power He had given them to use.

And when it was over Petrobey turned to Nicholas, and smiling at him

through his tears:

"Old friend," he said.

And Nicholas echoed his words, echoed that which was too deep for

words, and--

"Old friend," he replied.