NICHOLAS GOES HOME
The room was lighted by an oil-lamp, turned low and shaded from the
sick man. Yanni, who had been watching all night, was lying on the
floor, dozing from sheer weariness; but he woke at the sound of Mitsos'
entering, and got up.
"Oh, Mitsos, you have come," he whispered, "he has asked for you so
often."
"Leave me alone here," said Mitsos, and the two were left together.
Nicholas was lying with eyes only half closed, and Mitsos knelt by the
bed.
"Uncle, dear uncle," he said, "I have come."
Nicholas only frowned, and passed his hand wearily over his eyes. The
other bandaged arm was lying outside the thin bed-covering under which
he lay.
"I looked everywhere," he muttered, "and I could not find her. Will
little Mitsos ever forgive me, I wonder--yet I did all I could. Why
does not the dear lad come? Has he forsaken me?... No, it will never
do; this traffic brings disgrace on us all. Stop it, Petrobey, stop it,
in God's name.... Ah, that is better, up, up, hand over hand, quick,
give me the flag. Where is the flag, O devils of the pit? but give it
me. Ah, you are no better than the Turks.... Yes, I will pay you well
to give it me, if that is what you want. A million piastres? I will
give you two millions.... Ah, up with it."
The muttering sank down again into silence, and the eyelids drooped
wearily. Mitsos, kneeling there, felt that the life was leaving him.
Suleima dead, Nicholas dying, there was but little left of the Mitsos
he knew. Dry-eyed he knelt there in the blank, black despair of a
hopeless anguish. If only it was he who was lying there! There was
nothing to live for; everything was gone in this moment of victory,
when his heart should have been larklike, soaring with song.
Petrobey brought him in food and wine.
"Drink, little Mitsos," he said; "it is very good wine."
But Mitsos would not even look at it.
"Leave me alone," was all he said; "I will call you if he wants you.
Oh, go, man," he repeated, in a shrill whisper, and with a sudden burst
of childish, impotent anger, which gave Petrobey a more pitiful moment
than he had ever known; "may not my heart break in peace?"
It had been past midnight when Mitsos came in, and already the stars
were beginning to pale in the east when Nicholas stirred and woke. He
saw Mitsos by him, and knew him and smiled to him. He spoke slowly and
faintly.
"Ah, little Mitsos," he said, "so you have come at last, but not much
too soon. My poor lad, you know I did all I could; Yanni and I looked
for her everywhere, but found her not. Oh, little Mitsos, my heart is
bleeding for you. Tell me you know I did all I could."
At the sound of that dear voice, obeying again the will and the brain
of the man he loved, no longer wandering idly as a thing apart, Mitsos
broke down utterly, forgetting all but the dear, dying uncle.
"Oh, you will break my heart if you speak like that," he sobbed. "I
know--how can I but know?--that you did all the best and noblest of men
could do. Oh, uncle, I cannot do without you. Oh, come back, come back."
Nicholas's hand gently stroked the boy's head as he knelt with his face
buried in the bed-covering.
"Why, Mitsos, Mitsos," he said, "what is this? We are behaving as but
poor weak folk--I, whom the merciful God is taking, and you, who He
wills shall live and go on with the work we have begun. A man's life is
but short, but, God knows, mine has been partly very sweet; and out of
what was bitter He has given us a wonderful victory. From Corinth to
Maina, little one, a free people thanks Him. But that is not all. From
Thermopylæ to Corinth must those thanks go up, and it is you, first
among all the first, for whom that work is waiting. Promise me, little
one, you will not fail. For this was the oath you swore, and already,
oh, my dearest lad, you have kept it well."
"I promise, oh, I promise," sobbed Mitsos; "but what am I without you?"
"God is with you, little Mitsos," said Nicholas, "and He will be with
you, as He has been with you till now. Tell me, is Ypsilanti coming
back here?"
"He is on his way, and Germanos with him."
Nicholas frowned and raised his voice a little.
"I will not die with a lie on my lips," he said. "He is a bad man; I
forgive him not, and see that you do not trust him."
"Oh, uncle," said Mitsos; "what does it matter now? Think of him not at
all, then. This is no time for little things."
Nicholas lay silent a moment, still stroking Mitsos' hair.
"After all, what does it matter?" he said. "The man has failed; that is
enough. He shall not poison these few minutes. Oh yes, I forgive him,
little one. I do really; tell him so when he comes. If he were here I
would take his hand. But"--and a faint smile came round his mouth--"do
not trust him too far, all the same."
His face was growing very white and tired in the pale gray morning
before the dawn, and Mitsos, at his request, gave him water and put out
the lamp.
"There is but little more to say," he whispered, "and it is a selfish
thing; yet, as you love me, I think you will hear it gladly. Little
Mitsos, I am happier than the kings of the earth. I am dying, but dying
in the shout of victory. Oh, I am happy on this morning. But, poor lad,
whom I love so, it is hard--"
His face flushed suddenly.
"Victory! freedom!" he said, raising his voice again with tremulous
excitement; "that is the singing bird in my heart, that and you and the
clan, and Catharine and the little one. Ah! merciful God, but I am a
happy man. Where is Petrobey? Call him in, him and the dear clan. Kiss
me first and for the last time, and then bring them all in, as many as
can stand in the room."
Mitsos hurried out to fetch them, and found Petrobey's room full of men
waiting for news from the sick bed, watching faithfully through the
night, and he beckoned them silently up. The sun had just risen, and
the first ray clean and bright fell full on the bed where the dying man
lay. By an effort he raised himself on his elbow, and looked at them
with bright, shining eyes as they trooped in. At that sudden movement
his wound broke out afresh, and a great gush of blood poured down.
[Illustration: "BY AN EFFORT HE RAISED HIMSELF ON HIS ELBOW"]
Then suddenly he sprang to his feet.
"Shout, shout," he cried, "for the freedom of Greece! Ah, Catharine, I
am coming; I am coming very quickly."
On the word a great shout arose from the men crowded into the room, and
in the glory of that triumphant cry, standing there in the dawn of the
newly-risen day, he fell forward, and his strong soul went forth free
from the death that had no terror for him.
They took his body up to the Turkish mosque which crowned the citadel,
and at the east erected a tall, rough, wooden cross, and there he
lay all day, and the clan came and looked their last on the man they
had loved. The hawklike, eager eyes were closed, the eager nostrils
were still, and the dignity of death gave the face a wonderful sweet
seriousness, and a tranquillity which it had seldom worn in life. The
prince and Germanos arrived before noon, knowing only that Tripoli was
taken, and Petrobey, to whom Mitsos had told what Nicholas had said,
found words which were a humbling and an awe to that proud man, and
together the two went to where he lay. Then said Germanos:
"I never did him honor, God forgive me, in life; but you will let me do
him honor, now?"
The funeral was fixed for sunset, and he was to be buried just outside
the mosque on the highest ground of the citadel. The first part of the
service would be in the mosque, the remainder at the grave, and Mitsos,
returning just before sunset from his finished and hopeless quest, went
straight there. All day, first in the town and then in that valley of
death behind Trikorpha, he had sought among the heaps of the dead,
longing rather to know and see the worst, to look once more on her
face, than to carry about with him this load of torturing uncertainty.
He prayed that he might find her undisfigured, that her face might be
quiet and calm like Nicholas's, for he felt that it would be a thing of
consolation to know she had died quickly. One thought only sustained
him through those terrible hours, and that the remembrance of the words
Nicholas had spoken. He had bargained to sacrifice himself and all that
he held dear for that which was already won, and in the very flush and
presence of victory he would not give way to the desolation and despair
which beset him. All day beneath a burning and malignant sun he moved
among the heaps of the slain, turning over body after body, only to
find more beneath. The kites and preying hawks chid shrilly over his
head, but he heeded not and worked on, and a little before sunset only
had he finished, and sat down on the hill-side for a moment to eat,
for he remembered that he had not eaten that day, and he felt suddenly
faint with hunger. Then rising he went back to the town and up to the
mosque.
The sun was just setting, and before they left the mosque it was
already twilight; but the men had a number of pitch torches, and the
procession went out to the grave, headed by thirty Mainats, who carried
these, and stood round the newly dug grave, while the body, with its
face uncovered, according to the Greek use, and dressed in soldier's
clothes, was placed in the coffin and lowered. At the head of the grave
stood Germanos, and at the foot Petrobey with Mitsos. Many of the clan
who stood round were weeping unrestrainedly and without shame; but
Mitsos was perfectly quiet and calm. Only once when the first spadefuls
of earth rattled on the rough coffin lid did he move, and ran forward a
step to the edge of the grave with one sob so piteous and broken that
Petrobey clinched his teeth to prevent himself, too, sobbing aloud. But
after that he was quite quiet again, and Germanos, who had read the
service, stepped forward and gave the address at the grave.
"This day," he said, "is the birthday of a new-born people, and it is
so that Nicholas would have you think of it. To all of us has come a
great and wonderful victory, and to all has come a terrible loss; but I
pray God, clan of the Mavromichales, to none of you such an unavailing
regret as is mine. Of myself I would not speak to you, but for this,
that before Nicholas died he forgave the cruel wrong I had done him,
and it is that forgiveness of his alone which gives me any right to be
here. You knew him, he was of the same blood as you, and it is for you
all to lament not nor wail, but think only that God in His infinite
kindness has let him see the dawn of this day, and then, while the
flood of joy burst his heart, has taken him to Himself. To work for
a great cause, as Nicholas worked, and as none but he, was a great
reward; to see the fruit of his labors and so die, in the very flush
of victory, is what comes to but few. By his rank and his work his was
among the highest places in all Greece; but how did he die? As a common
soldier, serving in the ranks, and by his own choice. And to me that
appears--though the cause for it is a bitterness and regret of which
I cannot speak--a wonderful and an appropriate thing. Nicholas--the
victory of the people."
The darkness had completely fallen while he spoke, and overhead,
through the sombre smoke of the torches, the stars peered out of
an infinite depth of blue. In front of Germanos rose the mould of
freshly raised earth, for they had filled up the grave before he began
speaking, and the wooden cross from the mosque had been fetched out and
planted on the top of it. Round in dense ranks stood the Mainats, the
flickering glare of the torches striking strong light and shadows on
their brown faces. But by degrees the torches planted on long stakes
round the grave began to burn low; now and then one would shoot up
with a sudden flare and die out again, and in a few minutes more they
had all burned down, and only smouldering red cores of glowing ash
remained. From the darkness Germanos's voice came slow and solemn at
first, but as he went on he gained force and vigor.
"The birthday of the people--think of this day thus, and then of
him whom you loved--the victory of the people. This is no time for
lamentations nor weeping, for how did he take leave of you? Not with
a wail, nor with any regret, but with a shout. Think of him, then, as
he took farewell; happier, as he said to one of you, than the kings
of the earth; mourn if you will for those who mourn, but rejoice with
those who rejoice. And he went from us strong and with but one thought,
which overmastered all. Thus it is no night nor valley of death he has
gone into--or so it appeared not to him--but the dawning of the fresh
day. Then, turning his brave eyes forward from dawn to dawn, what
eyes should meet his, or what name should be on his lips? You heard
it yourselves. And is there any cause for sorrow there? Do we weep
and wail when the bridegroom meets the bride, or when after some long
journey a faithful man goes home to her he loves? Ours is but a selfish
grief if we look at it rightly. Let, then, this thought make you
strong, and because you loved him turn from yourselves, who, God knows,
have cause enough for grief, and think of him and the shout and rapture
of his passing. Out of the day he has passed to the day, out of life
into life, a faithful man made perfect. Call to him, then, once more,
let him hear the shout which he led; let him hear again, for so we
believe, the voices he knew, the shout of the men he loved and loves.
The freedom of Greece, and Nicholas--the victory of the people!"
From the darkness the shout was taken up and repeated till it seemed to
shake and split the darkness. As from one throat, it burst up thrice
repeated, and then together they called Nicholas's name aloud, and
went in silence back to their quarters. Mitsos returned with Petrobey,
feeling somehow strangely strengthened. All he had been trying to feel
all day had been said for him, and all that was brave within him--and
of that there was much--rose and caught at it triumphantly, and he
clung to it with conviction and courage in his heart.
The Mainats were to leave next morning, but Mitsos dreaded any hour
spent in inaction, and he decided to go himself at once and again
travel through the night. To stop here was only to talk of Nicholas,
or to grow feverish again with the hopeless, impossible hope that
Suleima was still somewhere in the town. With a good horse he could
reach Nauplia next day soon after dawn, and he longed with the longing
of a child in some distant land for the familiar places. Here all that
spoke to him of Suleima spoke in words of blood and cruelty, which
stabbed and stung him into a sense of maddened rage and regret. There,
perhaps, with the thrill of home about him, his anguish would change
to something less terrible, and not so discordant to the image his
heart held of her. Even now, when so few hours had passed, he seemed
to have lived with the sorrow for a lifetime, and realized that it
was for a lifetime it would abide with him. The place where he had
lost all he loved had a brooding horror over it; he could not think of
her as he wished to think; but by the cool bay, the dark headlands,
and that beach, with its whispering reeds, surely he would find an
aspect of sorrow different to this, instinct with the bitterness of
something which had once been infinitely sweet, instead of with the
bitterness of horror and hatred. Above all, he dreaded the moment of
waking next morning, and though many morrows stretched away before him,
each with its cup of remembrance coming with the light at the end of
sleep, yet it would be something over to get rid of this one, to have
another four-and-twenty hours with his sorrow, which perhaps might
help to prepare him for the pangs of that first moment of the waking
to consciousness again, and the dead weight of grief which would have
to be taken up anew. Then his father was there, and oh, how Mitsos
longed for that quiet, protective presence. Here, it is true, were the
dear clan; but the clan, though the best of companions, gave not the
fellowship he wanted now. He wanted to be alone, and yet to have some
one who loved him present with silent sympathy that needed no words.
Even the companionship of Yanni, who followed him with the eyes of some
dumb creature that knows its master is suffering, yet cannot console
him, was irksome. None understood this better than poor Yanni himself;
and though he tried to keep away he could not, and followed Mitsos,
unable to say a word to him, and yet unable to leave him.
Mitsos rose from where he had been sitting in Petrobey's room and
walked across to him.
"I think I shall go home at once," he said. "It will be better that I
should be there."
"But not to-night, dear lad," said Petrobey, "and not alone. We are all
coming to set you on your way to-morrow."
Poor Mitsos nearly broke down again at this. Somehow, a kindness
reached the seat of tears, while his sorrow passed it by.
"No, I will go alone and now," he cried. "Oh, I cannot say what I
think. You are all so good to me; but I want to be alone. Say good-bye
to them all for me; I should not be able to tell them myself--and
good-bye. Before long, I doubt not, we shall meet again; for I promised
him always to be ready, and I shall always be ready."
Petrobey kissed the boy.
"Little Mitsos," he said, "we are not men of many words; but you know,
you know. God keep you."
Yanni was watching Mitsos with hungry eyes, and he turned from Petrobey
and went to him.
"Come out with me, Yanni," said Mitsos, "while I get my horse. Come as
far as the gate, if you will."
Mitsos' horse was stabled below, and in silence the two went out
together. Then, as they turned to walk down the deserted street to the
gate, Mitsos passed one arm through the bridle and put the other round
Yanni's neck.
"Yanni," he said, "you do not think me unkind? But it is this way
with me: that somehow or other I must get used to these awful things,
and I am best alone. We have had merry times together, have we not?
and, please God! we shall be together many times yet; and, though I
see not how, perhaps merry times will come again. I want to be alone
with myself to-night and then alone with my father, for with him it is
different. But of all others in the world--why need I tell you?--it is
you I would choose to be with. You understand, do you not?"
"Yes, dear Mitsos," said Yanni, rather chokedly, "and if ever you want
me, either come, or I will come to you. For, oh, Mitsos, I'm so sorry
for you that I don't know what to do or say; and I owe all to you, and
yet I can do nothing."
And with that he fairly burst out crying.
They walked on in silence to the Argive gate, and then Mitsos stopped.
"So let us do as Nicholas would have us do," said he, smiling at the
other, "and think only of this wonderful birthday of the people, as
Germanos said. And now I am going. So good-bye, Yanni, dear Yanni!"
"Oh, Mitsos, let me come!" cried Yanni. "No, no; I did not mean that.
Good-bye and God speed!"
And he turned quickly and walked back into the town without another
word or look.