THE JUSTICE OF THE ISLAND
Helplessness brings its own peculiar consolation. After a week’s
planning and scheming what you will do to the enemy, it is a kind of
relief to sit with hands in pockets and wonder what the enemy may be
pleased to do with you. This relaxation was vouchsafed to my brain
when I awoke in the morning and found the sun streaming into the
whitewashed cell-like room. It was the feast of St Tryphon, all praise
to him! Kortes said that I could not be executed that day. I doubted
Constantine’s scruples; yet probably he would not venture to outrage
the popular sentiment of Neopalia. But nothing forbade my execution
to-morrow. Well, to-morrow is to-morrow, and to-day is to-day, and
there will be that difference between them so long as the world lasts.
I stretched myself and yawned luxuriously. I was, strangely enough, in
a hopeful frame of mind. I made sure that Denny had found his way
safely, and that the Cypriote fishermen had been benevolent. I proved
to myself that with Constantine’s exposure his power would end. I
plumed myself on having put Vlacho _hors de combat_. I believe I said
to myself that villainy would not triumph, that honest men would come
by their own, and that unprotected beauty would find help from heaven:
convictions which showed that relics of youth hung about me, and (I am
afraid it depends on this rather) that I was feeling very well after
my refreshing sleep.
Alas, my soothing reveries were rudely interrupted.
‘At a touch sweet pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth!’
And at the sound of a gruff voice outside my dreams melted: harsh
reality was pressing hard on me again, crushing hope into resignation,
buoyancy into a grim resolve to take what came with courage.
‘Bring him out,’ cried the voice.
‘It’s that brute Demetri,’ said I to myself, wondering what had become
of my friendly gaoler, Kortes.
A moment later half-a-dozen men filed into the room, Demetri at their
head. I asked him what he wanted. He answered only with a command
that I should get up. ‘Bring him along,’ he added to his men; and we
walked out into the street.
Evidently Neopalia was _en fête_. The houses were decked with flags;
several windows exhibited pictures of the Saint. Women in their gay
and spotlessly clean holiday attire strolled along the road, holding
their children by the hand. Everybody made way for our procession,
many whispers and pointed fingers proving the interest and curiosity
which it was my unwilling privilege to arouse. For about a quarter of
a mile we mounted the road, then we turned suddenly down to the left
and began to descend again towards the sea. Soon now we arrived at the
little church whose bell I had heard. Here we halted; and presently
another procession appeared from the building. An old white-bearded
man headed it, carrying a large picture of St. Tryphon. The old man’s
dress was little different from that of the rest of the islanders, but
he wore the gown and cap of a priest. He was followed by some
attendants; the women and children fell in behind him, three or four
cripples brought up the rear, praying as they went, and stretching out
their hands towards the sacred picture which the old man carried. At a
sign from Demetri we also put ourselves in motion again, and the whole
body of us thus made for the seashore. But some three hundred yards
short of the water I perceived a broad level space, covered with
short rough turf and surrounded for about half its circuit by a
crescent-shaped bank two or three feet high. On this bank sat some
twenty people, and crowded in front of it was the same ragged
picturesque company of armed peasants that I had seen gather in the
street on the occasion of our arrival. The old man with the picture
made his way to the centre of the level ground. Thrice he raised the
picture towards the sky, every one uncovering his head and kneeling
down the while. He began to pray, but I did not listen to what he
said; for by this time my attention had wandered from him and was
fixed intently on a small group which occupied the centre of the
raised bank. There, sitting side by side, with the space of a foot or
so between them, were Phroso and her cousin Constantine. On a rude
hurdle, covered with a rug, at Constantine’s feet lay Vlacho, his face
pale and his eyes closed. Behind Phroso stood my new acquaintance,
Kortes, with one hand on the knife in his girdle and the other holding
a long gun, which rested on the ground. One figure I missed. I looked
round for Constantine’s wife, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then I
looked again at Phroso. She was dressed in rich fine garments of
white, profusely embroidered, but her face was paler even than
Vlacho’s, and when I sought her eyes she would not meet mine, but
kept her gaze persistently lowered. Constantine sat motionless, with a
frown on his brow but a slight smile on his lips, as he waited with an
obviously forced patience through the long rigmarole of the old man’s
prayer.
Evidently important business was to be transacted; yet nobody seemed
to be in a hurry to arrive at it. When the old priest had finished his
prayers the cripples came and prostrated themselves before the sacred
picture. No miracle, however, followed; and the priest took up the
tale again, pouring forth a copious harangue, in which I detected
frequent references to ‘the barbarians’--a term he used to denote my
friends, myself, and all the world apparently, except the islanders of
Neopalia. Then he seated himself between Phroso and Constantine, who
made room for him. I was surprised to see him assume so much dignity,
but I presumed that he was treated with exceptional honour on the
feast day. When he had taken his place, about twenty of the men came
into the middle of the ring and began to dance, arranging themselves
in a semicircle, moving at first in slow rhythmical steps, and
gradually quickening their motions till they ended with a wonderful
display of activity. During this performance Phroso and Constantine
sat still and impassive, while Vlacho’s lifeless face was scorched by
the growing heat of the sun. The men who had been told off to watch
me leaned on their long guns, and I wondered wearily when my part in
this strangely mixed ceremony was to begin.
At last it came. The dance ended, the performers flung themselves
fatigued on the turf, there was a hush of expectation, and the
surrounding crowd of women and children drew closer in towards where
the rest of the men had taken up their position in ranks on either
side of the central seats. ‘Step forward,’ said one of my guards, and
I, obeying him, lifted my hat and bowed to Phroso. Then replacing my
hat, I stood waiting the pleasure of the assembly. All eyes were fixed
on Constantine, who remained seated and silent yet a little while
longer. Then he rose slowly to his feet, bowed to Phroso, and pointed
in a melodramatic fashion at Vlacho’s body. But I was not in the least
inclined to listen to an oration in the manner of Mark Antony over the
body of Cæsar, and just as Constantine was opening his mouth I
observed loudly:
‘Yes, I killed him, and the reason no man knows better than
Constantine Stefanopoulos.’
Constantine glared at me, and, ignoring the bearing of my remark,
launched out on an eulogium of the dead innkeeper. It was coldly
received. Vlacho’s virtues were not recognised by any outburst of
grief or indignation; indeed there was a smothered laugh or two when
Constantine called him ‘a brave true man.’ The orator detected his
failure and shifted his ground dexterously, passing on, in rapid
transition, to ask in what quarrel Vlacho had died. Now he was
gripping his audience. They drew closer; they became very still; angry
and threatening glances were bent on me. Constantine lashed himself to
fury as he cried, ‘He died for our island, which this barbarian claims
as his!’
‘He died--’ I began; but a heavy hand on my shoulder and the menace of
a knife cut short my protest. Demetri had come and taken his stand by
me, and I knew that Demetri would jump at the first excuse to make my
silence perpetual. So I held my peace, and the men caught up
Constantine’s last point, crying angrily, ‘Ay, he takes our island
from us.’
‘Yes,’ said Constantine, ‘he has taken our island, and he claims it
for his. He has killed our brethren and put our Lady out of her
inheritance. What shall he suffer? For although we may not kill on St
Tryphon’s day, we may judge on it, and the sentence may be performed
at daybreak to-morrow. What shall this man suffer? Is he not worthy of
death?’
It was what lawyers call a leading question, and it found its
expected answer in a deep fierce growl, of ‘Death, death!’ Clearly the
island was the thing, Vlacho’s death merely an incidental affair of no
great importance. I suppose that Phroso understood this as well as I,
for now she rose suddenly. Constantine seemed disinclined to suffer
the interruption; but she stood her ground firmly, though her face was
very pale, and I saw her hands tremble. At last he sank back on to the
bank.
‘Why this turmoil?’ she asked. ‘The stranger did not know our customs.
He thought that the island was his by right, and when he was attacked
he defended himself. I pray you may all fight as bravely as he has
fought.’
‘But the island, the island!’ they cried.
‘Yes,’ said she, ‘I also love the island. Well, he has given back the
island to me. Behold his writing!’ She held up the paper which I had
given to her and read the writing aloud in a clear voice. ‘What have
you against him now?’ she asked. ‘His people have loved the Hellenes.
He has given back the island. Why shall he not depart in peace?’
The effect was great. The old priest seized the paper and scanned it
eagerly: it was snatched from him and passed rapidly from hand to
hand, greeted with surprised murmurs and intense excitement. Phroso
stood watching its progress. Constantine sat with a heavy scowl on his
face, and the frown grew yet deeper when I smiled at him with pleasant
urbanity.
‘It is true,’ said the priest, with a sigh of relief. ‘He has given
back the island. He need not die.’
Phroso sat down; a sudden faintness seemed to follow on the strain,
and I saw Kortes support her with his arm. But Constantine was not
beaten yet. He sprang up and cried in bitterly scornful tones:
‘Ay, let him go--let him go to Rhodes and tell the Governor that you
sought to slay him and his friends, and that you extorted the paper
from him by threat of death, and that he gave it in fear, but did not
mean it, and that you are turbulent murderous men who deserve great
punishment. How guileless you are, O Neopalians! But this man is not
guileless. He can delude a girl. He can delude you also, it seems. Ay,
let him go with his story to the Governor at Rhodes, and do you hide
in the rocks when the Governor comes with his soldiers. Hide
yourselves, and hide your women, when the soldiers come to set this
man over your island and to punish you! Do you not remember when the
Governor came before? Is not the mark of his anger branded on your
hearts?’
Hesitation and suspicion were aroused again by this appeal. Phroso
seemed bewildered at it and gazed at her cousin with parted lips.
Angry glances were again fixed on me. But the old priest rose and
stretched out his hand for silence.
‘Let the man speak for himself,’ he said. ‘Let him tell us what he
will do if we set him free. It may be that he will give us an oath not
to harm us, but to go away peaceably to his own land and leave us our
island. Speak, sir. We will listen.’
I was never much of a hand at a speech, and I did not enjoy being
faced with the necessity of making one which might have such important
results this way or that. But I was quite clear in my own mind what I
wanted to say; so I took a step forward and began:
‘I bear you Neopalians no malice,’ said I. ‘You’ve not succeeded in
hurting me, and I suppose you’ve not caught my friends, or they would
be here, prisoners as I am a prisoner. Now I have killed two good men
of yours, Vlacho there, and Spiro. I am content with that. I’ll cry
you quits. I have given back the island to the Lady Euphrosyne; and
what I give to a woman--ay, or to a man--I do not ask again either of
a Governor or of anybody else. Therefore your island is safe, and I
will swear to that by what oath you will. And, so far as I have power,
no man or woman of all who stand round me shall come to any harm by
reason of what has been done; and to that also I will swear.’
They had heard me intently, and they nodded in assent and approbation
when the old priest, true to his part of peacemaker, looking round,
said:
‘He speaks well. He will not do what my lord feared. He will give us
an oath. Why should he not depart in peace?’
Phroso’s eyes sought mine, and she smiled sadly. Constantine was
gnawing his finger nails and looking as sour as a man could look. It
went to my heart to go on, for I knew that what I had to say next
would give him another chance against me; but I preferred that risk to
the only alternative.
‘Wait,’ said I. ‘An oath is a sacred thing, and I swore an oath when I
was there in the house of the Stefanopouloi. There is a man here who
has done murder on an old man his kinsman, who has contrived murder
against a woman, who has foully deceived a girl. With that man I’ll
not cry quits; for I swore that I would not rest till he paid the
penalty of his crimes. By that oath I stand. Therefore, when I go
from here, I shall, as Constantine Stefanopoulos has said, go to
Rhodes and to the Governor, and I shall pray him to send here to
Neopalia, and take that one man and hang him on the highest tree in
the island. And I will come with the Governor’s men and see that thing
done. Then I will go peaceably to my own land.’
There was a pause of surprise. Constantine lifted his lids and looked
at me; I saw his hand move towards a pocket. I suspected what lay in
that pocket. I heard low eager whisperings and questions. At last the
old priest asked in a timid hesitating voice:
‘Who is this man of whom you speak?’
‘There he is,’ said I. ‘There--Constantine Stefanopoulos.’
The words were hardly out when Demetri clapped a large hairy hand
across my mouth, whispering fiercely, ‘Hold your tongue.’ I drew back
a step and struck him fairly between the eyes. He went down. A hoarse
cry rose from the crowd; but in an instant Kortes had leapt from where
he stood behind Phroso and was by my side. I had some adherents also
among the bystanders; for I had been bidden to speak freely, and
Demetri had no authority to silence me.
‘Yes, Constantine Stefanopoulos,’ I cried. ‘Did he not stab the old
man after he had yielded? Did he not--’
‘The old man sold the island,’ growled a dozen low fierce voices; but
the priest’s rose high above them.
‘We are not here to judge my Lord Constantine,’ said he, ‘but this man
here.’
‘We all had a hand in the business of the old man,’ said Demetri, who
had picked himself up and was looking very vicious.
‘You lie, and you know it,’ said I hotly. ‘He had yielded, and the
rest had left off attacking him; but Constantine stabbed him. Why did
he stab him?’
There came no answer, and Constantine caught at this advantage.
‘Yes,’ he cried. ‘Why? Why should I stab him? He was stabbed by some
one who did not know that he had yielded.’ Then I saw his eye fall
suddenly on Vlacho. Dead men tell no tales and deny no accusations.
‘Since Vlacho is dead,’ Constantine went on with wonderful readiness,
‘my tongue is loosed. It was Vlacho who, in his hasty zeal, stabbed
the old man.’
He had gained a point by this clever lie, and he made haste to press
it to the full against me.
‘This man,’ he exclaimed, ‘will go to Rhodes and denounce me! But did
I kill the old man alone? Did I besiege the Englishman alone? Will the
Governor be content with one victim? Is it not one head in ten when he
comes to punish? Men of the island, it is your lives and my life
against this man’s life!’
They were with him again, and many shouted:
‘Let him die! Let him die!’
Then suddenly, before I could speak, Phroso rose, and, stretching out
her hands towards me, said:
‘Promise what they ask, my lord. Save your own life, my lord. If my
cousin be guilty, heaven will punish him.’
But I did not listen even to her. With a sudden leap I was free from
those who held me; for, in the ranks of listening women, I saw that
old woman whom we had found watching by the dying lord of the island.
I seized her by the wrist and dragged her into the middle, crying to
her:
‘As God’s above you, tell the truth. Who stabbed the old lord? Whose
name did he utter in reproach when he lay dying?’
She stood shivering and trembling in the centre of the throng. The
surprise of my sudden action held them all silent and motionless.
‘Did he not say “Constantine! You, Constantine”?’ I asked, ‘just
before he died?’
The old woman’s lips moved, but no sound came; she was half dead with
fear and fastened fascinated eyes on Constantine. He surveyed her with
a rigid smile on his pale face.
‘Speak the truth, woman,’ I cried. ‘Speak the truth.’
‘Yes, speak the truth,’ said Constantine, his eyes gleaming in triumph
as he turned a glance of hatred on me. ‘Tell us truly who killed my
uncle.’
My witness failed me. The terror of Constantine, which had locked her
tongue when I questioned her at the house, lay on her still: the
single word that came from her trembling lips was ‘Vlacho.’
Constantine gave a cry of triumph, Demetri a wild shout; the islanders
drew together. My chance looked black. Even St Tryphon would hardly
save me from immediate death. But I made another effort.
‘Swear her on the sacred picture,’ I cried. ‘Swear her on the picture.
If she swears by the picture, and then says it was Vlacho, I am
content to die as a false accuser, and to die here and now.’
My bold challenge won me a respite: it appealed to their rude sense of
justice and their strong leaven of superstition.
‘Yes, let her swear on the sacred picture,’ cried several. ‘Then we
shall know.’
The priest brought the picture to her and swore her on it with great
solemnity. She shook her head feebly and fell to choked weeping. But
the men round her were resolute, one of them menacing even Constantine
himself when he began to ask whether her first testimony were not
enough.
‘Now you are sworn, speak,’ said the priest solemnly.
A hush fell on us all. If she answered ‘Constantine,’ my life still
hung by a thread; but by saying ‘Vlacho’ she would cut the thread. She
looked at me, at Constantine, then up to the sky, while her lips moved
in rapid whispered prayers.
‘Speak,’ said the priest to her gently.
Then she spoke in low fearful tones.
‘Vlacho was there, and his knife was ready. But my lord yielded, and
cried that he would not sell the island. When they heard that they
drew back, Vlacho with the rest. But my Lord Constantine struck; and
when my lord lay dying it was the name of Constantine that he uttered
in reproach.’ And the old woman reeled and would have fallen, and then
flung herself on the ground at Constantine’s feet, crying, ‘Pardon, my
lord, pardon! I could not swear falsely on the picture. Ah, my lord,
mercy, mercy!’
But Constantine, though he had, as I do not doubt, a good memory for
offences, could not afford to think of the old woman now. One instant
he sat still, then he sprang to his feet, crying:
‘Let my friends come round me! Yes, if you will, I killed the old man.
Was not the deed done? Was not the island sold? Was he not bound to
this man here? The half of the money had been paid! If he had lived,
and if this man had lived, they would have brought soldiers and
constrained us. So I slew him, and therefore I have sought to kill the
stranger also. Who blames me? If there be any, let him stand now by
the stranger, and let my friends stand by me. Have we not had enough
talk? Is it not time to act? Who loves Neopalia? Who loves me?’
While he spoke many had been gathering round him. With every fresh
appeal more flocked to him. There were but three or four left now,
wavering between him and me, and Kortes alone stood by my side.
‘Are you children, that you shrink from me because I struck a blow for
our country? Was the old man to escape and live to help this man to
take our island? Yes, I, Constantine Stefanopoulos, though I was blood
of his blood--I killed him. Who blames me? Shall we not finish the
work? There the stranger stands! Men of the island, shall we not
finish the work?’
‘Well, it’s come at last,’ thought I to myself. St. Tryphon would not
stop it now. ‘It’s no use,’ I said to Kortes. ‘Don’t get yourself into
trouble!’ Then I folded my arms and waited. But I do not mean to say
that I did not turn a little pale. Perhaps I did. At any rate I
contrived to show no fear except in that.
The islanders looked at one another and then at Constantine. Friend
Constantine had been ready with his stirring words, but he did not
rush first to the attack. Besides myself there was Kortes, who had not
left his place by me, in spite of my invitation to him. And Kortes
looked as though he could give an account of one or two. But the
hesitation among Constantine’s followers did not last long. Demetri
was no coward at all events, although he was as big a scoundrel as I
have known. He carried a great sword which he must have got from the
collection on the walls of the hall; he brandished it now over his
head and rushed straight at me. It seemed to be all over, and I
thought that the best I could do was to take it quietly; so I stood
still. But on a sudden I was pulled back by a powerful arm. Kortes
flung me behind him and stood between me and Demetri’s rush. An
instant later ten or more of them were round Kortes. He struck at
them, but they dodged him. One cried, ‘Don’t hurt Kortes,’ and
another, running agilely round, caught his arms from behind, and, all
gathering about him, they wrested his weapons from him. My last
champion was disarmed; he had but protracted the bitterness of death
for me by his gallant attempt. I fixed my eyes steadily on the horizon
and waited. The time of my waiting must have been infinitesimal, yet I
seemed to wait some little while. Then Demetri’s great sword flashed
suddenly between me and the sky. But it did not fall. Another flash
came--the flash of white, darting across between me and the grim
figure of my assailant--and Phroso, pale, breathless, trembling in
every limb, yet holding her head bravely, and with anger gleaming in
her dark eyes, cried:
‘If you kill him you must kill me; I will not live if he dies.’
Even Demetri paused; the rest gave back. I saw Constantine’s
hatchet-face peering in gloomy wrath and trembling excitement from
behind the protecting backs of his stout adherents. But Demetri,
holding his sword poised for the stroke, growled angrily:
‘What is his life to you, Lady?’
Phroso drew herself up. Her face was away from me, but as she spoke I
saw a sudden rush of red spread over her neck; yet she spoke steadily
and boldly in a voice that all could hear:
‘His life is my life; for I love him as I love my life--ah, and God
knows, more, more, more!’
[Illustration: “WHAT IS HIS LIFE TO YOU, LADY?”]