CHAPTER XVII.
THE HOPE THAT FAILED.
Leaving Sir Frank Francis to pursue his dignified way alone, Wylie ran back to the village, only to see a considerable body of insurgents, armed with rifles hastily snatched up, half-way to the tower. They were approaching it from the back, whereas the Consuls and their forces, with the rescued garrison, were assembled in front of it, waiting for Sir Frank’s return to begin their march back to the sea, but a collision seemed inevitable. With a wild idea of flinging himself between the contending parties, Wylie ran towards the tower, hoping to intercept his followers before they could reach the front of the building. Sir Frank, in the natural exasperation induced by intercourse with these wretched insurgents, who were giving the consular body trouble so absurdly disproportionate to their importance, might call him a renegade Englishman, but he could not see the British flag fired upon by his own men. His intention was frustrated, however, by two of them, who rose up, as if by magic, from behind a bush, and laid violent hands upon him. Protest, command, entreat as he might, it was no use; they dragged him behind the bush and held him fast there, considerately choosing a position from which the tower and its assailants were clearly visible. To Wylie’s intense relief, the main body of his men halted at a ridge which commanded the whole side of the tower, and lay down behind it, covering the consular force with their rifles. Only three ran on, and Wylie saw that they carried ropes. Arrived at the back of the tower, one of them threw his rope over a sculptured gargoyle which projected from the building at about a third of its height, and wriggled up it, his companions holding the ends. The lower part of the masonry alone had been kept in good repair, and when he reached the gargoyle the climber had passed his greatest difficulty—the stretch of squared stones with the crevices well filled with mortar. Above it the stones were weather-worn, and the mortar of the Venetian builders was crumbling away from between them, so that he was able to find holes for his feet and hands. Wylie gathered from the remarks of the men who held him that the adventurer was a noted cliff-climber, and smiled, even in his disgust, at the reticence which had hitherto been maintained as to his profession. With such an auxiliary it would have been comparatively easy to storm the tower on a windy night, with the garrison in the proper state of exhaustion, induced by constant false alarms, but the man and his associates had alike kept their own counsel.
The approach of the insurgents to the tower had not passed unnoticed by the rear ranks of the consular force in the front, and when the three men ran forward warning shouts were raised, two or three officers stepping out and calling to them, evidently under the impression that they did not know the place was mined. As they took no notice, the commander of the Magnagrecian guard, who was the nearest, began to march his men round to the back. Instantly, to Wylie’s speechless horror, the insurgents lining the ridge fired a volley. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw that they had fired into the air, and that the Magnagrecian detachment was untouched. But the bullets whistling overhead had alarmed the rest of the force, and the Magnagrecians were hastily recalled. No one seemed quite to know whether the volley had been an accident, an act of hostility or one of warning, and while the officers of various nationalities discussed the matter excitedly, a shout of triumph from the insurgents drew their attention to the top of the tower. The daring climber stood there, and the Roumi flag which had floated proudly from its staff was torn down and rent savagely into fragments. In its place the eagle of the Eastern Empire rose into view and blew out defiantly. So much they saw, then the climber seemed to throw himself headlong from the battlements, scrambling down the ruined masonry for dear life. Arrived at the gargoyle, he took a flying leap, regardless of safety, and as his feet touched the ground the building blew up. The time-worn walls, which had seen so many changes since their builders had first hoisted the standard of St Mark, ended their career under the flag of Free Emathia.
In the shock and amazement of this transformation scene, it was difficult to perceive what actually happened. The Consuls and their naval contingents declared that the insurgents lining the roofs of Ahmed Pasha, in the excitement of their triumph, opened fire upon the representatives of Europe. The insurgents, on the other hand, declared, and Wylie believed they spoke the truth, that it was not bullets that wounded several sailors at this juncture, but flying fragments of masonry, and that they had merely fired their rifles again into the air. However this might be, there was no doubt that the consular force, with marvellous celerity, took cover behind the ruins of Segreti, and that bullets were flying between it and Ahmed Pasha, rendering the position of those who found themselves on the broken ground stretching from one to the other unpleasant in the extreme. The insurgents lining the ridge behaved with a steadiness of which Wylie would have been proud in less exasperating circumstances. They separated into two parties, which took turns in running back and halting to cover each other’s retreat with the greatest precision, picking up Wylie and his two guards by the way, and tumbling proudly into Ahmed Pasha without the loss of a man, though one or two exhibited flesh-wounds. Even the climber and his two companions had somehow escaped from the wreck of the tower, and joined the rest.
An informal Assembly for mutual congratulation was, of course, the first thing to be thought of, the periods of the orators being pleasantly punctuated by the bullets which struck the houses round them. Nobody was concerned to apologise to Wylie, who had very skilfully been prevented, so the general opinion seemed to run, from making a regrettable exhibition of himself, and the seriousness of the situation was quite overborne by the gratifying reflection that Emathia was actually engaged in hostilities with the whole of envious Europe. But it was very speedily borne in upon the minds of the triumphant talkers that war with Europe did not merely mean exchanging long shots from cover with another force equally well protected. A shell came screaming and tearing overhead, without any innocuous warning this time, and exploded in the courtyard of one of the houses, from which rose a thick cloud of smoke. Other shells followed, one dropping almost in the midst of the Assembly, which broke up with unprecedented celerity, and Wylie seized the opportunity of the general consternation to resume his command. It was useless to try and retain Ahmed Pasha under the fire of the ships, but the fact had in it this compensation, that it would be equally impossible for the Powers to reestablish the Roumis in the place if they could be beguiled into destroying it. They would probably go on dropping shells as long as no sign of surrender appeared, and by sunset the place would be untenable for any self-respecting Moslems. The insurgents, confused and terrified by the sudden reversal of their fortunes, were willing enough to obey the man who proposed to deprive their enemies of any profit from it, and under Wylie’s orders the wounded were first conveyed out at the back of the village, and then such stores as remained. Lastly, the garrison left in small parties, keeping the now burning houses between themselves and Segreti, and taking care not to concentrate anywhere on the road, lest the ships should take a fancy to enlarge the area of their fire. Wylie was perhaps the only man present who realised that the brief attempt of the insurgents to obtain a footing on the mainland was now ended. They were driven back upon Karakula, and might be thankful if they were allowed to retain even that.
Though the insurgents’ love for the Powers could hardly be expected to have been increased by the events of the day, they were sufficiently frightened by this second bombardment and its results to become more amenable to discipline. Ahmed Pasha was now a heap of smoking ruins, and the shells began to fall into Karakula—apparently out of pure vindictiveness, since it was well within the line which the Admirals had laid down as the limit of the insurgents’ territory. The village itself was not capable of defence, as the houses had never been repaired since its first seizure, and it was commanded by the steep slope behind it, and therefore Wylie did not linger there. He posted his pickets from shore to shore of the isthmus, in case an attempt should be made by the Roumis to break through, and concentrated the rest of his force in a hollow well shielded from the fire of the warships, from which they could quickly reinforce any part of the line that might be threatened. From a high point of the ridge which formed the backbone of the peninsula he could obtain a view of the consular force sheltering behind Segreti, and he noted that the firing ceased as though at a signal, presumably when each ship had dropped a certain number of shells. A detachment of armed sailors was then thrown forward to examine the ruins and make sure that they were not occupied, and thereafter the Consuls, their guards and their rescued charges, embarked in safety. No attempt was made to cross the line and approach Karakula, for which Wylie was devoutly thankful, since his men, posted in an advantageous position, which the fire from the ships could not easily search out, would certainly have refused to withdraw without fighting, and could not have been dislodged without heavy loss.
Night fell at last, and leaving Prince Romanos in command on one shore of the isthmus, Wylie took up his post on the other, that nearest to Therma and Skandalo. It was here, if anywhere on the isthmus, that an attack would be made, and he had conceived a plan for drawing the assailants into a morass not far from the shore by means of a feigned retreat. He had everything in readiness to give them a warm reception, but with a sad lack of consideration they declined to come. Distrustful, owing to much bitter experience, of the wakefulness of his supporters, he watched through most of the night himself, and felt almost as if he had been cheated when it had passed uneventfully. The labours and trials of the last few days had left their mark upon him, and Prince Romanos started when they met.
“You are ill!” he said. “Or were you wounded yesterday after all?”
“This place is feverish,” said Wylie irritably. “I felt it in the night. I suppose I had no business to sleep out, but there wasn’t much choice. I must send for my quinine from the monastery, and then I daresay I shall shake it off.”
“Better rest for to-day,” suggested Prince Romanos; but Wylie was an impracticable patient, all the more determined to do all he could at once because he knew it was highly unlikely that he would be able to do it on the morrow. The new line of defence behind Karakula must be strengthened, and more use made of the marsh, so that it might appear to be the only unguarded spot, positively inviting an attack. This was a kind of warfare the insurgents could understand, and they entered heartily into the contrivances for concentrating a heavy fire on an imaginary force in difficulties. One man even volunteered to offer to act as guide to the Roumis, with the amiable intention of leading them into the trap, but the drawback to this scheme was that there were no Roumis to lead astray—not the slightest apparent intention on the part of Jalal-ud-din to profit from the advantage secured for him by the Powers yesterday. Still Wylie worked on, growing more ghastly in appearance as the hours passed, until Prince Romanos was summoned by a violent outcry from the trench which was being dug under his superintendence. Wylie had collapsed at last, and as he lay insensible in the sun, knives were being drawn above him. His own guards, and the other Slavs in the neighbourhood, declared that the Greeks had murdered him, and the Greeks were vehemently rebutting the accusation, crying out that the Slavs had brought it against them to conceal their own guilt. Prince Romanos patched up a hollow peace by sending for Dr Terminoff, who pronounced the illness to be entirely due to natural causes, and ordered the patient to be carried to the hospital. Before he arrived there, however, Wylie recovered consciousness sufficiently to murmur, “Ephestilo camp; not hospital—not monastery,” and the doctor consented unwillingly to do as he wished, sending word to Maurice of the change. Maurice hurried to Ephestilo as soon as the news reached him, and found his friend established in the chief house in the village, from which his guards had expelled the inhabitants on their own authority. Wylie could not lift his head from the rolled-up cloak which served as a pillow, but his eyes met Maurice’s anxiously.
“Hoped I should be—sensible—when you came,” he said with difficulty. “Don’t let—ladies—come here.”
“But it’s nothing infectious,” said Maurice, in astonishment. “I know they will want to nurse you.”
“Then don’t—tell them,” was the obstinate reply.
“My dear fellow, you must be properly looked after,” remonstrated Maurice. “They won’t tease you to talk, or anything of that sort,” with a vague effort to get at the root of the objection.
“My men”—with an attempt to glance in the direction of the guards, who were sitting playing cards on the floor—“look after—me all right—good fellows—do as they’re told. I will not—have any one else. Promise.”
There was so much determination in the weak voice that Maurice compromised. “Well, if Terminoff thinks your men are enough——”
“Promise,” persisted Wylie. “Not even—if—I mention names.”
“Whose names?” asked Maurice, taken aback. Wylie glanced at him with a kind of sick contempt.
“Zoe’s, of course,” he said irritably. “I might call out for her—no, of course I shan’t,”—with a momentary accession of strength,—“but I might. Don’t let her come.”
“Of course not,” said Maurice quickly; and Wylie sighed with something like contentment, and then began to murmur incoherently, while Maurice relieved his feelings by turning the guards out of the room, and forbidding cards anywhere but on the piazza outside. One of the men, who had acted as Wylie’s servant, was appointed head-nurse, and told that he would be held responsible for the patient, and might choose his own assistants, who must obey the doctor’s orders implicitly. The men were all willing enough, but a very primitive surgery was their only notion of curative treatment, and Maurice returned to the monastery full of anxiety. Zoe was waiting for him at the gate.
“Colonel Wylie is ill?” she said.
“Attack of fever. I left him fairly comfortable.”
“And he won’t let me go near him, of course?”
“How did you know?” he asked in surprise.
“I know him. I suppose he has made you promise, Maurice? Don’t be afraid; I am not going to make a fuss—only you must tell me if he is dying.”
“I hope there’s no fear of that. If there was——”
“If there is, you must let me know, and I shall go to him. Even he would not wish to keep me away then—he would forgive me at last. Do you remember, Maurice?—‘an unforgiving brute,’ you called him once.” She laughed drearily. “But he wouldn’t deprive me of that one little scrap of comfort when there was no chance of my presuming upon it in the future.”
“Then you think”—Maurice hesitated—“that he cares for you still?”
“I know he does. But he can’t forgive me.”
“I don’t know—I had an idea somehow that it was you. Eirene thought you didn’t care for him.”
“Eirene ought to know better,” said Zoe indignantly. “But she really thinks you don’t care for a person unless you show it by doing something wild, I suppose. Maurice, if I had married him seven years ago, do you think we should have been saved all this?” with a wave of her hand that included the peninsula generally. “He would have been quartered somewhere in Egypt or India, I suppose, and he would be an ordinary hard-working soldier, and I the usual Anglo-Indian regimental lady. You would not have embarked on this without him?”
“I don’t know,” said Maurice again slowly. “We should have had Teffany-Wise’s legacy just the same, I imagine, and Eirene would have been the same. She would not have waited for Wylie, you know. No, I don’t think you need reproach yourself with that, Zoe,—as if you hadn’t enough to bear.”
“Don’t!” said Zoe quickly, dashing away an intrusive tear. “And the worst of it is that what I said to him when I refused him was perfectly justified—absolutely true. Any reasonable man would have seen it, only—you know——”
“This particular man is not reasonable?” suggested Maurice. “Of course he isn’t—on this subject. If he was, he wouldn’t be Wylie. But if he was, how glad I should have been if he had married you and taken you out of this!”
“He wouldn’t have gone, and I wouldn’t have been taken,” said Zoe with conviction. “We should stand by you and Eirene to the end, Maurice—as we shall now. But surely things are no worse now than they were, if the warships are going to let us alone? You and—he—always said that it was only a source of weakness to hold Ahmed Pasha.”
“If the warships let us alone to starve?” said Maurice. “We can hold out for a week on the present restricted allowance, no longer. And how are we to get supplies?”
“Lord Armitage may come any day,” Zoe reminded him.
“No; I forgot to tell you. Demetri the fisherman came in to Skandalo when I was there this morning, and said he had actually sighted the yacht outside the blockading warships. He tried to signal to her how bad our plight was, but unfortunately his boat attracted the notice of a Hercynian destroyer,—she was beyond our own waters, of course. They came to order her back, sighted the yacht, and went off in chase. He heard the sound of firing, but can’t say whether she was captured. It’s just possible that she gave them the slip in the night, of course.”
“I should have thought Lord Armitage would have taken the risk and run for Skandalo,” said Zoe.
“Then he would have been sunk, to a certainty, and what good would his stores be to us at the bottom of the sea? No, he will try to keep out of sight till he finds a chance of getting in, but the worst of it is they will all be looking for him now.”
“I should send the refugees back to the mainland,” said Zoe suddenly. “The food would last much longer if we had only the insurgents and the regular inhabitants.”
“My dear Zoe, don’t you think the Powers know that, and the Roumis too? The moment our poor wretches showed their noses beyond that barren labyrinth where Wylie and Christodoridi held up Jalal-ud-din, they would be turned back, you may be sure. They would have tried it themselves long ago if they hadn’t been certain of that. No, the Powers, in the interests of humanity, will see us starved to the point at which the Roumis are certain of a walk-over. That’s the secret of their forbearance, in spite of all the moral sympathy that Panagiotis assures us they feel. They are cruel only to be kind, of course.”
Two days of the allotted week passed by, and still the Powers and the Roumis remained inactive. Wylie muttered incoherently on his sick-bed at Ephestilo, and Zoe tried to compensate herself for her banishment from him by caring for the wounded from Ahmed Pasha, who had at least gained their injuries in his company. The third night was very foggy, and the watchers along the coast could hear the muffled sound of sirens and whistles as the European warships talked to one another. The morning was also foggy, but the fog lay over the sea, not the land. The warships were moored too far out to be seen, and even the fishing-boats at anchor loomed dimly through the haze. From Skandalo came exciting news. The boats lying farthest out had caught a glimpse of the yacht. She had burst upon them out of the gloom, and they had cheered her on, thinking that nothing could now prevent her from reaching the port. But from the direction of Therma there came a small foreign ship, steaming parallel with the shore, so as to cut the yacht off from Skandalo, and she had turned and fled back into the fog. From the cliffs at the southern extremity of the peninsula one or two glimpses of her had been caught, and refugees and insurgents were now crowding to the coast to watch for her. The warship had followed her out of the range of vision, so there was still the hope that she might shake off pursuit and run safely for Ephestilo, the only practicable harbour on that side, and one into which the pursuer would not be able to follow her.
Work was at a standstill that morning, for the imminence of the crisis drew every one to the cliffs. Mothers carrying their babies, sick and wounded men dragging themselves painfully over the ground, warriors forsaking their posts inland, townspeople and farmers who were now feeling the pinch of famine like their guests,—all converged on Ephestilo. The slopes on either side of the bay down to the water’s edge were parti-coloured with people, and all eyes were fixed on the space between the headlands, looking out to sea, as though it were the stage of a natural amphitheatre. Boom! came a hollow sound from seaward, and as though the shot had rent the curtain of fog, the yacht ran into sight at that moment, sparks mingling with the smoke from her funnels in the intensity of her effort to reach the shore. Her pursuer was visible immediately afterwards, close—terribly close—upon her, and steaming as before to cut her off from the one opening in the rocks that guarded the harbour. Sighs and moans of sympathy broke from the watching people as the shells of the pursuer fell before, behind, beside the yacht, then on board, causing her to shrink and stagger, but she still held on.
“Good old Armitage! He’s going to run her on the rocks—thinks we can salve the stores from her then,” said Maurice, and as he spoke a great cry rose up from the multitude on the shore. The yacht had run straight upon the reef. The fishermen, led by Maurice, rushed for their boats, only to recoil in terror as a shell splashed into the water of the harbour. Amid the tears and groans of the crowd, the commander of the destroyer went about his work methodically, sending an occasional shot into the bay to keep the onlookers quiet. The crew of the yacht were taken off in boats and transferred to the pursuer, which then withdrew a short distance and fired shot after shot into the grounded vessel. Her boiler blew up at last, with a tremendous explosion, and her shattered remains sank gently into the deep water outside the rocks, followed by a long despairing wail from the shore.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A RUSE DE GUERRE.
When the fog cleared away that evening, a sight ominous of doom met the eyes of the blockaded inhabitants of the peninsula. Inside the line of warships lay a row of other vessels, Roumi transports packed with troops, waiting like vultures for the dying agonies of their prey. The sight seemed to infuse a desperate resolution into the luckless refugees, for that night an epidemic of desertion set in. The insurgents and their leaders made no attempt to stay it, arguing, as Zoe had done, that in the absence of the refugees the food would hold out much longer. Therefore the Skandalo boatmen reaped after dark a rich harvest of jewels and other treasures saved from devastated homes in Therma, and the force guarding the Karakula lines also found opportunities of turning a more or less honest penny. Boat after boat put out into the darkness from the port, and a long straggling train of fugitives streamed along the isthmus. The morning light saw the boats returning, laden as when they started. They had been turned back by the picket-boats from the warships, and told that in future no craft from the peninsula would be allowed to pass the line of transports, while the Roumis on board the transports promised faithfully thenceforth to sink any boat approaching them that did not bring an offer of surrender. The fugitives who had chosen the land route came straggling back at intervals through the day. They also had been stopped by Jalal-ud-din’s force, and told to go back and starve,—or else bring about a surrender. When they would have flung themselves down to die round about the Roumi camp, they were driven back across the isthmus at the bayonet’s point. At present the Roumis considered their hungry mouths more desirable even than their blood, for not only would they help to consume the insurgents’ stores, but their clamorous misery would weaken the hearts of the fighting men.
The returning fugitives were shepherded once more into their allotted camps, and supplied with their meagre rations, to supplement which they wandered over the hills, seeking leaves and roots. The townspeople were openly mutinous, the insurgents angry and discontented. The only class not absolutely destitute were the fishermen, who found an eager market for whatever they could catch, but their operations were now restricted by the transports, which fired on them whenever they ventured more than a few hundred yards from the shore. Otherwise there was no further attempt at hostilities, only the dark masses looming ominous on the horizon. Gradually the belief spread that the Powers had forbidden the Roumis to engage in actual warfare, while allowing them to blockade the peninsula until its inhabitants were too much reduced to offer any resistance to a landing, and on the sixth day Prince Romanos came to Maurice.
“We must do something, or else all starve together,” he said. “I propose to cross the isthmus to-night, take the shore road, and attack Jalal-ud-din’s camp in the rear. The attack will merely be a cover for a raid upon his stores, which are the only thing we care about.”
“You will be shelled by the fleets,” said Maurice.
“I think not. The camp lies inland, and we shall return through the defiles. We must see that no one slips past to take the news of the attack to the ships, and then I hope we shall get back across the isthmus unmolested.”
“Then go, in God’s name! To see these unfortunate women and children suffering—and with no hope for them but worse suffering, and no prospect of any good from it—is heartrending. I will take command at Karakula while you are gone, and Terminoff will look after this end of the place. Pick your men, and don’t let them know what duty they’re on. We don’t want to raise the hopes of the people unnecessarily—and besides, plans leak out sometimes.”
Prince Romanos looked at him keenly. “You suspect some one. Is it Nilischeff?”
“I don’t like the way in which he keeps Skandalo in a ferment. And there’s no denying that he favours neither my claim nor yours. But I have no proof against him.”
“M. Nilischeff must be watched. The same thought had occurred to me. But I go to revictual the garrison. If we do not return, at least you will have fewer mouths to feed.”
But Prince Romanos and his men returned triumphant. The Roumis had apparently concentrated their attention on the mouth of the defile as the only spot from which the insurgents might be expected to appear, and their stores and transport were all at the other side of the camp, on which the attack was actually made. One of the first and chief prizes of the assailants was a herd of cattle, which they drove straight through the camp to the mouth of the defile, overthrowing tents and huts, and knocking down and trampling the startled soldiers who tried to stop them. Behind the maddened cattle came the insurgents, laden with everything in the way of food they could possibly lay hands on, from live sheep to tinned delicacies sacred to the Pasha himself. The Roumis had blocked the mouth of the defile, leaving only a narrow passage, so as to make it easier to stop fugitives, and this was held without difficulty by a rearguard, when the main body of the assailants had passed through with their spoils. The rearguard, unencumbered, fought its way back over the familiar ground just before dawn, and when daylight came the whole force was safely inside the Karakula lines, with remarkably few casualties to report.
The day was a grand one for all the occupants of the peninsula. Maurice’s desire that the whole of the spoil should at once be placed under guard and issued only as rations was unanimously scouted, and the hunger-stricken people gave themselves up to a whole day’s feasting, with its inevitable waste and excess. On the morrow they realised their mistake, and agreed that what was left should be strictly preserved, but this would barely supply their needs for a week longer. Naturally the cry soon arose for a fresh foray, and the men who had ranged themselves under the banner of Prince Romanos demanded to be led once more against the Roumi camp. It was useless to point out to them that the first attack had succeeded entirely because it was a surprise, and that a repetition of the assault would now be provided against. They ascribed the delay to pusillanimity on Maurice’s part, and openly urged his rival to act in opposition to him. As the question of food was once more becoming urgent, the two leaders agreed at length that Prince Romanos should take his servant Petros and one or two trustworthy men, and make a scouting expedition through the defiles, to discover in what part of the camp Jalal-ud-din’s commissariat was now located, and whether there was any chance of raiding it successfully, either from the front, flank, or rear. Having made his observations, he was to return and communicate them to Maurice, who would then take command at Karakula as before, while the picked force under his rival made a further attempt.
The evening after the departure of Prince Romanos was an anxious one for Maurice. He had sat up the night before with Wylie, who lay in a kind of stupor during the daytime, but became violently excited during the hours of darkness, calling loudly for Zoe, or holding imaginary conversations with her, rebutting accusations of unkindness on her part, which must presumably have been suggested by his own conscience. Then he would imagine that an attack was imminent, and insist on getting up and taking part in the defence,—a determination which it required much tact and skilful humouring to combat. The early part of the day had been spent in a mournful succession of funerals, the dead drawn alike from among the wounded in the hospital and the half-starved refugees, and the afternoon in the court-martial—or rather, the trial before the Assembly—of a Skandalote who had been caught stealing off to the Roumi ships, presumably with the intention of carrying news. The man was defended by Lazar Nilischeff, who asserted that he knew him well, and that his only object was to try to buy some food from the sailors,—a defence received with ridicule by the Greek portion of the Assembly, who declared unanimously for death. Nilischeff’s followers declared with equal determination in favour of acquittal, while the dynastic Slavs, on whose support Maurice could always count, devised a compromise which placed him in a most invidious position while apparently exalting his authority, by desiring that the issue of life or death should be decided by him alone. In the end, the man was remanded to prison, and Maurice turned to the necessary but inevitably disagreeable task of superintending the distribution of the evening rations to the refugees and sick. The fighting men, who might be supposed to be endowed with some portion of self-control, received theirs only once a-day, in the morning; but experience had shown that the refugees had no idea of making their supplies last out, but consumed at once what was intended to feed them for twenty-four hours, and then wandered about with mournful lamentations, or begged from their more provident companions. This evening, however, the expectant throng was not confined to these weaker souls. It appeared that the impression had somehow got about that the absence of Prince Romanos betokened a foray that night, and a consequent abundance of provisions on the morrow, so that from all the nearer posts the garrisons had come in to demand that the food in hand should at once be distributed to all alike, and delegates had arrived from the Karakula lines with the same request. With his little band of faithful men at his back, Maurice refused it absolutely. There was no likelihood whatever of a raid that night. It might not take place for three or four days, perhaps not at all, and it would be madness to consume all the available supplies. The men were not sufficiently ravenous to use force, but there was an ugly mutinous spirit among them, which showed itself in the defiant raising of the cry, “Romanos for Prince!” as they returned to their respective posts.
The night passed without alarm, and Maurice rejoiced that the monastery guard and the men at the nearest encampment were all Slavs, since they felt a natural inclination to champion his cause against that of Prince Romanos, and might be relied upon to warn him if any treachery was attempted against him personally. There was no sign of the scouting party in the morning, and Maurice hurried down to Ephestilo to see Wylie, and returned to the usual daily routine, issuing rations, judging small causes, and arranging for funerals, while Eirene and Zoe visited the hospital. It was about mid-day that the unmistakable sound of rifle-fire reached him, coming from the direction of the isthmus. Seizing a glass, he ran up to the top of the gateway. Did his eyes deceive him, or was the line of Roumi transports shorter than before? He counted them; there were two less on the horizon, and all were moving northwards. The sound of firing grew louder; was it merely heavier, or was it approaching? The guards were assembling in groups, looking, with almost stupid astonishment, in the direction of Karakula, and discussing what the meaning of the sound could be. Maurice ran down again, sent off a messenger to recall Eirene and Zoe, and to warn the refugees to seek shelter round the monastery, and leaving a small guard there, started for the isthmus with the rest of his men. Before they had gone far, a breathless messenger came toiling up the path in front and met them.
“Lord, the Roumis have landed on the isthmus, and are inside the lines of Karakula.”
“Inside? But what has happened to the garrison?”
“Lord, many of them had followed the Lord Romanos into the defiles, and there was no time to recall them. There were some who remained, but they were killed or driven back. And the Roumis have captured the hermitage of Akri, for all the men there had departed.”
“Akri lost?” cried Maurice. The blow was a heavy one, for the post commanded both the lines of Karakula in front of it and the next line of defence in the rear. “Is there no one left? Where is the picked force?”
“They are all gone across the isthmus, lord. When the message came from the Lord Romanos, an hour before dawn, only the picked force were summoned, but all the rest went also, saying they would get food for themselves, since it was not given them.”
“A message? to the force—not to me?”
“I know not, lord. Gatso the fisherman brought it.”
Maurice turned to the ex-brigand Zeko. “Find Gatso, if he is anywhere inside the lines, and bring him to me,” he said. “Come on, the rest of you.”
As they hurried on along the precipitous paths, it became clear from the sound of the firing that the inner line of defences was being attacked, and when they reached them, crawling on hands and knees for the last part of the way, they were a welcome reinforcement to the defenders. The Roumis had not yet realised the full advantage given them by the possession of the height of Akri, from which they could have rendered the lower breastworks untenable, but their riflemen were keeping up a heavy fire from cover in front. Maurice divided the men who had come with him, sending parties away on both sides to reinforce the weakest points, and taking the rifle of a man who had been killed, settled himself at a loophole in the breastwork at which he had first arrived, which was that commanding the chief path into the interior. In the intervals of firing he questioned the men on either side as to the events of the morning, of which their impressions were somewhat hazy. The message brought by Gatso in the darkness, to the effect that Prince Romanos had discovered a large provision-convoy, on its way from Therma, halted outside the Roumi camp, and that he was about to attack it immediately, had drawn away more than half of the Karakula force, while the garrisons of Akri and other isolated points had deserted en masse. They had crossed the isthmus and entered the defiles without alarm, and those left behind had thought of nothing but what was going on beyond the hills. Even the consciousness of superior virtue could not keep them from grumbling as they gathered round their fires and made coffee at dawn, and into the midst of their grumbling came the volley which told them that the Roumis had landed. During Wylie’s illness, a number of lazy men, who found it took them too long to go round the marsh, had made a rough path across it with hurdles and bundles of reeds, intending, of course, to remove these stepping-stones at the first hint of a landing. They had not had time to do so, however, and the Roumis, landing unobserved in the twilight, had stolen up, and were inside the defences before their presence was even suspected. Taken absolutely by surprise, the defenders fought like heroes, and succeeded in keeping back their assailants sufficiently to secure their own retreat on the second line, only to discover that this disastrous morning’s work had been crowned by the abandonment of Akri, up which two or three daring Roumis crept, to find themselves, much to their elation, masters of the position. Until they should occupy it in force, matters remained at a standstill, both sides firing at each other from cover, and neither venturing to show themselves. In this interval a diversion was caused by the entrance into Maurice’s redoubt of the stalwart Zeko, dragging and pushing a protesting Greek.
“Gatso the fisherman, lord,” he announced, with a final shove that cast his victim prone at Maurice’s feet. “I found him hiding in a cave on the way to Ephestilo.”
Gatso protested incoherently as he knelt that he had given his message word for word. The Lord Romanos had indeed discovered a rich convoy, only waiting to be attacked, and had despatched him with the news, which he had duly delivered. Maurice interrupted him.
“To whom were you told to take the news?” he demanded.
“To the picked force, lord,” was the glib answer.
“To them first?” Gatso declared with much invocation of saints that it was so, but Zeko’s grip descended again on the back of his neck, and changed his tune. “To—to you, lord, at the monastery,” he gasped. “Oh, Holy Virgin, I shall be choked!”
“Let him go, Zeko,” said Maurice contemptuously. “You see what he has done,” he added to the other men. “Instead of delivering his message as he was told, he has spread it broadcast, and by drawing the garrisons from their posts, has brought about this defeat. What does he deserve?”
“Death, lord,” was the unanimous answer, and every man in the redoubt looked ready to execute the sentence. But Maurice waved them back.
“We have lost too many men to waste more,” he said. “You ought to be shot, Gatso, but take this rifle and see how many Roumis you can shoot instead.”
There was a murmur of discontent, and Gatso himself showed no particular gratitude; but he took the rifle and crawled to the loophole, while Maurice set himself to work along the line and see whether it was in immediate danger of being pierced at any other point. Everywhere he found his men confronted by the Roumis, and shots being exchanged at intervals. The enemy had already landed troops enough to outnumber his force twice over, and he was hopelessly cut off from his best men, who were all with Prince Romanos beyond the isthmus. A determined rush on the part of the Roumis must break the weak line. Perhaps they were waiting until night to make it, or perhaps they were planning to make a second landing at disaffected Skandalo, or in one of the smaller bays, and take him in the rear. He thought of Wylie lying sick at Ephestilo, of Eirene and Zoe and the other women practically defenceless at the monastery, and reflected bitterly that he could not depend on the guards at the various landing-places even to warn him of an attack unless he was in the immediate neighbourhood. “We must certainly have either Wylie’s Sikhs or some other force that we can trust, as a nucleus, before we can hope to turn these chaps into soldiers,” he said to himself, and then remembered that he was planning for a future which his short-lived sovereignty would now never see. There was just the chance that Prince Romanos, with his victorious force, might be keeping out of sight in the defiles, intending to make a rear attack, when darkness fell, on the Roumis who barred his way, in which case there would be more hope of the stubborn defence, contesting each inch of ground, on which they had relied, in the last resort, to awaken the tardy sympathy of Europe. But when he reached the right-hand extremity of his line, resting on the sea, a chorus of lamentation met him. The men not at the loopholes were gathered round a dripping form, which they were wrapping in their own clothes, and plying with coffee.
“The only one escaped!” they told Maurice, with awe. “He saw the Lord Romanos fall.”
“Tell me,” said Maurice, and the fugitive sat up. He was a Greek from the mainland, who had been foremost in pressing the claims of Prince Romanos, but now he saluted Maurice as Prince.
“You are left, lord,” he said. “The Lord Romanos is slain.”
“Tell me,” said Maurice again, while a groan broke from the listeners.
“Lord, I was one of those who went from Akri when the message came of the spoil at hand. The Lord Romanos was angry that we had forsaken our posts, but said he would make use of us before sending us back. Under his orders we attacked the convoy, which was encamped in no order, every cart having halted where it chose—an easy prey. But it was a trap, and nothing more. In the carts, under the coverings, were men—Roumis—and upon us, as we fought with them, came other Roumis from behind, while in front the Pasha’s camp turned out at the alarm. We saw that an ambush had been laid for us, and that death was at hand, and every man sought only to slay as many of the accursed as possible before dying himself. I saw the Lord Romanos struck down, fighting with sword and revolver, and the accursed raised a mighty shout. How I escaped I know not, but I found myself on the outskirts of the fight, and the sea not far off, and life was strong within me. Therefore I flung myself from the rocks, and sometimes swimming, and again wading along the shore, I passed the hills and the isthmus, and seeing the Roumis at Karakula, cast myself into the sea once more and reached this place, which is now little better——”
“Lord!” a panting herald of disaster burst into the group and confronted Maurice, “the Roumis are firing from Akri, and the sons of freedom fall fast. Is it your pleasure that they should hold the breastwork until all are slain?”
“I will come,” said Maurice.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BITTER END.
Inside the breastwork commanding the path the defenders were crouching close under the loopholes to avoid the fire which was being poured in by a strong body of riflemen posted on Akri. Several dead bodies lay unheeded behind them, victims of the first volley, and most of the men had received wounds. They met Maurice with a subdued cheer as he crawled in among them.
“You will not keep us here to be shot, lord?” they questioned him eagerly. “You will give the word for us to dash upon the bayonets, and kill as we are killed?”
“You would be shot down before you could cover half the distance. No, lie still, and don’t reply to the fire. Then they may think we are all killed, and try to rush the breastwork.”
But even as Maurice spoke, he remembered that the enemy on Akri could pour in a volley that would kill all his men the moment they rose to their feet, and he began to wonder whether he ought to withdraw them one by one while the Roumis in front were still lying down and taking long shots. If this line were pierced, the way would be open, with only occasional obstacles, to the defences surrounding the monastery itself, and when they were attacked, then it would indeed be the beginning of the end. But could the line be held? “Oh, if only Wylie were here!” he breathed, and started when one of the men laid a hand upon his arm, and directed his attention to the dry stream-bed behind a projecting rock which afforded a sheltered entrance to the breastwork from the rear. There was Wylie, haggard and unshaven, holding fast with both hands to the packsaddle of the mule on which he was precariously perched, riding down towards the threatened point, his guards accompanying him with sullen faces. The enemy on Akri seemed to detect a reinforcement in the half-seen forms moving behind rocks and bushes, and sent a volley in their direction for a change. The mule was hit, and came down on its knees, the guards dragging Wylie off just in time. Maurice crawled back to meet him, and found him sitting upon a stone, hardly able to speak.
“This is madness!” said Maurice. “Let them take you back at once.”
“Akri gone?” asked Wylie, speaking slowly and with difficulty, and paying no attention to his friend. “Send ten men with Mausers up here,” indicating the protecting rock above him. “Just cover enough—enfilade Akri—keep down fire.”
Astonished and delighted, Maurice obeyed, leading the men up in person, to find that from the summit of the rock they could indeed obtain a side view of the top of Akri, and that the riflemen there were absolutely exposed. A few minutes made a gratifying difference in the state of affairs. The fire which had had such damaging results ceased entirely, the few survivors of the Roumi marksmen crawling away to huddle in the shelter of the ruins of the hermitage. Leaving his men to hold the rock, Maurice descended it to report.
“Thought so,” said Wylie. “Top of Akri slopes on that side—no cover. They must bring up sandbags before they can fire again—won’t do that till dark. Suppose you haven’t thought of sending for one of the Maxims?”
“No, indeed,” confessed Maurice. “Shall I take some of the men and fetch it?”
“Better. Not the one commanding the gateway—we may want that—the other. Prolong the agony a bit while the ammunition holds out—they’ll hardly face it. I’ll hold the fort here while you’re gone.”
Divided between relief at this unexpected accession of strength and anxiety for Wylie, Maurice departed on his errand. At the monastery he found that Eirene and Zoe had organised a corps of messengers,—small boys who were to bring periodical reports from the various possible landing-places,—and that at present there was no sign of a Roumi descent on any other point.
“Good reason,” growled Wylie, when he returned with the gun and told him of this. “They know that the paths leading to the monastery from Skandalo and Ephestilo are practically impassable in the face of any opposition at all. This path along the hills is the only hopeful one for an army.”
He spoke more easily, and now that the exhaustion caused by the rough ride was over, something of his ordinary alert look was returning. While Maurice was absent, he had directed the building of a rough shelter, a mere framework of loose stones, for the men working the Maxim, and it was now placed in position, commanding the path.
“Pure bluff,” he remarked. “They are bound to break the line somewhere if they keep on trying, but this gives us a slight moral advantage. They know that we can wipe out a good many of them when it comes to a final tussle, and therefore it may just make them willing to negotiate.”
“It’s come to that, then?” said Maurice.
Wylie nodded. “I gather from the men that Christodoridi has played the fool to some purpose. He has relieved us of more than half our fighting men, with their rifles and ammunition, and those we have left have been pouring out cartridges like water, to judge by the firing I heard at Ephestilo. We can’t go on long at that rate. Our food may hold out for two days, now that we have lost so many mouths, but not longer. Therefore it would be as well to make use of the two days.”
“It’s a little sudden,” said Maurice, almost apologetically. “Last night the food was the only trouble.”
“Yes, and might have been so still if Christodoridi had happened to carry a piece of paper and a pencil instead of sending a verbal message. You would have realised, if he didn’t, that his beautiful halted convoy must be a trap. But it’s no good crying over wasted casualties. I’ll stay here while you go back and settle things with Terminoff and the rest. When you are ready, we must send a flag of truce, I suppose.”
“To suggest what?”
Wylie looked up at him with approval. “You see, as I do, that it’s all up,” he said, “but we’ll keep a stiff upper lip. Offer to surrender as prisoners of war. The Roumis will probably accept, without for a moment intending to keep the terms, but if we are once recognised as belligerents, the Admirals must for very shame interfere if anything in the way of a massacre is attempted. Let Terminoff go as envoy, and tell him to communicate with the Admirals if he can, so as to get their guarantee for the terms.”
“Do you think they’ll give it? You imagine that there’s some faint chance still?” asked Maurice incredulously.
Wylie shook his head. “They won’t give it. But we preserve our high moral attitude. Not that it’ll do much good to you and me, but it may save the lives of some of those wretched refugees, and it may be of some future service to the Emathian cause.”
“Of which you have no reason to think kindly. Wylie, I won’t insult you by asking you to forgive me for dragging you into this, but I will say that if I had guessed how the Powers would behave, and the Christians, I should have thought my own life was enough to throw away.”
“Can’t be helped,” said Wylie. “Luck’s been against us all through. Well, ‘whirligig of time,’ don’t you know? A hundred years hence they may be worshipping you and me with haloes on in every village of a free Emathia.”
“As martyrs?” said Maurice lightly as he turned away, but his mouth set firmly when he had taken the path to the monastery. “No martyrdom for you, if I can help it!” he said, addressing in his thoughts the distant Wylie. “Eirene owes me something, and she may as well pay it in this way as any other. And pay it she shall.”
Arrived at the monastery, he summoned Dr Terminoff and the other insurgent leaders to a council. He had thought that by this time he knew the men with whom he had to deal, but it came upon him with a shock that he was mistaken. Dr Terminoff, hitherto so obliging, so ready to listen to reason, refused definitely to become the bearer of the offer of surrender. He explained his position frankly.
“It is quite possible,” he said, “that the Roumis may, under the influence of the Admirals, repeat their former offer of immunity for the common people if the leaders are given up. Our leaders have throughout been Prince Theophanis, Prince Christodoridi, and Colonel Wylie. I see no reason to put myself forward as a leader when I have enjoyed none of the privileges of leadership.”
“Perhaps you would prefer me to carry the offer in person?” suggested Maurice, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm out of his voice. “Only I fear that if the Roumis should refuse to recognise the flag of truce and seize me, you would have lost your chief asset without any equivalent.”
The usual scene of disorder ensued. Every one saw that it was out of the question for Maurice to go, but nobody wished to go himself. Finally some one suggested that the task would be a suitable one for a monk, and as the monks of Hagiamavra were known to have objected strenuously to the selection of their monastery as an insurgent stronghold, they might be able to obtain at least a hearing from Jalal-ud-din. The Hegoumenos, when the matter was laid before him by a deputation, was very naturally averse from compromising himself by doing anything to help his unwelcome guests out of their difficulties, but his objections were vigorously combated. If the insurgents continued to hold out, the monks must starve with them; while if the Roumis stormed the place, it was highly unlikely that they would be spared in the general slaughter, so that it was distinctly to their interest to bring about a settlement if possible. One of the officials of the monastery and a lay brother were at length chosen by lot to carry the proposal, which was signed by Maurice alone. The insurgent chiefs, in their new-born zeal for self-effacement, would not put their names to it, and he flatly refused to ask Wylie for his signature.
“Colonel Wylie is here as my servant,” he said, when the rest objected. “Prince Christodoridi and I have been your only leaders. Now I am left alone, but I need no one to share my responsibility.”
This attitude was so surprising that it inspired Lazar Nilischeff and his group with the suspicion that Maurice intended to purchase his own safety by betraying the insurgents. They insisted on the English stewards being called in and required suddenly to translate the offer of surrender, that they might be sure it contained no conditions of which they were ignorant, and they would not allow Maurice to hand it himself to the two monks, lest he should give them secret instructions. A month ago such behaviour on their part would have filled him with disgust, but to-day he submitted to their exactions with a patience that surprised them. They were like a wild animal in a trap, he realised, snapping desperately even at the hand which tries to release it.
There had been some doubt whether Jalal-ud-din, once out of sight of the Admirals, would recognise a flag of truce, but that run up on the breastwork which was held by Wylie and dominated by the Maxim was responded to by one from the Roumi line, and the two monks walked boldly out into the open. Their high caps and black robes crossed the space swept during the day by the fire of both parties, and disappeared into the Roumi lines, and those left behind resigned themselves to wait. It was not until after dark that the return of the ambassadors was announced by the approach of a party bearing a flag of truce, who left them midway across the open space and departed. The two old men were much shaken by their experience, though they had suffered no bodily harm. They had been taken before Jalal-ud-din himself, who had thundered out a demand for unconditional surrender, and refused even to listen to the suggestion of any other terms. Permission to communicate either with the Admirals or with the Consuls at Therma had been denied, but the only European in the camp, a Hercynian whose status did not appear to be exactly defined, had held out no hope of help from Europe. He would do his best to intercede for the lives of any of the inhabitants of the peninsula who were not taken with arms in their hands, but that was all; and the general impression gained from this conversation was that Europe would not be sorry to see the place swept clear by a general massacre, thus at once punishing past defiance and saving future trouble.
The truce was to remain in force until the next evening, to allow the insurgents time to discuss their hard case among themselves, and Maurice went down to the breastwork and carried Wylie off to the monastery almost by main force, dexterously depriving him of his last excuse by first sending for his possessions from Ephestilo. The hour that followed, spent under the shelter of impending doom, reminded the four who shared the recollection of an evening passed long ago in the brigands’ camp. Zoe and Eirene had not been told of the severe alternative which was all that was offered, but the prospect of surrender, even as prisoners of war, was painful enough in its destruction of all that they had lived for during the last few months. Still, each kept up for the sake of the rest, pretending all the while that it was for the sake of little Constantine, who clung to his father with a determination that appealed to Maurice as a kind of premonition, and could hardly be torn from him when bedtime came.
Troubles began early the next day. Maurice was roused by Wylie’s voice in the gallery, and going out, found him leaning on a stick and giving orders to his guards, who looked thoroughly frightened.
“What’s the matter?” asked Maurice, when the men had gone.
“Matter enough. The Roumis have broken the truce and pierced our line in the night. They are posted all along the deep gully between us and Ephestilo.”
“But there was no firing—no alarm!” cried Maurice.
“No need. Nilischeff and his men were holding a palaver, and they had only to slip past.”
“But we can turn them out?”
“If we try it we shall have them on us along the whole line. No, honestly I think it will be best to let them stay there for the day—taking care they get no farther, of course—and make use of the truce if they will let us.”
“How? by trying to communicate with the Admirals again?”
“No, that’s useless. By getting your wife and sister away.”
“But, good Heavens! you say we are cut off from Ephestilo.”
“By the direct path, but there is a longer way round. Zeko will take them down all right.”
“But not to-day. You have not warned the ships.”
“As soon as it is dusk this evening. That will give us time to burn the blue lights on the gateway, for they can’t get to Ephestilo by the long way till to-morrow morning at earliest. Then Cotway will be ready for them.”
“But—old man, I know you’re doing your best for them, but do you realise what it means—a night journey through these hills, with the Roumis swarming in every direction? Wouldn’t they be better even staying here?”
“No,” said Wylie shortly. “You don’t know what Nilischeff and his men were discussing in the night, but I do. They mean to save their own wretched skins by handing us all over—all, mind—to the Roumis.”
“Then let us do one piece of justice before our chance is gone, and shoot the lot of them.”
Wylie shook his head. “No; keep on the mask and anticipate them by surrendering, when once the ladies are safe. I doubt if you would have men enough behind you to do it, for one thing. Nilischeff has made them believe that the enmity of the Powers is against us personally, and that when we are once out of the way Thracia will step forward as the deliverer favoured by all Europe.”
“I don’t mind what he makes out about me,” said Maurice wrathfully, “but to contemplate giving up women to the Roumis!—and this from men who know what it means! Well, I will tell Eirene to be ready.”
It was some time before he had the opportunity of speaking to his wife in private, and when he called her she was at first too busy to respond. Then she came out of her room looking annoyed.
“I wish you wouldn’t speak so loud, Maurice,” she said. “You know how difficult it is to get Constantine settled for his day-sleep, and he always starts up when he hears your voice.”
“Well, he won’t be disturbed in that way much longer. You understand that it’s all up with us here, Eirene? I think it is better that you and Zoe and Con should be out of the way before all the business of the surrender begins, so I shall pack you off this evening to Ephestilo, where Admiral Essiter will send a boat to fetch you on board the Magniloquent.”
“I have never asked you to face any disagreeables that I was not willing to share,” said Eirene. “I shall stay here with you, of course.”
“I think not. I am sorry to be obliged to speak plainly, Eirene. You would not wish Zoe to be left as Con’s guardian?”
“Maurice!” she cried quickly, but he went on unheeding.
“The Admiral will protect you, and give you advice if you need it. You will have the independent control of Teffany-Wise’s money, and no doubt you will be able to use it more profitably for Con than for me.”
“But you talk as if—something was going to happen to you,” she faltered.
“It’s extremely likely that something is. But that need not trouble you. You will have Con to yourself, and can plan his future as you like.”
“Maurice!” Eirene took her courage in both hands, and went close to him. “Has it seemed—I mean, you could not have thought that—that when we had all those quarrels I—I didn’t care?”
“We will say that you dissembled your love with remarkable skill,” said Maurice, as lightly as he could. “Don’t imagine I blame you. You ought never to have married me. We thought you knew your own mind, but you were too young. I couldn’t give you what you had a right to expect, and you couldn’t do without it, as you once thought you could. I have been nothing but a disappointment to you.”
“No, no!” she cried eagerly. “I have never repented—never. I would marry you again to-morrow if—— Oh, Maurice!” struck by his lack of response, “don’t say you have repented—all along!”
“That I certainly have not. There have been times—— But it does no good to talk about it. How could I help repenting, for your sake, when I saw you struggling, chafing, hardly able to keep back the contempt you felt for me?”
“I wanted to bring out the best in you,” she said, choking back a sob,—“to make you worthy of your birthright, not let you sink into a mere country gentleman. Perhaps I have seemed unkind, but I meant it for your good.”
“I never doubted it,” he assured her; “but you see, I knew all along that my good meant your ambition. The conjunction was unfortunate, but it was not your fault.”
“You are cruel!” burst from Eirene.
“Am I? That was the last thing I intended. I hoped that when you explained to Con that his father was a failure, you would at least be able to say that he meant well.”
“You will break my heart, Maurice. You loved me once; is your love quite gone? Have I destroyed it? Oh, don’t answer me in that cruel cold voice! Is there nothing I can do? I do care; I have always cared. Let me do something to make you believe it. Maurice!” she laid her hands on his shoulders, “ask me to stay with you, let me die with you—just to show you have forgiven me.”
“Certainly not. No, no!” as he saw the agony in her eyes, “there is nothing to forgive. We both made a mistake, and it is about my only piece of comfort that you will now have the chance of repairing it. But as to doing something for me—there is one thing——”
“Tell me. Let me do it,” she panted.
“Insist on my sending Wylie to escort you to Ephestilo. Then I shall not have his blood on my head.”
“Colonel Wylie? But why not you?”
“Because I can’t leave these poor wretches, whom I have led into this, but he has nothing to do with them. It would take a load from my mind if I knew he was safe. And he will be a good friend to you.”
“I have never liked him——” began Eirene, but she interrupted herself quickly. “No, I will do it, I will; but only for your sake, Maurice. You understand that?”
“I do, and I thank you. But, Eirene, you must put no more obstacles between him and Zoe. She is not to be a pawn in your game any longer. Is that quite clear?”
“If it is another thing I can do for you, it is.”
CHAPTER XX.
FUGITIVES.
“Maurice, it isn’t true! You are not sending us away and staying here yourself?”
“My dear Zoe, it’s the only thing to be done. But I foresee that my hair will be grey before it is done.”
“But don’t you see that when we have held out so long—— Oh, Maurice, we came for the sake of the cause, and we don’t want to forsake it when it has failed. We don’t mean to go away and be saved without you.”
“Don’t you think I know that? But when the only thing you can do for me is to go quietly——? There’s Con, you know. We couldn’t let the little chap be killed without trying to save him, could we? And you will have to help look after him, see that he doesn’t quite forget me, don’t you know?”
“I hate Eirene!” cried Zoe passionately.
“No, don’t say that. She is awfully cut up—didn’t realise how near we were to the end of all things, of course. I say, Zoe, you mustn’t visit this on her. It’s not her fault really, and I want you two to stick together. If you say to yourself—I mean, if you remember—if it occurs to you, don’t you know?—that I—I cared for her, perhaps it might make it easier.”
“It won’t, because she has treated you so shamefully.”
“At least she has promised to do the last thing I shall ask her, and you won’t.”
“Oh, Maurice, of course I will! Oh, what a shame! you have made me promise. But, my dear boy——”
“Maurice!” the curtain at the door was lifted, and Eirene came in, very pale and quiet. “I want to know who is to go with us to-night. They say that the way to Ephestilo is blocked, and that we shall have to go round.”
“Wylie thought Zeko would be the best man to command the escort,” said Maurice, guessing that Wylie was within hearing; “and we shall pick out six of our best men to go with him.”
“It is not enough,” said Eirene imperiously. “I mean, we must have a European. We may come on the Roumis anywhere. You must send Colonel Wylie with us.”
“Of course, the very thing!” said Maurice, with almost too ready acquiescence. “I’ll tell him he is to go.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Wylie, appearing in the doorway; “but I have a voice in the matter, and I am not going. You will find Zeko quite trustworthy, Princess, and he knows the way as well as I do.”
“It is not fitting,” persisted Eirene. “Maurice, I decline to go unless we are properly escorted.”
“Your husband commands here, ma’am,” said Wylie sharply. “If it is his order that you are to go, go you will.”
“Not at all. Are you not teaching me to defy him at this very moment, Colonel Wylie? I can quite believe you are capable of sending me away by force, but I may remind you that if I chose to scream or struggle, all your plans would be betrayed.”
Wylie turned away impatiently. “You may say what you like, ma’am, but I am not going.”
“Not if I ask it, Wylie?” said Maurice.
“No,” was the gruff reply. “You are plotting to save me from whatever happens to you, and I won’t have it.”
“‘I will be drowned, and nobody shall save me,’” quoted Maurice, in a perplexity so hopeless that it became humorous. “Look at it sensibly, old man. Can’t you realise what a comfort it would be to me to know that the girls had some one to look after them?”
“I stay here to look after you.” Wylie was unmoved.
“But you are on the sick list. Really, you wouldn’t add to our fighting strength much, you know, and if we succeed in surrendering before Nilischeff does it for us, your presence would complicate matters horribly. You are a meddlesome foreigner, you see, without even as much right here as I have. To make things easier—as a favour to me——”
“Don’t ask favours, Maurice; give your orders!” cried Eirene, her voice high and harsh. “You realise, if Colonel Wylie doesn’t, that we may never reach Ephestilo, and that we must not fall into the hands of the Roumis. Do you see now, both of you? Neither Constantine nor Zoe nor I—no descendant of John Theophanis—must fall into the hands of the Roumis.”
“Wylie, you see?” cried Maurice passionately. “How could I put such a responsibility into the hands of Zeko?”
“For God’s sake, don’t put it into mine!” cried Wylie in horror. “Go yourself, and leave me here.”
“I can’t, and you know it. Wylie, you must go. You are the only man I can trust in a thing of this kind.”
Wylie looked round him with hunted eyes, as though seeking a way of escape. Then, with a groan, “All right. I’ll go,” he said.
“I knew you would. Thanks, old man.”
“And after all,” said Zoe, trying to keep her lips from trembling as she spoke, “we may meet the party from the ship quite soon, and then Colonel Wylie can come back at once to you, Maurice.”
“Ah, of course. That I will,” said Wylie.
“Only if you have handed them over safely,” said Maurice. “Don’t let me see you again if you can’t do that.”
“All right. We start as soon as it is dusk, then.” His voice had regained its usual tones as he turned to Eirene and Zoe. “Put on native shoes, and dark clothes, if you have them—handkerchiefs on your heads instead of hats, like the women here. No luggage, of course. I will give you the blue lights,” he added to Maurice. “You must burn them on the gateway at half-hour intervals, without fail. If the Emathians object, tell them it is a signal of distress, a last appeal for help from the Admirals. You must keep our absence a secret, of course. I will have the men we are to take with us put on guard, so that they can get away without being seen.”
How the hours of that dreadful day wore themselves away, none of the people chiefly affected could have told. By far the most cheerful was Maurice, over whom the impending doom hung most certainly. Eirene was filled with a passionate remorse, which it was now too late to prove save by the promptest acquiescence in anything her husband suggested, and Wylie went about like a man under sentence of death. As for Zoe, the active imagination which had played such a large part in her history ran riot now in scenes and possibilities of horror, until she could only restore herself to some measure of calmness by the sage reflection that nothing in all her life had ever proved as terrible as she had pictured it beforehand. The only humorous element in the day’s doings was furnished by Zeko and his six men, who objected as strongly as did Wylie to being sent out of the way of danger, and could only be induced to go by the promise that they should return with him when the ladies had been placed in safety.
It was more difficult now to leave the monastery secretly than it had been when the adventurers reached Hagiamavra, for the hills round it were no longer solitary, but dotted with the huts and tents and camp-fires of the insurgents and refugees, who were crowding closer to this central point as the lines were tightened round them. Maurice was naturally the chief object of interest to these people, and he concentrated their attention on himself by preparing to start with his guards, shortly before dusk, for the breastwork on which the Maxim had been mounted the day before, to resume the defence as soon as the armistice expired. The malcontents under Nilischeff, their occupation gone by the loss of the line they should have defended, hung about sullenly until he ordered them away to strengthen other weak points, and begging women and wailing children, demanding vainly the food which he had not to give them, watched the departure of the forlorn hope. For that it was a forlorn hope there could be no doubt. The Roumi seizure of the ravine between the monastery and Ephestilo had driven a wedge into the heart of the defences, and no one knew better than Maurice that at any moment he might be stabbed in the back by his own men. But his business was to keep matters going somehow until the morning, and then to obtain such terms as he could for the poor starving people around.