Yanko, always sleek, had grown rather gross, and his red, shiny face and small, boiled-looking eyes presented a strong contrast to Mitsos' thin, bronzed cheeks and clear iris. But the husband seemed glad to see him, and agreed that Mitsos' errand had best wait till after supper.
So after supper Mitsos expounded, and Yanko shifted from one foot to the other, and seemed uncomfortable. "And," said Mitsos, in conclusion, "I can give you horse-hire for four days."
Yanko sat silent for a while, then abruptly told his wife to draw another jug of wine. Maria had a sharp tongue when her views were dissentient from his, and he would speak more easily if she were not there. Maria, who had listened to Mitsos with wide, eager eyes and a heightened color, went off quickly and returned in equal haste, anxious not to lose anything.
"It's like this," Yanko was saying. "What with this and that I've a lot of farm work on my hands, and, to tell the truth, but little wish to mix myself up in the affair; and as for four days' horse-hire, it will pay my way, but where's my profit?"
Mitsos frowned.
"You won't go?" he said, half rising; "then I mustn't wait, but find some one else."
At this Maria burst out:
"Shame, Yanko!" she said. "I have a mule-man for a husband. It is that you think of nothing but piastres, and are afraid of taking on yourself for two days such work as Mitsos spends his months in. Am I to sit here and see you drinking and eating and sleeping, and never lift a hand for the sake of any but yourself? Ah, if I was a man I would not have chosen a wife with as little spirit as my husband has."
Maria banged the wine-jug down on the table, and cast a scornful look at Yanko. Then she crossed over to Mitsos and took his glass to fill it, filling her own at the same time.
"This to you," she said, clinking her glass at his, "and to the health of all brave men."
Then with another scowl at Yanko:
"Can't you even drink to those who are made different to yourself, if they are of a finer bake?" she said; "or is there not spirit in you for that? I should have been a mile on the way by this time," she said to Mitsos, "if it had pleased the good God to make me a man and send you with such a message to me."
"You, Maria?" said Mitsos, suddenly.
"Yes, and how many days of horse-hire does Yanko think I should have asked for my pains? Nay, I should have lit candles to the Virgin in the joy of having such work given me to do, if I had had to beg my way."
Mitsos remembered Nicholas's directions.
"Will you go?" he said. "You would do it as well as any man. It is just Father Priketes you have to ask for, and give the message."
"Nonsense, Maria," said Yanko; "a woman can't do a thing like that."
Maria's indignant speeches had a touch of the high rhetorical about them, but Yanko's remark just stamped them into earnestness.
"You'll be drawing your own wine for yourself the next few days," she said, "and I shall be over the hills doing what you were afraid of. I'm blithe to go," she said to Mitsos, "and to-morrow daybreak will see me on the way."
Yanko, on the whole, was relieved; it would have been a poor thing to send Mitsos to another house in quest of a sturdier patriot than he, and Maria's offer had obviated this without entailing the journey on himself. Poor Yanko had been born of a meek and quiet spirit, and the possession of the earth in company with like-minded men would have seemed to him a sufficiently beatified prospect. He had no desire for brave and boisterous adventure, new experiences held for him no ecstasy: even in the matter of drinking, which was the chiefest pleasure of his life, he maintained a certain formula of moderation, never passing beyond the stage of a slightly fuddled head; and a wholesome fear of Maria—not acute, but steady—as a rule, drove him home while he was still perfectly capable of getting there. The rule of his life was a certain sordid mean, which has been the subject for praise in the mouth of poets, who have even gone so far as to call it golden, and is strikingly exemplified in the lives of cows and other ruminating animals. He was possessed of certain admirable qualities, a capacity for hard work and a real affection for his eminent wife being among them, but he was surely cast in no heroic mould. He had no fine, heady virtues which carry their own reward in the constant admiration they excite, but of the more inglorious excellences he had an average share.
Mitsos arrived at Corinth next night after a very long day, and found a caique starting in an hour or two for Patras. He had just time to leave Nicholas's message to the mayor of the town, get food, and bargain for a passage to Patras for himself and his pony. The wind was but light and variable through the night, but next day brought a fine singing breeze from the east, and about the time that he landed at Patras Maria saw below her from the top of a pass the roof of the monastery ashine with the evening sun from a squall of rain which had crossed the hills that afternoon.
Her little pinch-eared mule went gayly down through the sweet-smelling pine forest which clothed the upper slope below which the monastery stood, and every now and then she passed one or two of the monks engaged on their work—some burning charcoal; some cleaning out the channels which led from the snow-water stream, all milky and hurrying, after a day of sun, down to the vineyards; others, with their cassocks kilted up for going, piloting timber-laden mules down home, and all gave Maria a "Good-day" and a "Good journey."
Outside the gate a score or so of the elder men were enjoying the last hour of sunlight, sitting on the stone benches by the fountain, smoking and talking together. One of these, tall and white-bearded, let his glance rest on Maria as she rode jauntily down the path; but when, instead of passing by on the road, she turned her mule aside up the terrace in front of the gate, he got up quickly with a kindled eye and spoke to the brother next him.
"Has it come," he said, "even as Nicholas told us it might?" and he went to meet Maria.
"God bless your journey, my daughter!" he said, "and what need you of us?"
Maria glanced round a little nervously.
"I want to speak to Father Priketes, my father," she said.
"You speak to him."
"Have you corn, father?" she said.
A curious hush had fallen on the others, and Maria's words were audible to them all. At her question they rose to their feet and came a little nearer, and a buzzing whisper rose and died away again.
"Corn for the needy or corn for the Turk?" asked Priketes, while round there was a silence that could have been cut with a knife.
"Black corn for the Turk. Let there be no famine, and have fifteen hundred men ready to carry it when the signal comes, and that will be soon. Not far will they have to go. It will be needed here, at Kalavryta."
Maria slipped down from her mule and spoke low to Priketes.
"And oh, father, there is something more, but I cannot remember the words I was to use; but I know what it means, for Mitsos, the nephew of Nicholas, told me."
Father Priketes smiled.
"Say it then, my daughter."
"It is this: if you have guns stored in readiness southward, get them back. It will not happen just as Nicholas expected. You will want all your men and arms here."
"It is well. What will the signal be?"
"I know not; but in a few days Mitsos will come from Patras. Oh, you will know him when you see him—as tall as a pillar, and a face like a spring morning or a wind on the hill—and to see him does a body good. He knows and will tell you."
"I will expect Mitsos, then," said Priketes. "You will stay here to-night; there shall be made ready for you the great guest-room—for you are an honored guest—the room where the daughter of an emperor once lodged."
Maria hesitated.
"I could get back to some village to-night," she said. "I ought not to delay longer than I need."
"And shame our hospitality?" said Priketes. "Besides, you are a conspirator now, my daughter, and you must use the circumspection of one. What manner of return would you make at dead of night to where you slept before, with no cause to give? To-morrow you shall go back, and say how pleased your novice brother was to see you—and the lie be laid to the account of the Turk, who fill our mouths perforce with these things—and how you had honor of the monks. Give your mule to the lad, my daughter. It shall be well cared for."
So Maria had her chance, and took it. An adventure and a quest for the good of her country were offered her, and she embraced them. For the moment she rose to the rank of those who work personally for the good of countries and great communities, and then passed back into her level peasant life again. Goura, as it turned out, took no part in the deeds that were coming. Its land was land of the monastery, and the Turks never visited its sequestered valley with cruelty, oppression, or their lustful appetites. Yet the great swelling news that came to the inhabitants of that little mountain village, only as in the ears of children a sea-shell speaks of remotely breaking waves, had to Maria a reality and a nearness that it lacked to others, and her life was crowned with the knowledge that she had for a moment laid her finger harmoniously on the harp which made that glorious symphony.
Mitsos' work at Patras was easily done. Germanos was delighted with the idea of the forged letter from the Turk, and was frankly surprised to hear that the notion was born of the boy's brain. Being something of a scholar, he quoted very elegantly the kindred notion of Athene, who was wisdom, springing full-grown from the brain of Zeus, for Mitsos' idea, so he was pleased to say, was complete in itself, mature from its birth. Mitsos did not know the legend to which the primate referred, and so he merely expressed his gratification that the scheme was considered satisfactory. The affair of the beacons took more time, for Mitsos on his journey south back to Panitza would have to make arrangements for their kindling, and it was thus necessary that their situation should be accessible to villages where Nicholas was known, and where the boy could find some one to undertake to fire the beacon as soon as the next beacon south was kindled. Furthermore, though Germanos knew the country well, it would be best for Mitsos to verify the suitability of the places chosen, "for," as the archbishop said, "you might burn down all the pine-woods on Taygetus, and little should we reck of it if Taygetus did not happen to be visible from Lycaon; but we should stand here like children with toy swords till the good black corn grew damp and the hair whitened on our temples."
As at present arranged, Mitsos would be back at Panitza on the 10th of March, after which, as Nicholas had told him, there would be more work to do before he could go for Yanni at Tripoli. It was, therefore, certain—taking the shortest estimate—that the beacon signal could not possibly occur till March 20th, but that on that evening and every evening after the signalmen must be at their posts waiting for the flame to spring up on Taygetus. For the beacons between Patras and Megaspelaion there would be no difficulty; two at high points on the mountains would send the message all the way, and the only doubtful point was where to put the beacon which should be intermediate between that on Taygetus and that on Helmos, which latter could signal to one directly above the monastery. Germanos was inclined to think that a certain spur of Lycaon, lying off the path to the right, some four miles from Andritsaena, and standing directly above an old temple, which would serve Mitsos as a guiding point, would answer the purpose. If so, it could be worked from Andritsaena, and the priest there, at whose house Mitsos would find a warm welcome if he stayed for the night, would certainly undertake it.
Mitsos went off again the next day, with the solemn blessing of the archbishop in his ears and the touch of kindly hands in his, and reached Megaspelaion in two days. Here he had news of Maria's safe arrival. "And a brave lass she is," said Father Priketes. The business of the beacons was soon explained, and next morning Father Priketes himself accompanied Mitsos on his journey to the top of the pass above the monastery, in order to satisfy himself that from there both the points fixed upon—that on the spur of Helmos, and also that towards Patras—were visible.
Their way lay through the pine-woods where Maria had come three days before, and a hundred little streams ran bubbling down through the glens, and the thick lush grass of the spring-time was starred with primroses and sweet-smelling violets. Above that lay an upland valley, all in cultivation, and beyond a large, bleak plateau of rock, on the top of which the beacon was to burn. Another half-hour's climb saw them there, a strange, unfriendly place, with long parallel strata of gray rock, tipped by some primeval convulsion onto their side, and lying like a row of razors. In the hollows of the rocks the snow was still lying, but the place was alive with the whisper of new-born streams. A few pine-trees only were scattered over these gaunt surfaces, but in the shelter of them sprang scarlet wind-flowers and hare-bells, which shivered on their springlike stalks.
A few minutes' inspection was enough to show that the place was well chosen—to the south rose the great mass of Helmos, and they could clearly see a sugarcone rock, the proposed beacon site, standing rather apart from the main mountain, some fifteen miles to the south, just below which lay the village of Leondari, whither Mitsos was bound, and towards Patras the contorted crag above Mavromati. Here, so Priketes promised, should a well-trusted monk watch every evening from March 20th onward, and as soon as he saw the blaze on Helmos, he would light his own beacon, waiting only to see it echoed above Mavromati, and go straight back with the news to the monastery. And the Turks at Kalavryta, so said Priketes—for it was on Kalavryta that the first blow was to descend—should have cause to remember the vengeance of the sword of God which His sons should wield.
CHAPTER V
THE VISION AT BASSAE
From the village of Leondari, held in a half-circle of the foothills of Helmos, where was to be the second link in the chain of beacons, it was impossible to see Andritsaena; but the mass of Mount Lycaon stood up fine and clear behind where Andritsaena was, and a series of smaller peaks a little to the west would prove, so Mitsos hoped, to be the hills above the temple. He and his host climbed the beacon-hill and took very sedulous note of these, and next morning the lad set off at daybreak to Andritsaena, which he reached in a day and a half. The country through which he travelled, an unkind and naked tract, was not suspected by the Turks to be tinged with any disaffection to their benignant rule, and his going was made without difficulty or accident. He found welcome at the house of the priest to whom Germanos had given him a letter, and after dinner the two rode off, on a fair, cloudless afternoon, to the hills above the temple, to verify its visibility from Taygetus on the south and the crag of Helmos on the north. An Englishman, whom the priest described as a "tall man covered with straps and machines," had been there a year or two before making wonderful drawings of the place, and had told them it was a temple to Apollo, and that the ancient Greek name for it was Bassae. "Yet I like not the place," said Father Zervas.
An hour or so after their departure, fleecy clouds began to spin themselves in the sky, and as they went higher they found themselves involved in the folds of a white fabric of mist, which lay as thick as a blanket over the hill-side, and through which the sun seemed to hang white and unluminous, like a china plate. This promised but ill for the profit of their ride, but Zervas said it was worth while to push on; those mists would be scattered in a moment if the wind got up; he had seen them roll away as the housewife rolls up the bed-linen. But as they got higher the mist seemed to thicken, and the sun was expunged, and when, by the priest's computation, they must be near the temple, they could scarcely see ten yards before them, and the gaunt, contorted oak-trees marched swiftly into their narrow field of vision, and out again, like ghosts in torment. Shoulder after shoulder of gray hill-side sank beneath them, dripping with the cold, thick mist, and unutterably waste, when, after moving ten minutes or more across a featureless flank of hill, gigantic shadows peered at them from in front, a great range of columns faced them, and they were there.
Mitsos' pony, tired with the four days' journey, was lagging behind, and Mitsos had got off to relieve it on the steeper part of the ascent, when suddenly there came from out of the chill, blank fog a scream like that of a lost soul. For one moment a superstitious fear clutched at the boy, and his pony, startled, went off at a nimbler pace to join the other, and Mitsos had to break into a run to keep up. Then suddenly the sun stared whitely through the mists, and in five seconds more the wind, which had screamed so shrilly, was upon them. In a moment the hill-side was covered with flying wreaths of vapor, which the wind tore smaller and smaller till there was nothing left of them; it ripped off ribbons from the skirts of the larger clouds, which it drove like herded sheep down the valleys, and as Mitsos gained the ridge where the temple stood, a brilliant sun sat in cloudless blue, looking down upon the great gray columns. At their feet in every direction new valleys, a moment before muffled in mist, were being carved out among the hill-sides, and already far to the south the plain of Kalamata, rimmed with a dim, dark sea, sparkled green through thirty miles of crisp air. Down in the valley through which they had come some conflicting current of air tilted the mist up in a tall column of whirling vapor, as if from some great stewing-pot below, and as it streamed up into the higher air it melted and dissolved away, and in five minutes the whole land—north, south, east, and west—was naked to the incomparable blue.
Mitsos gazed in wonder at the gray columns, which seemed more to have grown out of the hill than to have been built by the hands of men; but the priest hurried him on.
"It is as I hoped," said he; "the wind has driven the clouds off; but they may come back. We must go quickly to the top of the hill."
The lad left his pony grazing by the columns and ran up the brow of the hill some two hundred feet above the end of the temple. Northward Helmos lifted a snowy finger into the sky, and clean as a cameo on its south-eastern face stood the cone above Leondari, as if when the hills were set upon the earth by the stir of the forces of its morning it had been placed there for their purpose. Then looking southward they saw Taygetus rise shoulder above shoulder into the blue, offering a dozen vantage points. But Father Zervas was a cautious man.
"It seems clear enough, Mitsos," he said; "but Taygetus is a big place. This will I do for greater safety. You go straight south, you say, and will be at Kalamata two evenings from now, and on the third night you will sleep at some village on the pass crossing Taygetus over to Sparta. On that night directly after sundown I will kindle a beacon here, and keep it kindled for two hours, and in that time you will be able to choose a well-seen place for the blaze on Taygetus. Look, it is even as I said, the mists gather again; but the winds of God have favored us, and our work is done."
Even as he spoke a long tongue of mist shot up from the valley below, and came licking up the hill like the spent water of a wave on a level beach, and Mitsos ran down quickly in order to find his pony in case it had strayed even thirty or forty yards, before the clouds swallowed them up again. But he found it where he had left it, browsing contentedly on the spicy tufts of thyme and sweet mountain grass, and for a couple of minutes more, before the earth and sky were blotted out, he stared amazedly at the tall gray ruins which stood there crowning the silence and strength of the hills, still unknown to all but a few travellers and to the shepherds that fed their flocks in summer on the hill-tops—a memorial of the life and death of the worship of beauty, and the god of sunlight and health and imperishable youth.
He waited there till the priest joined him, and was surprised to see him cross himself as he passed by the door into the temple, and asked why he did so.
"It is a story of a devil," he said, "which folks tell about here. Whether I believe it or no, I know not, and so I am careful. We will make haste down this valley, for it is not good to be here after night."
The mists had risen again over the whole hill-side, but not thickly, and as they turned to go Mitsos looking back saw a strange shaft of light streaming directly out of the ruined door of the temple—the effect, no doubt, of the sun, which was near its setting, striking through some thin layer of cloud.
"Look," he said to the priest, "one might almost think the temple was lit from within."
Father Zervas looked round, and when he saw it dropped lamentably off his horse and onto his knees on the ground, and began muttering prayers, crossing himself the while.
Mitsos looked at him in surprise, and saw that his face was deadly pale, and a strangling anguish gripped at the muscles of his throat. The light cast through the temple door meantime had been choked by the gathering mists, and when Father Zervas looked up from his prayers it was gone.
"Quick, quick!" he cried to Mitsos; "it is not good to be here," and mounting on his pony he fairly clattered down the hill-side, and did not draw bridle till they had reached the main road from Andritsaena.
Mitsos followed, half amused, but conscious of a lurking fear in his mind, a fear bred by the memory of the winter evenings of his childhood when he used to hear strange stories of shapes larger than human, which had been seen floating like leaves in the wind round the old temples on the Acropolis, and cries that came from the hills of Ægina, where stood the house of the god, but no human habitation, at the sound of which the villagers in the hamlets below would bolt their doors and crouch fearfully round the fire, "making the house good," as they said, by the reiterated sign of the cross. Then as he grew older his familiarity with morning and evening and night in lonely places had caused these stories to be half forgotten, or remembered only as he remembered the other terrors and pains of childhood—the general distrust of the dark, and the storms that came swooping down from the gaunt hills above Nauplia. But now when he saw the flying skirts of Father Zervas waving dimly from the mist in front, and heard the hurried clatter of his pony's feet, he followed at a good speed, and in some confusion of mind. Zervas had stopped on reaching the high-road, and here Mitsos caught him up.
"Ah, ah!" he gasped, "but it is a sore trial the Lord has sent me, for I am no braver than a hare when it comes to dealings with that which is no human thing. It is even as Demetri said, for the evil one is there, the one whom he saw under the form of a young man, very fair to look upon, but evil altogether, a son of the devil."
And he wiped a dew of horror from his brow.
Mitsos must have felt disposed to laugh had not the man's terror been so real.
"But what did you see, father?" he asked. "For me I saw naught but a light shining through the door."
"That was it, that was it," said Zervas, "and I—I have promised Germanos to see to the beacon business, and on that hill shall I have to watch while perhaps the young man, evil and fair, watches for me below. I cannot pass this way, for my heart is cold water at the thought. I shall have to climb up from the other valley, so that I pass not the place; and then, perhaps, with the holy cross on my breast and the image of the Crucified in my hand, I shall go unhurt."
"But what was it Demetri saw?" asked Mitsos.
"It was this way," said Father Zervas, who was growing a little more collected as they attained a greater distance from the temple. "One evening, a spring evening, as it might be to-day, Demetri, of our village, whom I know, was driving his sheep down from the hill above the temple, where the beacon will be; and, being later than he knew, the sun had set ere he came down to where the temple stands; therefore, as he could not herd the sheep in the dark down the glen, he bethought himself to encamp there, for the night was warm and he had food enough with him and wine for two men. Inside, the temple is of two rooms, and into the hindermost of these he penned the sheep, and in the other he lit a sparkle of fire and sat himself down to eat his supper. And having finished his supper he lay down to sleep, but no wink of sleep came near him, and feeling restless, he sat up and smoked awhile. But his unrest gained on him, twitching at his limbs and bidding him go; so out he fared on the hill-side to see if he could find sleep there—or, at any rate, get air—for it seemed to him that the temple had grown unseasonably warm, and that it was filled with some sweet and subtle perfume. Outside it was cooler, and so, laying himself in a hollow of the hill opposite the temple gate, he nestled down among the grasses and again tried to sleep.
"But it seemed to him that from below there came dim songs such as men sing on feast-days, and looking down to see whence such voices came, he saw, even as you saw and I, a strong great light shining out of the temple door, and next moment came a clattering and pattering of feet, and out through the door rushed his sheep, which must have leaped the barrier of boughs he had put up, and ran, scattering, dumb, and frightened, in all directions. He got up and hurried down to stop any that were left, for as for herding those that were gone he might as well have tried to herd the moon-beams, for the night was dark but for the space illuminated by that great light that shone out from the temple. So down he ran, but at the temple door he stopped, for in the centre of the great chamber stood one whom it dazzled his eyes to look upon. Fair was he and young, and lithe as a deer on the mountains, and from his face there shone a beauty and a glory which belong not to mortal man; and the lines of his body were soft with the graciousness of youth, but firm with the strength of a man. Over one shoulder was slung a quiver of gold, and his left hand held a golden bow; golden sandals were on his feet, and on his head a wreath of wild laurel. For the rest, he was as naked as the night of full moon in May, and as glorious. Two fingers of the hand which held the bow were rested on the head of one of Demetri's rams, the father of the flock, and the beast stood there quiet and not afraid. No other light was there in the temple, but all the splendor which turned the place to a summer noonday sprang from him. Only in front of the youth still smouldered the fire by which Demetri had eaten his supper, and that seemed in the blaze that filled the temple to have burned low and dim, like a candle in the sunlight, and a little blue smoke from it came towards him, full of some wonderful sweet perfume. The sheep, frightened, had collected again round him, and in that light he could see to right and left score upon score of their white heads and twitching ears; they stood close to him and huddled, yet all looked at that immortal thing within the temple. And as he stood there, stricken to stone, marvelling at the beauty of the youth, and forgetting in his wonder to be afraid, the god—yet no god was he, but only evil," said Zervas, hastily, again crossing himself—"raised his eyes to him and said:
"'Thou that makest a sheep-pen of my sanctuary, art thou not afraid to do this thing?
"But he spoke, so said Demetri, not harshly, and in the lustre of his eyes there was something so matchless and beyond compare that he knelt down and said:
"'Forgive me, Lord, for I knew not that it was thine.'
"Then said the other:
"'For penalty and yet for thine honor this ram is mine,' and he struck the beast lightly on the head, at which it sank down and moved no more. Then said the god again:
"'It is long since I have looked on your race; not so fair are they now as they were in the olden days'—and in truth Demetri is an ugly loon—'but this shalt thou learn of me, how joy is better than self-sacrifice, and beauty than wisdom or the fear of God. Look at me only, the proof is here.'
"And at this he held out his hand to him, but Demetri was suddenly smitten by the knowledge that this beautiful youth was more evil than the beasts of the field, and in wild despair he bethought himself of his only safety, and made in the air, though feebly, for his heart was nigh surrendered, the sign of the cross. With that a shuddering blackness came over his spirit and his eyes, and when he came to himself he was lying on the dew-drenched pavement of the temple, and close to him the ram, dead, but with no violent mark upon him; and looking in at the temple door, but coming not in, the rest of the flock, of which none was missing; and morning was red in the east. That is ten years ago, but Demetri will scarce speak of it even to-day, and I had half thought before that it was an idle tale; but when I saw the light shining out through the temple door an hour ago, it was freshly borne to me that it was true, albeit one of the dark things of the world at which we cannot even guess. Yet, as Christ protected Demetri, He will surely protect me when I go on the beacon work, for it is His work; but lest I tempt God, I will climb up that hill on the other side and keep my eyes away from the temple, and plant the holy cross between me and it."
Mitsos knew not what to make of all this. The fact that Demetri had, in Zervas's phrase, wine for two men with him might have explained the significance of what he had seen; but, being a Greek, his mind was fruitful soil for all things ghostly and superstitious.
"It is very strange," he said; "yet, father, you will not go back from the work?"
"I will do it faithfully," said Zervas, "for thus I shall be in the hands of the Lord."
CHAPTER VI
THREE LITTLE MEN FALL OFF THEIR HORSES
It was the middle of March when Mitsos again found himself climbing the steep hill-side into Panitza. Night had fallen two hours before; clear and keen was the sky, and keen the vigor of the mountain air. The crescent moon, early setting, had slipped behind the snowy spearhead of Taygetus, but the heaven was all aglow with stars burning frostily. His work had all been done quickly and well, and after he had seen the beacon at Bassae, three nights before, shine like a glowworm to the north, and then shoot out a little tongue of flame and lick a low-lying star, he had travelled night and day, only giving himself a minimum of sleep, and walking as much as he rode to spare the pony, that seemed, as they came into Panitza with Mitsos only resting a hand on its neck, to be the more weary of the two. He went up the village street to Petrobey's house, but found the door into the court-yard closed, and only Osman at first answered his knocking by furious barking.
"Osman, oh, Osman," called Mitsos, "be quiet, boy, and let them hear within."
Osman recognized his voice and whined impatiently while Mitsos knocked again. At last he heard the house door open, and Petrobey's voice calling out:
"Who is there?"
"It is I, cousin," shouted the boy; "it is Mitsos."
Petrobey ran across the court-yard, and the next moment Osman tumbled out to welcome Mitsos of the clan, and he led the pony in.
"Ah, it is good to see you, little Mitsos," said Petrobey. "You have come very quick; we did not expect you till to-morrow."
"Yes, I have come quick," said Mitsos; "and, oh, cousin, do not talk to me before I have eaten, for I am hungrier than the hares in winter, and the pony is weaker than I for weariness."
"Give him me," said Petrobey, "and go inside; you will find supper ready, and Nicholas is here."
"Nay, it is not fitting that you should look to the pony," said Mitsos.
"Little Mitsos, get you in," said Petrobey; "there are woodcocks for supper and a haunch of roe-deer, but Nicholas and I have eaten all the eels"; and he led the pony off, for he had heard from Nicholas of Mitsos' oath to Yanni, and how, though for a reason Nicholas did not understand, Mitsos had been very loath to leave Nauplia, but had gone at once; and with that fine instinct, so unreasonable and yet so beautiful, to wait on those a man admires, he wished to do this little service for the boy. Nicholas and he had talked the matter over, and Petrobey said it was clear that Mitsos was in love, and Nicholas was inclined to agree, though as to the engager of his affections they could risk no guess.
Mitsos ate a prodigious supper, and Nicholas having given him a handful of tobacco for his pipe, he declared himself capable of talking, and put forth to them a full account of his journey, and in turn asked what news.
"Much news," said Petrobey, "a little bad and a great deal good. The bad comes first, and it is this: Nicholas is afraid that it will soon be known at Tripoli that he is here, and that will be an unseasonable thing. Four days ago he met two Turkish soldiers, and he thinks they recognized him. They were going to Tripoli, and it will not suit me at all if they send again to ask me to find him, for we have other work to do, and already the clan is moving up into the mountains so as to be ready for the work, and to send twenty men again after Nicholas is what I will not do."
"That is but a small thing, cousin," said Nicholas; "but it is the thought of Yanni in Tripoli which sits heavy on me. At present, of course, he is perfectly safe, but supposing a message comes that you and I are ordered to be at Tripoli in three days."
Petrobey laughed.
"Mehemet Salik dare not," he said; "absolutely he dare not. How fat little Yanni will be when he comes out. Turks eat five times a day. They have no cause to suspect me, and if the worst comes to the worst, he can but send out men to search for you."
Mitsos yawned.
"Yet I wish Yanni were here," he said, "for I love Yanni, and I have sworn to him the oath of the clan. But I am sleepier than the wintering dormouse. When do you suppose I may go for him, cousin?"
"In a week or less, I hope, and in the interval there is the fire-ship work for you to learn. Of that to-morrow, so get you to bed, little Mitsos."
Mitsos got up with eyes full of sleep and stretched himself.
"A bed with sheets," he said; "oh, but I thank the Mother of God for beds."
"Also for woodcock and roe-deer," remarked Petrobey. "Good-night, little one."
The next two days Mitsos spent in learning the working of the fire-ship. Every morning before daybreak Nicholas used to leave the village and lie hidden in the pine-woods on the hills above, returning with Mitsos at nightfall. But on the second evening, as they got near the house, they saw a Turkish soldier in the road, himself on horseback and holding two other horses. Nicholas stepped quickly out of the moonlight into the shadow, and beckoned to Mitsos to do the same.
"This means trouble," he said; "I knew it, I knew it. Go you in, Mitsos, and I will wait in the alder clump by the mill, going out of the village, for there will be news for you to bring me."
And he stole along in the shadow of the wall until he was out of sight.
Mitsos waited till he was gone, and then walked unconcernedly forward, whistling the while. At the gate the soldier stopped him.
"Yassak," he said, which means "There is no passing."
Mitsos stared and stood silent a moment, running over in his mind his small vocabulary of Turkish abuse.
"Ugh! cross-legged one, where is your hat?" he said, rudely and cheerfully. "But why should I not see my cousin?"
"There is no passing," said the Turk, and with that he drew out his pistol.
Mitsos hesitated a moment. He was quite willing to rush in and take his chance of the bullet going wide, for he held the Turks in light esteem as marksmen since the adventure with Yanni; but he doubted the wisdom of the scheme, for there were, as the horses showed, at least two more inside. So he turned on his heel.
"I shall go back home, then," he said. "Shall I find more little men there saying I may not see my father? Go home, too, my little man, if you are as wise as you are little, and eat sweets with the women of your master's harem, and wash your dirty face."
The man answered nothing, for he knew well that to fire a shot in a village of the Mavromichales was to put his own head into a nest of hornets that could sting sore. He and the others had entered the village very quietly after dark so as not to provoke any attention, and had been fortunate enough to get to Petrobey's house without being noticed. Mitsos went along quietly enough till he was out of sight, and then ran as he had never run before to the alder clump where he would find Nicholas.
"Quick, quick!" he whispered; "tell me what to do. There are Turkish soldiers at Petrobey's, and they will not let me in. Oh, uncle, this bodes no good for Yanni! What shall I do?"
"Ah, it is even so!" said Nicholas. "Sit you, Mitsos, and let us think."
For five minutes or so they sat quite silent. At last Nicholas spoke.
"I make no doubt what has happened," he said, "and it is all bad. These men have come to Petrobey from Mehemet Salik, and it means his arrest. They have him in the hollow of their hand, for if he goes not there is Yanni in Tripoli, and go he must. What is before us is this: Yanni must be got out of Tripoli at once, and Petrobey must escape on his way there. How shall we do it? Oh, little Mitsos, think as you thought before, and ask the blessed saints to speak to you and me."
Nicholas crushed his hands to his temples.
"And that is not all," he added. "The clan must be warned at once what has happened, and it is useless for them to attempt the rescue of Petros before Yanni is out of Tripoli, for so his life will be forfeit. And I, too, I must—ah, I shall give myself up to those Turks!"
"But why, Uncle Nicholas?" asked Mitsos, fairly puzzled.
"Because it is easier for two men to escape than one, and also because, if they get away from the village with me and Petrobey without alarm given to the clan, they will make less haste to Tripoli, for if I am with them they will not fear that I should get to Yanni first. Oh, Mitsos, this is a good thought of mine! but the clan must keep very quiet, and let the little men think they do not know what is happening."
"Then I am off for Yanni?" asked Mitsos.
"On the instant. Where is your horse?"
"At Petrobey's."
"Then go round to the house of some cousin; go to Demetri and get a horse, and off with you. There is no time to lose. Stay, you do not know where you and Yanni are to go from Tripoli. You must escape by night and go straight over the hills to the edge of the upper Arcadian plain, where stands Megalopolis; there strike southward over on to Taygetus and find your way to the hill above Lada, on the top of the pass, where you watched for the beacon from Bassae. We shall be there. I shall go round the village and see that the whole clan know what has happened and where they will join us on Taygetus; then I shall give myself up. And now, little Mitsos, God speed; remember that we love you, and be very careful and very quiet. Yanni's life depends on you."
So Mitsos stole off in the darkness to go to Demetri's house, and Nicholas went back to the village to warn the clan. In an hour's time messengers had started to the villages round saying what had happened, and giving the clan to know where they were to go when the few preparations which remained with regard to the storing of the powder were completed, and also definitely saying that the outbreak would begin, as soon as possible, by the siege of Kalamata. Then Nicholas went to Petrobey's house and found the soldier still in the road opposite with the horses.
"There is no passing," he said.
"You do not know to whom you are speaking," said Nicholas, haughtily. "I am Nicholas Vidalis, of whom you may have heard."
The answer was what he anticipated, and he found himself covered by the soldier's pistol, while the latter shouted to those inside: "Here is Nicholas Vidalis!" Then, addressing Nicholas, he said, "Move, and I shoot."
Nicholas stood quite still, for he had no wish either to move or to be shot, while another soldier ran out from the house.
"I suppose you have authority for this," he said, "or there will be a settling between us."
"The authority of Mehemet Salik," said the second soldier, "the Governor of Tripoli, to arrest you and Petros Mavromichales and bring you to Tripoli."
They had been speaking in Turkish, and Nicholas, with intention, asked the next question in Greek.
"For what am I arrested?"
"I do not know Greek," said the soldier.
"God be praised for that!" thought Nicholas, and he repeated his question in Turkish.
"For seditious designs against the sovereign power of the Sultan and his deputy in Tripoli, Mehemet Salik."
Nicholas laughed.
"That sounds serious. Shall I go inside, gentlemen? I am your prisoner, and I deliver up my arms," and he handed the soldier his pistol and knife and stepped in. "I should advise you," he added, "to come in, too, for if some of this hot-headed clan see a Turk standing there he will not stand there long entire. Come in, friend, for though I am maliciously accused that is no fault of yours, and I would not see your blood nor the blood of my clan shed."
The soldier followed his advice and led the horses inside, barring the gate behind him.
Petrobey had heard Nicholas's voice, and a great wave of relief came over him. He had been sitting there quite silent, guarded by two soldiers, in a dumb agony of fear, not for himself, but for Yanni. That he himself could escape somehow or other on the way to Tripoli he did not doubt, but his escape meant death to Yanni if still in the town, as the letter from Mehemet said; while if he delivered himself up at Tripoli, the moment the war of independence began, death to both of them. His only consolation had been that Nicholas, at least, was safe. He would have been back an hour before, unless in some way the alarm had been given him, and his appearance now, coming in peacefully and calmly, must mean that he knew what had happened, and had some wise thought within him. Mitsos—and at the thought of Mitsos he looked up suddenly at Nicholas, in the sudden hope that Mitsos had started for Tripoli—and as he caught Nicholas's eye the latter nodded and smiled, and Petrobey felt certain that Nicholas had answered the question he had silently asked him.
Nicholas sat down cheerfully and continued to speak in Turkish:
"This is some strange mistake," he said, "but I shall not be sorry to pay my respects to his Excellency in Tripoli, a duty which I have hitherto neglected."
One of the soldiers smiled.
"And his Excellency will not be sorry to see you. He sent for you, if you remember, last autumn, and your cousin wrote him a letter saying that his bastard kinsman should be sought for and sent when found."
This was a little disconcerting, but Nicholas waved his hand lightly.
"A private quarrel merely between myself and my cousin," he said, "which has long ago been made up. Eh, cousin?" Then, in Greek, "They don't talk Greek, God be thanked!"
Petrobey nodded assent.
"We set off to-morrow, Nicholas," he said, "and that very early in the morning. To-night we have guests with us, and it is time for supper. Please seat yourselves, gentlemen. Poor fare, I am afraid, but we did not know that we should be honored by your presence to-night."
Petrobey clapped his hands, and the servant brought the supper. He was a big, strong lad of Yanni's age, the son of a small farm-holding tenant on Petrobey's land, who had been left an orphan while still quite a young boy. Petrobey had brought him up in his own house, as half servant and half companion to Yanni, exacting little service, but receiving complete devotion.
"Put on supper," he said, in Greek, "and keep your ears well open."
The boy brought in the food, and they all sat down together. The meal had only been prepared for three, but as Mitsos was to have been one of the three, and the Turks were small eaters, there seemed to be plenty of food. All three soldiers, from living among the Greeks, had relaxed their religious abstinence from wine, where the wine was good, and the meal went on merrily enough, Nicholas, in particular, talking and laughing with them, and speaking Turkish with wonderful fluency and accuracy. Under pretext of Petrobey's not speaking Turkish at all easily, it was soon arranged between him and Nicholas that he should speak in Greek and Nicholas act as interpreter, translating into Turkish the remarks he made to his guests, and his guests' conversation into Greek; and so it came about that long before the meal was over Petrobey was fully acquainted with Mitsos' departure for Tripoli and also Nicholas's idea for the next day, and they discussed at some length, without arousing the least suspicion, their own manner of escape.
This, Nicholas suggested, should be made as soon as possible on the journey; if it could be managed, at the first halt, for Mitsos would have had twelve hours' start, and should have had time to get Yanni safely out. The advantage of doing this early would be that they would still be travelling in the country of the clan, who would, were it necessary, turn out to cover their retreat; and Nicholas suggested that they should have recourse to a very simple expedient, which he had tried with success once before. The lad Constantine would come with them, he proposed, carrying food for the mid-day meal, as it was six hours to the next village; Nicholas, Petrobey, and the boy would be quite unarmed; and the Turks, secure in the knowledge that Yanni was still hostage, would not, he thought, attempt to bind them. That, however, he would ascertain. During their meal, which should be ample and full of wine, the boy should be instructed to cut the girths of the Turks' horses, and get away home as fast as might be. Then after a decent interval they should think about going on, and Petrobey and he, mounting as quick as they could, should ride cheerfully off at full speed across country towards Taygetus. "The soldiers," added Nicholas, with admirable gravity, "will attempt to do the same, and I wish little Mitsos was here to see them, for it does me good to see Mitsos laugh."
All this was conveyed in short sentences, interpolated with Petrobey's supposed replies to the Turks; and Petrobey, who had taken care that Constantine should be in the room while it was going on, said to him, carelessly, holding out his glass:
"If you completely understand, Constantine, fill my glass with water, and then go; if not, give wine to Nicholas."
Constantine took the water-jug in his hand, filled Petrobey's glass, and left the room.
Incidentally, Nicholas, while speaking in Turkish, had begged the soldiers that they might start very early, for there would be big trouble, he thought, among the clan, if they saw their chief riding off guarded by Turks. His desire, he explained, was to get to Tripoli as soon as possible, for, as they knew, Petrobey's only son was held hostage there by Mehemet Salik, and he feared that if there was a disturbance among the Mavromichales, or if—which God forbid!—the clan were so foolish as to fire upon them, Petrobey might be held responsible, and it would go hardly with the son. To this they assented, saying also that, provided their two prisoners would come unarmed, the hostage in Tripoli should be considered security enough, and they should go like gentlemen upon a journey.
Though it was not very early next morning when they started, the village, following Nicholas's directions of the night before, showed no sign of life. But a closer observer might have noticed stealthy faces at the windows hastily and suddenly withdrawn, for the clan, who would have laid their money on Nicholas and Petrobey if all the Ottoman forces were out against them, and who had a keen sense of humor, regarded the affair as a practical joke of the most magnificent order, for Nicholas had told them the night before what the method of escape was to be. So the procession, with one soldier in front, Nicholas and Petrobey in the centre, guarded on the outside by the other two, with Constantine behind driving a pony laden with food and wine for their mid-day meal, went unmolested, though watched by an appreciative audience, out of the village and down the steep hill into the plain. Nicholas relieved the tedium of the way with the most racy and delightful stories, and then all went on in the utmost harmony.
Some three hours later they were come to a large and pleasant-smelling pine-wood, and about half-way through this, where another bridle-path joined the one they were in, leading up towards the farther hill-villages of Taygetus, they chanced upon a clear way-side stream, and here Petrobey proposed they should halt for their dinner. Abundance of juicy grass grew round the water some thirty yards farther down, and tethering the horses there so that they could not stray, for they would be just out of sight of the place where their masters ate, Petrobey told Constantine to get ready the food. However, the sun shone rather warm on this spot, and at the suggestion of one of the soldiers they moved a little higher up into the shade of the trees. Constantine waited assiduously on the guests until all had eaten their fill, and then, bringing more wine from a cold basin in the stream, where he had put it to regain its coolness, he retired a little distance off to eat of the remains of the dinner, execute his orders, and steal homeward.
The others drank and smoked and chatted for some quarter of an hour more, till Nicholas, observing that the sun had already passed its meridian, suggested that, as they had a long day before them, if they were, as he trusted, to reach Tripoli the next night, it would be wise to start. The soldiers assented, but drowsily, for they had again drunk somewhat freely at their prisoners' expense, and they all moved off to where they had left their horses and accoutrements. Nicholas could not suppress a chuckle of amusement when he saw that Constantine had taken the precaution of loosening the flint from the hammers of their guns, and then saying suddenly to Petrobey, "Now!" the two ran forward, unpicketed their horses, and swinging into the saddle, spurred them through the belt of trees which separated them from the pathway towards Taygetus. They heard an exclamation of dismay and surprise from the soldiers, and the feeble click of a loose flint against the steel, and the next moment they were off full gallop up the steep hill-road.
Then followed a scene which would have made the mouths of the clan to be full of laughter, for the first soldier vaulted with some agility into the saddle and started gallantly off in pursuit, closely followed by the second, who had done the same. The first went bravely for about six yards, the second for rather less, and then they rolled off right and left, clutching wildly at their horses' manes, the one into the stream, the other into a fine furze bush. The third, a bulky man, was rather more fortunate, for, being incapable of jumping into the saddle, he put his foot nimbly into the stirrup, only to find his horse standing beside him barebacked and with an expression of innocent surprise, and himself with the curious feeling experienced when we are fain to walk up a step and find there is no step to walk up.
The next half-hour went wearily and hotly for them. By sacrificing one girth they patched up the other two, and one went up the pathway towards Taygetus in pursuit, while the other rode on to Tripoli. The two most agile, as being the lighter weights, took these tasks upon themselves, while the heavier one, who could not ride bareback without pain to his person, walked sorrowfully on, a heavy saddle in one hand, his horse's bridle in the other, a three-hours' tramp to the next village, where he hoped to have his dilapidations repaired.
The adventures of the first who rode after the escaped prisoners were short. Half an hour's ride brought him to the outskirts of a village which was all humming like a hive of bees, and the humorous Mavromichales, who inhabited it in some number, and who were excellent marksmen, sent a few bullets whistling close round him—one went a little to the right, another slightly to the left, a third sang sweetly over his head, and a fourth raised a little puff of dust at his feet. It occurred to him that they might perhaps be able to aim straighter if they wished, for there was a devilish precision about the closeness of the shots that made his heart turn cold, and with one more glance, sufficient however to show him Nicholas and Petrobey bowing politely in the midst of their clan, he turned tail, and just galloped back along the road he had come.
CHAPTER VII
MITSOS DISARRANGES A HOUSE-ROOF
From Panitza to Grythium it was reckoned two days of twelve hours, or three of eight, but Mitsos, who set off about ten at night, got there within thirty hours of the time he started, thus arriving well before daybreak on the second morning; and at sundown that day, looking over the valley of Sparta from the hills leading up to the pass into the plain of Tripoli, he timed himself to be there two hours before sunrise, thus allowing plenty of time for Yanni and himself to get out of the town before the folk were awake. But for the present, as the moon was up, he pushed forward along the road, reserving his halt for the two dark hours after midnight. He had eaten but little that day, and his eyelids felt like the eyes of dolls, laden with weights that would drag them down; but knowing that if he slept he would gravely risk an over-sleeping, he paced up and down by the edge of the field where he had tethered Demetri's pony, eating a crust of bread, which he washed down with some rather sour wine he had got at Gythium. Now and then he would pause for a moment, but he felt physically incapable of keeping awake except by moving, and fearing to fall down and sleep if he stopped, he began tramping up and down without cessation. Luckily he had a pouch of tobacco and his pipe and tinder-box, and he smoked continuously.
But it was better to be moving than waiting, and when he judged that his pony—of which, like all wise men, he was more careful than of himself—had had sufficient rest, he set out again. He had wrapped his capote close round him, for the night was cold, and he was just beginning to feel that if he hoped to keep awake, he had better get down and trot by the pony's side, when the beast stumbled on a heap of stones, and in trying to recover itself stumbled again, and pitched forward right onto its knees, throwing Mitsos off.
Mitsos was unhurt and picked himself up quickly, but the poor brute was cut to the bone, and stood trembling with pain and terror as Mitsos examined it. For one moment the boy broke down.
"Oh, Holy Virgin!" he cried. "But what shall I do?" But the next moment he steadied himself, and paused to think. It was still four hours before daybreak, but by that time he and Yanni would have to be out of the town, and Tripoli was still a two-hours' ride distant. To get there in time with the pony was hopelessly out of the question, and to get there on his own legs seemed out of the question too, for he was as weary as a young man need ever hope to feel. But if there was a choice it lay there. Meanwhile, what to do with the beast? To leave it there, all cut, bleeding, and in pain, through the night, only to die on those bare hills, was a cruel thing, and Mitsos decided quickly. He led it very gently off the road among the trees, and with a strange feeling of tenderness, for that it had carried him gallantly, and done all it could do for him and Yanni, and had met death in the doing, kissed the white star on its down-dropped head. Then drawing his pistol, he put it to its ear, and, turning his eyes away, fired. The poor beast dropped like a log, and Mitsos, with a sob in his throat, looked not behind, but went back through the trees, and throwing away his coat, which only encumbered him, set his teeth and went jog-trotting to Tripoli.
How the next hours passed he scarcely knew. He felt so utterly tired and beaten that he was hardly conscious of himself, his very weariness probably dulled his powers of sensation, and all he knew was that as he pushed on with limbs dropping from fatigue, eyes aching for very weariness, and a hammering of the pulse in his temples, the trees by the road-side seemed to pass, of their own movement, by him like ghosts. Now and then he tripped over the uneven, stony road, and it scarce seemed worth while to make any effort to recover himself; and more than once he felt and knew, but only dimly, that his trousers were torn on the stones, and his knees were cut and bleeding. He thought of the pony which had fallen and cut itself, and felt vaguely envious of its fate.
Lower down the pass where the hills began to melt into the plain it grew warmer, and in a half dream of exhaustion for a moment he thought that a treeless hollow of the hills was the bay of Nauplia, lying cool and dark beneath the night. Nauplia, the bay, the white wall—it seemed that that time belonged to a boy called Mitsos, but not himself; a boy who had been happier than the kings of the earth, whereas he was a foot-sore, utterly beaten piece of consciousness, that would plod along the white ribbon of road forever.
Then suddenly as he thought the sky lightened and grew gray with dawn, and the next moment the day had broken with the swiftness of the South, and when the sun lifted itself above the hills to the east, it showed him Tripoli all shining in the dawn, still about a mile off.
Mitsos stopped dead. He was too late. During the day it would be impossible for him to get into the governor's house, and during the day, some time before the blessed night fell again, the soldiers from Panitza would be there; Petrobey would have escaped, trusting to his getting to Tripoli first; and Yanni would be.... Who was Yanni? Oh, a boy he had travelled with once; they had had a fine time, and he believed he had promised to come and get him out of Tripoli....
Then suddenly with a sob he beat his hands together.
"Oh, Yanni, Yanni!" he cried; "little Yanni!"
There had been a white frost during the night, and the fields were all stiff and glistening. He had just enough sense to strike off the road and lie down under the shade of a tree, sheltered from the sun and untouched by the frost, and there rolled over on his side, and next moment was sleeping deep and dreamlessly like a child tired with play. There he lay without moving, one arm shielding his face from the light, and when he woke it was past mid-day, the blessed gift of sleep had restored him body and mind, the trouble in his brain had run down like the tainted water of a spate, leaving it clear and lucent, and the strength had come back to his limbs.
He sat there some quarter of an hour longer, thinking intently. He had no self-reproach to interpose itself between him and his quest; the accident had been purely out of his own control, and he had done what would have seemed to himself impossible if he had not done it. Then he took stock of the position; and the position was that the soldiers might be expected at any time after four that afternoon; and as it would not be dark till six, there was nothing to do but go on to Tripoli and wait, watching the road from Sparta. If they came before dark he determined to make an attempt to get in, desperate though it might be, for when once they had given their report to Mehemet Salik, there would be no more Yanni.
So he went on and ate at a Greek khan within the town, and then strolled back to the square and examined the house again. Once the door opened, and he went quickly down a side street for fear the porter, who had seen him before, might recognize him; then he took another look at the wall by which he hoped to get access to the house. Under the influence of food and sleep the spirit of his courage had revived, and about two o'clock he went back again down the street leading into the Sparta road, and sitting down a little distance from it, kept his eyes fixed on the point where it vanished round the first hill-side. Three o'clock passed, four and five, and thin white clouds in the west began to be tinged with rose, and Mitsos' heart tapped quicker; in another hour it would be dark, and time for his attempt. He sat on there till nearly six, and the darkness began to fall in layers over the sky, and the colors to fade out of things; then giving one last look up the road, he turned and went into the town again.
When he arrived at the square the little oil-lamps at the corners were already lit, and the figures of men seemed like shadows. He turned down the street where the low wall stood, but found to his annoyance that only a few paces down was a café, which had been empty during the day, but was now beginning to fill with guests—for the most part Turkish soldiers; and he was obliged to wait. But these had apparently only come in for a glass of mastic before dinner, and in a quarter of an hour there were only left there the café-keeper, who seemed to be dozing over his glass, and an old Greek countryman in fustanella dress. Mitsos, who had stationed himself some hundred yards off, drew a deep breath, and stole noiselessly back in the shadow of the wall.
By standing on a heap of rubbish which lay there he could get his fingers on the top of the wall, and slipping off his shoes, so that his toes might more easily make use of the crevices between the stones, he worked himself slowly up, and in a moment was crouching on the top. Then came the easier but the more dangerous task, for as he crept along the roof of the house where Yanni was his figure would be silhouetted against the sky; but the roof was not more than four feet above the top of the lower garden wall, and bending over it he raised himself up and wriggled snake-wise along the edge. Yanni's room, in front of which stood the pillar by which he meant to climb down into the balcony, was the second room from the end, and, judging the distance as well as he could, he glided along for about nine feet, and then began to make his way slowly down the roof. He had calculated the distance well, and when he was about half-way down, the tiled roof, which was but lightly built over laths, and was not constructed to bear the weight of superincumbent giants, suddenly creaked beneath him, and next moment gave way, and with a crash fit to wake the dead he was precipitated with a shower of tiles right into Yanni's room, and within a few feet of where Yanni was sitting, with his arms tied behind him.
Mitsos did not think whether he was hurt or not, but picked himself up and showed himself to Yanni. Yanni gave one wild gasp of astonishment.
"Oh, dear Mitsos," he said, "you have not come too soon. Quick, cut this rope!"
He whipped out his knife, and had hardly cut the rope when they heard a key grate in the lock, and Mitsos, taking one step to behind the door, sprang out like a wild-cat on Yanni's keeper—who lived next door, and had not unnaturally come in to see what had happened—and threw him to the ground, while Yanni without a second's hesitation bound a thick scarf round his mouth by way of a gag.
"Now the rope," said Mitsos, and they tied his arms to his sides and his legs together, and looked at each other a moment.
"There is the porter!" said Yanni; "he will be here. Shut the door, Mitsos, and lock it inside."
Next they moved the bedstead and all the furniture they could against the door, and barred the windows, and Yanni gave an additional twist to the scarf that bound the Turk's mouth.
"There is not much time," said Mitsos; and pulling the table out of the heap of furniture they had piled at the door, he climbed onto it, and with one vigorous effort brought down all the tiles which were lying loosely between the hole his entrance had made and the outside wall. From the table he could easily spring up onto the top of the wall, and lying along it reached down two great hands to Yanni. Yanni grasped them, and with much kicking and struggling, not having Mitsos' inches, he got himself on the top.
Mitsos turned to him with a suppressed bubble of laughter.
"Eh, Yanni," he whispered, "but it was truth you said when you told me you would grow very fat. Come quickly. Ah, but there's the porter at the door—one outside and one inside, and we two on the roof."
The descent was easily accomplished; by good luck the street was empty; and waiting a moment for Mitsos to put on his shoes again, the two ran as hard as they could down it, away from the square, keeping in the shadow of the walls. From the end of it a cross street led out to the western gate of the town, and drawing near cautiously they saw it had been already shut, and a sentry was standing by it.
Once again Yanni's wit, wedded to Mitsos' strength, was to stand them in good stead.
"Mitsos," he whispered, "he will open the gate for you, for it has been market-day. Go, then, down the road, and I will follow in the shadow of the wall. Then, when he opens the gate to you, hold him very fast, and I will take the key from him and run through. And oh, cousin—but we must be quick."
Mitsos did not quite understand the object of taking the key, but, walking straight on, he asked to be let out.
"From the market?" asked the sentry.
"Surely, and going home to Thana," said Mitsos, naming a village near.
The man took out the key, unbarred and unbolted the door, and the moment the lock was turned Mitsos grasped him tightly round the arms from behind. The sentry was but a little man, and his struggles in Mitsos' grasp were of the faintest; and when Mitsos, with a brilliant smile, whispered, "You scream, I kill!" enforcing his fragmentary Turkish with a precautionary nudge of the elbow, he was as silent as the grave. In the mean time Yanni had passed them, and taking the key from the lock fitted it into the outside of the gate and said, hurriedly, to Mitsos:
"Quick, cousin! throw him away!"
Mitsos, still smiling kindly, lifted the Turk off his feet, and, with a mighty swing, threw him, as Yanni suggested, onto the road, where he fell, pitiably, in a heap, and, once free from Mitsos, called, in a lamentable voice, for Mohammed the Prophet. Next moment Yanni had shut the gate, locked it, and thrown the key away into the bushes that lined the road.
The two looked at each other for a moment, and then Mitsos broke into a roar of good, wholesome laughter, as unlike as possible to the exhibition to which he had treated Yanni after the affair of the powder-mill. Yanni joined in, and for a few seconds they stood there shaking and helpless. Mitsos recovered himself first.
"Oh, Yanni!" he cried, "but I could laugh till morning were there not other things to do! Come away; there will be no sleep for us this night. No, we keep to the road at present and go westward. Come, we will talk afterwards."
For two hours they jogged on as fast as Yanni could, for a month of living in the confinement of a house and garden "has made a hole," as he said, "in my bellows; and as for the fat of me, why, Mitsos, it's a thing of shame." But there was no wind in him for more than the running, and it was in silence they climbed the steep road into the mountains between Tripoli and the plain of Megalopolis. These were cut in half by a small valley lying between the two rows of hills, with a sharp descent into it from each side, going down into which Yanni recovered his wind a little. On the edge of the valley, as Mitsos knew, stood a small khan, the keeper of which was his father's friend, and as a light still shone in the window he and Yanni entered to rest awhile and get provisions for the morning. Anastasis was glad to see him, and asked him what he was doing there and at that time; and Mitsos, knowing his man, told him in a few words the story of the escape, and begged him, if there was pursuit from Tripoli, to say that they had just passed, going to Megalopolis. "For you see," put in Yanni, observing that their host's wits were not of the quickest, "we are not going to Megalopolis, and it will be a fine gain of time to us if they seek us there."
After an interval this appeared to Anastasis to be a most admirable joke, and for five minutes more, as he was cutting them bread and meat, he kept bursting out into a chuckle of delight, and turned to Mitsos, saying, "Then they'll find you not at Megalopolis. Eh, who would have thought it?"
But Mitsos hurried Yanni off again. They had not probably more than half an hour's start, "though it will take them not a little time to clear a way into your room," said Mitsos; and though, through the steepness of the ascent, a horse could go no quicker than a man, there was no time to waste, and they struck off the road a little southward, straight in the direction of Taygetus. All night they went, sometimes walking, but more often running, and when morning dawned they found themselves on the lower foot-hills of Taygetus, but still a day's journey from their rendezvous. But Yanni declared he could go no farther for the present. His eyes were full of sleep; his stomach was dust within him, and his legs were one ache. So Mitsos, after a five-minutes' climb to the top of a neighboring ridge, came back with the tidings that he could not discern man, beast, or village, and decreed that they should lie here all day and not start again till near sunset.
Then said Yanni: "It will be a long talk we shall have before sunset; but, Mitsos, if the day of judgment was breaking not one word could I say for myself till I have slept. Ah, but it is good to be with you again!"
And he turned over and was asleep at once.
Mitsos was not long in following his example, but he woke first, and, seeing by the sun that it was not much after mid-day, got up quietly, so as not to disturb Yanni, and went in search of water. This he found some quarter of a mile below and returned to Yanni, who had just awoke. They took their food down to the spring and ate there, and then, at Mitsos' suggestion, went back again to their first camping place, "for where there is a spring," he said, "there may be folk, and we want folk but little."
"And now," said Yanni, as they settled themselves again, "begin at the beginning, Mitsos, and tell me all."
"I went straight to Nauplia the first night," he said, "and arrived there very late—after midnight; then, next day, I went off."
"Next day?" asked Yanni. "Is that all you care about Suleima? Oh, tell me, how is Suleima?"