‘Ours is the land!Death to the handThat filches the land!Dead is that hand,Ours is the land!‘Forever we hold it,Dead’s he that sold it!Ours is the land,Dead is the hand!’
‘Ours is the land!Death to the handThat filches the land!Dead is that hand,Ours is the land!
‘Ours is the land!
Death to the hand
That filches the land!
Dead is that hand,
Ours is the land!
‘Forever we hold it,Dead’s he that sold it!Ours is the land,Dead is the hand!’
‘Forever we hold it,
Dead’s he that sold it!
Ours is the land,
Dead is the hand!’
Again and again they hurled forth the defiant words, until at last they stopped opposite the inn with one final long-drawn shout of savage triumph.
‘Well, this is a go,’ said Denny, drawing a long breath. ‘What are the beggars up to?’
‘What have they been up to?’ I asked; for I could not doubt that the song we had heard had been chanted over a dead Stefanopoulos two hundred years before. At this age of the world the idea seemed absurd, preposterous, horrible. But there was no law nearer than Rhodes, and there only Turk’s law. The sole law here was the law of the Stefanopouloi, and if that law lost its force by the crime of the hand which should wield it, why, strange things might happen even to-day in Neopalia. And we were caught in the inn like rats in a trap.
‘I don’t see,’ remarked old Hogvardt, laying a hand on my shoulder, ‘any harm in loading our revolvers, my lord.’
I did not see any harm in it either, and we all followed Hogvardt’s advice, and also filled our pockets with cartridges. I was determined—I think we were all determined—not to be bullied by these islanders and their skull-and-crossbones ditty.
A quarter of an hour passed; then there came a knock at the door, while the bolts shot back.
‘I shall go out,’ said I, springing to my feet.
The door opened, and the face of a lad appeared.
‘Vlacho the innkeeper bids you descend,’ said he; and then, catching sight perhaps of our revolvers, he turned and ran downstairs again at his best speed. Following him we came to the door of the inn. It was ringed round with men, and directly opposite to us stood Vlacho. When he saw me he commanded silence with a gesture of his hand, and addressed me in the following surprising style.
‘The Lady Euphrosyne, of her grace, bids you depart in peace. Go, then, to your boat and depart, thanking God for His mercy.’
‘Wait a bit, my man’ said I; ‘where is the lord of the island?’
‘Did you not know that he died a week ago?’ asked Vlacho, with apparent surprise.
‘Died!’ we exclaimed one and all.
‘Yes, sir. The Lady Euphrosyne, Lady of Neopalia, bids you go.’
‘What did he die of?’
‘Of a fever,’ said Vlacho gravely; and several of the men round him nodded their heads and murmured in no less grave assent, ‘Yes, of a fever.’
‘I am very sorry for it,’ said I. ‘But as he sold the island to me before he died, I don’t see what the lady, with all respect to her, has got to do with it. Nor do I know what this rabble is doing about the door. Bid them disperse.’
This attempt athauteurwas most decidedly thrown away. Vlacho seemed not to hear what I said. He pointed with his finger towards the harbour.
‘There lies your boat. Demetri and Spiro cannot go with you, but you will be able to manage her yourselves. Listen now! Till six in the morning you are free to go. If you are found in Neopalia one minute after, you will never go. Think and be wise.’ And he and all the rest, as though one spring moved the whole body, wheeled round and marched off up the hill again, breaking out into the old chant when they had gone about a hundred yards. We were left alone in the doorway of the inn, looking, I must admit, rather blank.
Upstairs again we went, and I sat down by the window and gazed out on the night. It was very dark, and seemed darker now that the gleaming torches were gone. Not a soul was to be seen. The islanders, having put matters on a satisfactory footing, were off to bed. I sat thinking. Presently Denny came to me, and put his hand on my shoulder.
‘Going to cave in, Charley?’ he asked.
‘My dear Denny,’ said I, ‘I wish you were at home with your mother.’
He smiled and repeated, ‘Going to cave in, old chap?’
‘No, by Jove, I’m not!’ cried I, leaping up. ‘They’ve had my money, and I’m going to have my island.’
‘Take the yacht, my lord,’ counselled Hogvardt, ‘and come back with enough force from Rhodes.’
Well, here was sense; my impulse was nonsense. We four could not conquer the island. I swallowed my pride.
‘So be it,’ said I. ‘But look here, it’s only just twelve. We might have a look round before we go. I want to see the place, you know.’ For I was very sorely vexed at being turned out of my island.
Hogvardt grumbled a little at my proposal, but here I overruled him. We took our revolvers again,left the inn, and struck straight up the road. We met nobody. For nearly a mile we mounted, the way becoming steeper with every step. Then there was a sharp turn off the main road.
‘That will lead to the house,’ said Hogvardt, who had studied the map of Neopalia very carefully.
‘Then we’ll have a look at the house. Show us a light, Hogvardt. It’s precious dark.’
Hogvardt opened his lantern and cast its light on the way. But suddenly he extinguished it again, and drew us close into the rocks that edged the road. We saw coming towards us, in the darkness, two figures. They rode small horses. Their faces could not be seen; but as they passed our silent motionless forms, one said in a clear, sweet, girlish voice:
‘Surely they will go?’
‘Ay, they’ll go or pay the penalty,’ said the other voice. At the sound of it I started. For it was the voice of my neighbour in the restaurant, Constantine Stefanopoulos.
‘I shall be near at hand, sleeping in the town,’ said the girl’s voice, ‘and the people will listen to me.’
‘The people will kill them if they don’t go,’ we heard Constantine answer, in tones that witnessed no great horror at the idea. Then the couple disappeared in the darkness.
‘On to the house!’ I cried in sudden excitement. For I was angry now, angry at the utter humbling scorn with which they treated me.
Another ten minutes’ groping brought us in front of the old grey house which we had seen from the sea. We walked boldly up to it. The door stood open. We went in and found ourselves in a large hall. The wooden floor was carpeted here and there with mats and skins. A long table ran down the middle; the walls were decorated with mediæval armour and weapons. The windows were but narrow slits, the walls massive and deep. The door was a ponderous iron-bound affair; it shamed even the stout doors of our inn. I called loudly, ‘Is anyone here?’ Nobody answered. The servants must have been drawn off to the town by the excitement of the procession and the singing; or, perhaps, there were no servants. I could not tell. I sat down in a large armchair by the table. I enjoyed the sense of proprietorship; I was in my own house. Denny sat on the table by me, dangling his legs. For a long while none of us spoke. Then I exclaimed suddenly:
‘By Heaven, why shouldn’t we see it through?’ I rose, put my hands against the massive door, and closed and bolted it, saying, ‘Let them open that at six o’clock in the morning.’
‘Hurrah!’ cried Denny, leaping down from his table, on fire with excitement in a moment.
I faced Hogvardt. He shook his head, but he smiled. Watkins stood by with his usual imperturbability. He wanted to know what his lordship decided—that was all; and when I said nothing more, he asked,
‘Then your lordship will sleep here to-night?’
‘I’ll stay here to-night, anyhow, Watkins,’ said I. ‘I’m not going to be driven out of my own island by anybody.’
As I spoke, I brought my fist down on the table with a crash. And then to our amazement we heard, from somewhere in the dark recesses of the hall where the faint light of Hogvardt’s lantern did not reach, a low but distinct groan, as of someone in pain. Watkins shuddered, Hogvardt looked rather uncomfortable; Denny and I listened eagerly. Again the groan came. I seized the lantern from Hogvardt’s hand, and rushed in the direction of the sound. There, in the corner of the hall, on a couch covered with a rug, lay an old man in an uneasy attitude, groaning now and then and turning restlessly. By his side sat an old serving-woman in weary heavy slumber. In a moment I guessed the truth—part of the truth.
‘He’s not dead of that fever yet,’ said I.
I lookedfor a moment on the old man’s pale, clean-cut, aristocratic face; then I shook his attendant by the arm vigorously. She awoke with a start.
‘What does this mean?’ I demanded. ‘Who is he?’
‘Heaven help us! Who are you?’ she cried, leaping up in alarm. Indeed we four, with our eager fierce faces, must have looked disquieting enough.
‘I am Lord Wheatley; these are my friends,’ I answered in brisk sharp tones.
‘What, it is you, then—?’ A wondering gaze ended her question.
‘Yes, yes, it is I. I have bought the island. We came out for a walk and—’
‘But he will kill you if he finds you here.’
‘He? Who?’
‘Ah, pardon, my lord! They will kill you, they—the people—the men of the island.’
I gazed at her sternly. She shrank back in confusion. And I spoke at a venture, yet in a well-grounded hazard:
‘You mean that Constantine Stefanopoulos will kill me?’
‘Ah, hush,’ she cried. ‘He may be here, he may be anywhere.’
‘He may thank his stars he’s not here,’ said I grimly, for my blood was up. ‘Attend, woman. Who is this?’
‘It is the lord of the island, my lord,’ she answered. ‘Alas, he is wounded, I fear, to death. And yet I fell asleep. But I was so weary.’
‘Wounded? By whom?’
Her face suddenly became vacant and expressionless.
‘I do not know, my lord. It happened in the crowd. It was a mistake. My dear lord had yielded what they asked. Yet some one—no, by heaven, my lord, I do not know who—stabbed him. And he cannot live.’
‘Tell me the whole thing,’ I commanded.
‘They came up here, my lord, all of them, Vlacho and all, and with them my Lord Constantine. The Lady Euphrosyne was away; she is often away, down on the rocks by the sea, watching the waves. They came and said that a man had landed who claimed our island as his—a man of your name,my lord. And when my dear lord said he had sold the island to save the honour of his house and race, they were furious; and Vlacho raised the death chant that One-eyed Alexander the Bard wrote on the death of Stefan Stefanopoulos long ago. Then they came near with knives, demanding that my dear lord should send away the stranger; for the men of Neopalia were not to be bought and sold like bullocks or like pigs. At first my lord would not yield, and they swore they would kill the stranger and my lord also. Then they pressed closer; Vlacho was hard on him with drawn knife, and the Lord Constantine stood by him, praying him to yield; and Constantine drew his own knife, saying to Vlacho that he must fight him also before he killed the old lord. But at that Vlacho smiled. And then—and then—ah, my dear lord!’
For a moment her voice broke, and sobs supplanted words. But she drew herself up, and after a glance at the old man whom her vehement speech had not availed to waken, she went on.
‘And then those behind cried out that there was enough talk. Would he yield or would he die? And they rushed forward, pressing the nearest against him. And he, an old man, frail and feeble (yet once he was as brave a man as any), cried in his weak tones, “Enough, friends, Iyield, I—” and they fell back. But my lord stood for an instant, then he set his hand to his side, and swayed and tottered and fell; the blood was running from his side. The Lord Constantine fell on his knees beside him, crying, “Who stabbed him?” Vlacho smiled grimly, and the others looked at one another. But I, who had run out from the doorway whence I had seen it all, knelt by my lord and staunched the blood. Then Vlacho said, fixing his eyes straight and keen on the Lord Constantine, “It was not I, my lord.” “Nor I by heaven,” cried the Lord Constantine, and he rose to his feet, demanding, “Who struck the blow?” But none answered; and he went on, “Nay, if it were in error, if it were because he would not yield, speak. There shall be pardon.” But Vlacho, hearing this, turned himself round and faced them all, saying, “Did he not sell us like oxen and like pigs?” and he broke into the death chant, and they all raised the chant, none caring any more who had struck the blow. And the Lord Constantine—’ The impetuous flow of the old woman’s story was frozen to sudden silence.
‘Well, and the Lord Constantine?’ said I, in low stern tones that quivered with excitement; and I felt Denny’s hand, which was on my arm, jump up and down. ‘And Constantine, woman?’
“WHO STABBED HIM?”
“WHO STABBED HIM?”
‘Nay, he did nothing,’ said she. ‘He talked with Vlacho awhile, and then they went away, and he bade me tend my lord, and went himself to seek the Lady Euphrosyne. Presently he came back with her; her eyes were red, and she wept afresh when she saw my poor lord; for she loved him. She sat by him till Constantine came and told her that you would not go, and that you and your friends would be killed if you did not go. Then, weeping to leave my lord, she went, praying heaven she might find him alive when she returned. “I must go,” she said to me, “for though it is a shameful thing that the island should have been sold, yet these men must be persuaded to go away and not meet death. Kiss him for me if he awakes.” Thus she went and left me with my lord, and I fear he will die.’ She ended in a burst of sobbing.
For a moment there was silence. Then I said again:
‘Who struck the blow, woman? Who struck the blow?’
She shrank from me as though I had struck her.
‘I do not know; I do not know,’ she moaned.
But the question she dared not answer was to find an answer.
The stricken man opened his eyes, his lips moved, and he groaned, ‘Constantine! You,Constantine!’ The old woman’s eyes met mine for a moment and fell to the ground again.
‘Why, why, Constantine?’ moaned the wounded man. ‘I had yielded, I had yielded, Constantine. I would have sent them—’
His words ceased, his eyes closed, his lips met again, but met only to part. A moment later his jaw dropped. The old lord of Neopalia was dead.
Then I, carried away by anger and by hatred of the man who, for a reason I did not yet understand, had struck so foul a blow against his kinsman and an old man, did a thing so rash that it seems to me now, when I consider it in the cold light of memory, a mad deed. Yet then I could do nothing else; and Denny’s face, ay, and the eyes of the others too told me that they were with me.
‘Compose this old man’s body,’ I said, ‘and we will watch it. But do you go and tell this Constantine Stefanopoulos that I know his crime, that I know who struck that blow, that what I know all men shall know, and that I will not rest day or night until he has paid the penalty of this murder. Tell him I swore this on the honour of an English gentleman.’
‘And say I swore it too!’ cried Denny; and Hogvardt and Watkins, not making bold tospeak, ranged up close to me; I knew that they also meant what I meant.
The old woman looked at me with searching eyes.
‘You are a bold man, my lord,’ said she.
‘I see nothing to be afraid of up to now,’ said I. ‘Such courage as is needed to tell a scoundrel what I think of him I believe I can claim.’
‘But he will never let you go now. You would go to Rhodes, and tell his—tell what you say of him.’
‘Yes, and further than Rhodes, if need be. He shall die for it as sure as I live.’
A thousand men might have tried in vain to persuade me; the treachery of Constantine had fired my heart and driven out all opposing motives.
‘Do as I bid you,’ said I sternly, ‘and waste no time on it. We will watch here by the old man till you return.’
‘My lord,’ she replied, ‘you run on your own death. And you are young; and the youth by you is yet younger.’
‘We are not dead yet,’ said Denny; I had never seen him look as he did then; for the gaiety was out of his face, and his lips had grown set and hard.
She raised her hands towards heaven, whetherin prayer or in lamentation I do not know. We turned away and left her to her sad work; going back to our places, we waited there till dawn began to break and from the narrow windows we saw the grey crests of the waves dancing and frolicking in the early dawn. As I watched them, the old woman was by my elbow.
‘It is done, my lord,’ said she. ‘Are you still of the same mind?’
‘Still of the same,’ said I.
‘It is death, death for you all,’ she said, and without more she went to the great door. Hogvardt opened it for her, and she walked away down the road, between the high rocks that bounded the path on either side. Then we went and carried the old man to a room that opened off the hall, and, returning, stood in the doorway, cooling our brows in the fresh early air. While we stood there, Hogvardt said suddenly,
‘It is five o’clock.’
‘Then we have only an hour to live,’ said I, smiling, ‘if we don’t make for the yacht.’
‘You’re not going back to the yacht, my lord?’
‘I’m puzzled,’ I admitted. ‘If we go this ruffian will escape. And if we don’t go—’
‘Why, we,’ Hogvardt ended for me, ‘may not escape.’
I saw that Hogvardt’s sense of responsibility was heavy; he always regarded himself as the shepherd, his employers as the sheep. I believe this attitude of his confirmed my obstinacy, for I said, without further hesitation:
‘Oh, we’ll chance that. When they know what a villain the fellow is, they’ll turn against him. Besides, we said we’d wait here.’
Denny seized on my last words with alacrity. When you are determined to do a rash thing, there is a great comfort in feeling that you are already committed to it by some previous act or promise.
‘So we did,’ he cried. ‘Then that settles it, Hogvardt’
‘His lordship certainly expressed that intention,’ observed Watkins, appearing at this moment with a big loaf of bread and a great pitcher of milk. I eyed these viands.
‘I bought the house and its contents,’ said I; ‘come along.’
Watkins’ further researches produced a large lump of native cheese; when he had set this down he remarked:
‘In a pen behind the house, close to the kitchen windows, there are two goats; and your lordship sees there, on the right of the front door, two cows tethered.’
I began to laugh, Watkins was so wise and solemn.
‘We can stand a siege, you mean?’ I asked. ‘Well, I hope it won’t come to that.’
Hogvardt rose and began to move round the hall, examining the weapons that decorated the walls. From time to time he grunted disapprovingly; the guns were useless, rusted, out of date; and there was no ammunition for them. But when he had almost completed his circuit, he gave an exclamation of satisfaction and came to me holding an excellent modern rifle and a large cartridge-case.
‘See!’ he grunted in huge delight. ‘“C. S.” on the stock. I expect you can guess whose it is, my lord.’
‘This is very thoughtful of Constantine,’ observed Denny, who was employing himself in cutting imaginary lemons in two with a fine damascened scimitar that he had taken from the wall.
‘As for the cows,’ said I, ‘perhaps they will carry them off.’
‘I think not,’ said Hogvardt, taking an aim with the rifle through the window.
I looked at my watch. It was five minutes past six.
‘Well, we can’t go now,’ said I. ‘It’s settled. What a comfort!’ I wonder whether I had ever in my heart meant to go!
The next hour passed very quietly. We sat smoking pipes or cigars and talking in subdued tones. The recollection of the dead man in the adjoining room sobered the excitement to which our position might otherwise have given occasion. Indeed I suppose that I at least, who through my whim had led the rest into this quandary, should have been utterly overwhelmed by the burden on me. But I was not. Perhaps Hogvardt’s assumption of responsibility relieved me; perhaps I was too full of anger against Constantine to think of the risks we ourselves ran; and I was more than half-persuaded that the revelation of what he had done would rob him of his power to hurt us. Moreover, if I might judge from the words I heard on the road, we had on our side an ally of uncertain, but probably considerable, power in the sweet-voiced girl whom the old woman called the Lady Euphrosyne; she would not support her uncle’s murderer, even though he were her cousin.
Presently Watkins carried me off to view his pen of goats, and having passed through the lofty flagged kitchen, I found myself in a sort of compound formed by the rocks. The ground had been levelled for a few yards, and the rocks rose straight to the height of ten or twelve feet; from the top of this artificial bank they ran againin wooded slopes towards the peak of the mountain. I followed their course with my eye, and three hundred or more feet above us, just beneath the summit, I perceived a little woodenchâletor bungalow. Blue smoke issued from the chimneys; and, even while we looked, a figure came out of the door and stood still in front of it, apparently gazing down towards the house.
‘It’s a woman,’ I pronounced.
‘Yes, my lord. A peasant’s wife, I suppose.’
‘I daresay,’ said I. But I soon doubted Watkins’ opinion; in the first place, because the woman’s dress did not look like that of a peasant woman; and secondly, because she went into the house, appeared again, and levelled at us what was, if I mistook not, a large pair of binocular glasses. Now such things were not likely to be in the possession of the peasants of Neopalia. Then she suddenly retreated, and through the silence of those still slopes we heard the door of the cottage closed with violence.
‘She doesn’t seem to like the looks of us,’ said I.
‘Possibly,’ suggested Watkins with deference, ‘she did not expect to see your lordship here.’
‘I should think that’s very likely, Watkins,’ said I.
I was recalled from the survey of my newdomains—my satisfaction in the thought that they were mine survived all the disturbing features of the situation—by a call from Denny. In response to it I hurried back to the hall and found him at the window, with Constantine’s rifle rested on the sill.
‘I could pick him off pat,’ said Denny laughingly, and he pointed to a figure which was approaching the house. It was a man riding a stout pony; when he came within about two hundred yards of the house, he stopped, took a leisurely look, and then waved a white handkerchief.
‘The laws of war must be observed,’ said I, smiling. ‘This is a flag of truce.’ I opened the door, stepped out, and waved my handkerchief in return. The man, reassured, began to mop his brow with the flag of truce, and put his pony to a trot. I now perceived him to be the innkeeper Vlacho, and a moment later he reined up beside me, giving an angry jerk at his pony’s bridle.
‘I have searched the island for you,’ he cried. ‘I am weary and hot! How came you here?’
I explained to him briefly how I had chanced to take possession of my house, and added significantly:
‘But has no message come to you from me?’
He smiled with equal meaning, as he answered:
‘No; an old woman came to speak to a gentleman who is in the village—’
‘Yes, to Constantine Stefanopoulos,’ said I with a nod.
‘Well then, if you will, to the Lord Constantine,’ he admitted with a careless shrug, ‘but her message was for his ear only; he took her aside and they talked alone.’
‘You know what she said, though?’
‘That is between my Lord Constantine and me.’
‘And the young lady knows it, I hope—the Lady Euphrosyne?’
Vlacho smiled broadly.
‘We could not distress her with such a silly tale,’ he answered; and he leant down towards me. ‘Nobody has heard the message but the Lord Constantine and one man he told it to. And nobody will. If that old woman spoke, she—well, she knows and will not speak.’
‘And you back up this murderer?’ I cried.
‘Murderer?’ he repeated questioningly. ‘Indeed, sir, it was an accident done in hot blood. It was the old man’s fault, because he tried to sell the island.’
‘He did sell the island,’ I corrected; ‘and a good many other people will hear of what happened to him.’
He looked at me again, smiling.
‘If you shouted it in the hearing of every man in Neopalia, what would they do?’ he asked scornfully.
‘Well, I should hope,’ I returned, ‘that they’d hang Constantine to the tallest tree you’ve got here.’
‘They would do this,’ he said with a nod; and he began to sing softly the chant I had heard the night before.
I was disgusted at his savagery, but I said coolly:
‘And the Lady?’
‘The Lady believes what she is told, and will do as her cousin bids her. Is she not his affianced wife?’
‘The deuce she is!’ I cried in amazement, fixing a keen scrutiny on Vlacho’s face. The face told me nothing.
‘Certainly,’ he said gently. ‘And they will rule the island together.’
‘Will they, though?’ said I. I was becoming rather annoyed. ‘There are one or two obstacles in the way of that. First, it’s my island.’
He shrugged his shoulders again. ‘That,’ he seemed to say, ‘is not worth answering.’ But I had a second shot in the locker for him, and I let him have it for what it was worth. I knew it might be worth nothing, but I tried it.
‘And secondly,’ I went on, ‘how many wives does Constantine propose to have?’
A hit! A hit! A palpable hit! I could have sung in glee. The fellow was dumbfoundered. He turned red, bit his lip, scowled fiercely.
‘What do you mean?’ he blurted out, with an attempt at blustering defiance.
‘Never mind what I mean. Something, perhaps, that the Lady Euphrosyne might care to know. And now, my man, what do you want of me?’
He recovered his composure, and stated his errand with his old cool assurance; but the cloud of vexation still hung heavy on his brow.
‘On behalf of the Lady of the island—’ he began.
‘Or shall we say her cousin?’ I interrupted.
‘Which you will,’ he answered, as though it were not worth while to wear the mask any longer. ‘On behalf, then, of my Lord Constantine, I am to offer you safe passage to your boat, and a return of the money you have paid—’
‘How’s he going to pay that?’
‘He will pay it in a year, and give you security meanwhile.’
‘And the condition is that I give up the island?’ I asked; I began to think that perhaps I owed it to my companions to acquiesce in this proposal however distasteful it might be to me.
‘Yes,’ said Vlacho, ‘and there is one other small condition, which will not trouble you.’
‘What’s that? You’re rich in conditions.’
‘You’re lucky to be offered any. It is that you mind your own business.’
‘I came here for the purpose,’ I observed.
‘And that you undertake, for yourself and your companions, on your word of honour, to speak to nobody of what has passed on the island or of the affairs of the Lord Constantine.’
‘And if I won’t give this promise?’
‘The yacht is in our hands; Demetri and Spiro are our men; there will be no ship here for two months.’ The fellow paused, smiling at me. I took the liberty of ending his period for him.
‘And there is,’ I said, returning his smile, ‘as we know by now, a particularly sudden and fatal form of fever in the island.’
‘Certainly you may chance to find that out,’ said he.
‘But is there no antidote?’ I asked, and I showed him the butt of my revolver in the pocket of my coat.
‘It may keep it off for a day or two—not longer. You have the bottle there, but most of the drug is with your luggage at the inn.’
His parable was true enough; we had only two or three dozen cartridges apiece.
‘But there’s plenty of food for Constantine’s rifle,’ said I, pointing to the muzzle of it, which protruded from the window.
He suddenly became impatient.
‘Your answer, sir?’ he demanded peremptorily.
‘Here it is,’ said I. ‘I’ll keep the island and I’ll see Constantine hanged.’
‘So be it, so be it,’ he cried. ‘You are warned; so be it!’ Without another word he turned his pony and trotted rapidly off down the road. And I went back to the house feeling, I must confess, not in the best of spirits. But when my friends heard all that had passed, they applauded me, and we made up our minds to ‘see it through,’ as Denny said.
The day passed quietly. At noon we carried the old lord out of his house, having wrapped him in a sheet; we dug for him as good a grave as we could in a little patch of ground that lay outside the windows of his own chapel, a small erection at the west end of the house. There he must lie for the present. This sad work done, we came back and—so swift are life’s changes—killed a goat for dinner, and watched Watkins dress it. Thus the afternoon wore away, and when evening came we ate our goat-flesh and Hogvardt milked our cows; then we sat down to consider the position of the garrison.
But the evening was hot and we adjourned out of doors, grouping ourselves on the broad marble pavement in front of the door. Hogvardt had just begun to expound a very elaborate scheme of escape, depending, so far as I could make out, on our reaching the other side of the island and finding there a boat which we had no reason to suppose would be there, when Denny raised his hand, saying ‘Hark!’
From the direction of the village and the harbour came the sound of a horn, blowing long and shrill and echoed back in strange protracted shrieks and groans from the hillside behind us. And following on the blast we heard, low in the distance and indistinct, yet rising and falling and rising again in savage defiance and exultation, the death-chant that One-Eyed Alexander the Bard had made on the death of Stefan Stefanopoulos two hundred years ago. For a few minutes we sat listening; I do not think that any of us felt very comfortable. Then I rose to my feet, saying:
‘Hogvardt, old fellow, I fancy that scheme of yours must wait a little. Unless I’m very much mistaken, we’re going to have a lively evening.’
Well, then we shook hands all round, and went in and bolted the door, and sat down to wait. We heard the death-chant through the walls now; it was coming nearer.
Itwas between eight and nine o’clock when the first of the enemy appeared on the road in the persons of two smart fellows in gleaming kilts and braided jackets. It was no more than just dusk, and I saw that they were strangers to me. One was tall and broad, the other shorter and of very slight build. They came on towards us confidently enough. I was looking over Denny’s shoulder; he held Constantine’s rifle, and I knew that he was impatient to try it. But, inasmuch as might was certainly not on our side, I was determined that right should abide with us, and was resolute not to begin hostilities. Constantine had at least one powerful motive for desiring our destruction; I would not furnish him with any plausible excuse for indulging his wish: so we stood, Denny and I at one window, Hogvardt and Watkins at the other, and quietly watched the approaching figures. No more appeared; the main body did not showitself, and the sound of the fierce chant had suddenly died away. But the next moment a third man came in sight, running rapidly after the first two. He caught the shorter by the arm, and seemed to argue or expostulate with him. For a while the three stood thus talking; then I saw the last comer make a gesture of protest as though he yielded his point unwillingly, and they all came on together.
‘Push the barrel of that rifle a little farther out,’ said I to Denny. ‘It may be useful to them to know it’s there.’
Denny obeyed; the result was a sudden pause in our friends’ advance; but they were near enough now for me to distinguish the last comer, and I discerned in him, although he had discarded his tweed suit and adopted the national dress, Constantine Stefanopoulos himself.
‘Here’s an exercise of self-control!’ I groaned, laying a detaining hand on Denny’s shoulder.
As I spoke, Constantine put a whistle to his lips and blew loudly. The blast was followed by the appearance of five more fellows; in three of them I recognised old acquaintances—Vlacho, Demetri and Spiro. These three all carried guns. The whole eight came forward again, till they were within a hundred yards of us. There they halted, and, with a sudden swift movement, threebarrels were levelled straight at the window where Denny and I were stationed. Well, we ducked; there is no use in denying it; for we thought that the bombardment had really begun. Yet no shot followed, and after an instant, holding Denny down, I peered out cautiously myself. The three stood motionless, their aim full on us. The other five were advancing warily, well under the shelter of the rock, two on the left side of the road and three on the right. The slim boyish fellow was with Constantine on the left; a moment later the other three dashed across the road and joined them. In a moment what military men call ‘the objective,’ the aim of these manœuvres, flashed across me. It was simple almost to ludicrousness; yet it was very serious, for it showed a reasoned plan of campaign with which we were very ill-prepared to cope. While the three held us in check, the five were going to carry off our cows. Without our cows we should soon be hard put to it for food. For the cows had formed in our plans a most importantpièce de résistance.
‘This won’t do,’ said I. ‘They’re after the cows.’ I took the rifle from Denny’s hand, cautioning him not to show his face at the window. Then I stood in the shelter of the wall, so that I could not be hit by the three,and levelled the rifle, not at my human enemies, but at the unoffending cows.
‘A dead cow,’ I remarked, ‘is a great deal harder to move than a live one.’
The five had now come quite near the pen of rude hurdles in which the cows were. As I spoke, Constantine appeared to give some order; and while he and the boy stood looking on, Constantine leaning on his gun, the boy’s hand resting with jaunty elegance on the handle of the knife in his girdle, the others leapt over the hurdles. Crack! went the rifle, and a cow fell. I reloaded hastily. Crack! and the second cow fell. It was very fair shooting in such a bad light, for I hit both mortally; my skill was rewarded by a shout of anger from the robbers. (For robbers they were; I had bought the live stock.)
‘Carry them off now!’ I cried, carelessly showing myself at the window. But I did not stay there long, for three shots rang out, and the bullets pattered on the masonry above me. Luckily the covering party had aimed a trifle too high.
‘No more milk, my lord,’ observed Watkins in a regretful tone. He had seen the catastrophe from the other window.
The besiegers were checked. They leapt out of the pen with alacrity. I suppose they realisedthat they were exposed to my fire while at that particular angle I was protected from the attack of their friends. They withdrew to the middle of the road, selecting a spot at which I could not take aim without showing myself at the window. I dared not look out to see what they were doing. But presently Hogvardt risked a glance, and called out that they were in retreat and had rejoined the three, and that the whole body stood together in consultation and were no longer covering my window. So I looked out, and saw the boy standing in an easy graceful attitude, while Constantine and Vlacho talked a little way apart. It was growing considerably darker now, and the figures became dim and indistinct.
‘I think the fun’s over for to-night,’ said I, glad to have it over so cheaply.
Indeed what I said seemed to be true, for the next moment the group turned and began to retreat along the road, moving briskly out of our sight. We were left in the thick gloom of a moonless evening and the peaceful silence of still air.
‘They’ll come back and fetch the cows,’ said Hogvardt. ‘Couldn’t we drag one in, my lord, and put it where the goat is, behind the house?’
I approved of this suggestion; Watkins having found a rope, I armed Denny with the rifletook from the wall a large keen hunting-knife, opened the door and stole out, accompanied by Hogvardt and Watkins, who carried their revolvers. We reached the pen without interruption, tied our rope firmly round the horns of one of the dead beasts and set to work to drag it along. It was no child’s play, and our progress was very slow, but the carcase moved, and I gave a shout of encouragement as we got it down on to the smoother ground of the road and hauled it along with a will. Alas, that shout was a great indiscretion! I had been too hasty in assuming that our enemy was quite gone. We heard suddenly the rush of feet; shots whistled over our heads. We had but just time to drop the rope and turn round, when Denny’s rifle rang out, and then—somebody was at us! I really do not know exactly how many there were. I had two at me, but by great good luck I drove my big knife into one fellow’s arm at the first hazard, and I think that was enough for him. In my other assailant I recognised Vlacho. The fat innkeeper had got rid of his gun and had a knife much like the one I carried myself. I knew him more by his voice as he cried fiercely, ‘Come on!’ than by his appearance, for the darkness was thick now. Parrying his fierce thrust—he was very active for so stout a man—I called out to our people to fallback as quickly as they could, for I was afraid that we might be taken in the rear also.
But discipline is hard to maintain in such a force as mine.
‘Bosh!’ cried Denny’s voice.
‘Mein Gott, no!’ exclaimed Hogvardt. Watkins said nothing, but for once in his life he also disobeyed me.
Well, if they would not do as I said I must do as they did. The line advanced—the whole line, as at Waterloo. We pressed them hard. I heard a revolver fired, and a cry follow. Fat Vlacho slackened in his attack, wavered, halted, turned, and ran. A shout of triumph from Denny told me that the battle was going well there. Fired with victory, I set myself for a chase. But, alas, my pride was checked. Before I had gone two yards, I fell headlong over the body for which we had been fighting (as Greeks and Trojans fought for the body of Hector), and came to an abrupt stop, sprawling most ignominiously over the cow’s broad back.
‘Stop! Stop!’ I cried. ‘Wait a bit, Denny! I’m down over this infernal cow.’ It was an inglorious ending to the exploits of the evening.
Prudence or my cry stopped them. The enemy was in full retreat; their steps pattered quickalong the rocky road; and Denny observed in a tone of immense satisfaction:
‘I think that’s our trick, Charley.’
‘Anybody hurt?’ I asked, scrambling to my feet.
Watkins owned to a crack from the stock of a gun on his right shoulder, Hogvardt to a graze of a knife on the left arm. Denny was unhurt. We had reason to suppose that we had left our mark on at least two of the enemy. For so great a victory it was cheaply bought.
‘We’ll just drag in the cow,’ said I—I like to stick to my point—‘and then we might see if there’s anything in the cellar.’
We did drag in the cow; we dragged it through the house, and finally bestowed it in the compound behind. Hogvardt suggested that we should fetch the other also, but I had no mind for another surprise, which might not end so happily, and I decided to run the risk of leaving the second animal till the morning. So Watkins ran off to seek for some wine, for which we all felt very ready, and I went to the door with the intention of securing it. But before I shut it, I stood for a moment on the step, looking out on the night and sniffing the sweet, clear, pure air. It was in quiet moments like these, not in such a tumult as had just passed, that I had pictured mybeautiful island; and the love of it came on me now and made me swear that these fellows and their arch-ruffian Constantine should not drive me out of it without some more, and more serious, blows than had been struck that night. If I could get away safely and return with enough force to keep them quiet, I would pursue that course. If not—well, I believe I had very bloodthirsty thoughts in my mind, as even the most peaceable man may, when he has been served as I had and his friends roughly handled on his account.
Having registered these determinations, I was about to proceed with my task of securing the door, when I heard a sound that startled me. There was nothing hostile or alarming about it; rather it was pathetic and appealing, and, in spite of my previous fierceness of mood, it caused me to exclaim, ‘Hullo, is that one of those poor beggars we mauled?’ For the sound was a faint distressed sigh, as of somebody in suffering; it seemed to come from out of the darkness about a dozen yards ahead of me. My first impulse was to go straight to the spot, but I had begun by now to doubt whether the Neopalians were not unsophisticated in quite as peculiar a sense as that in which they were good-hearted, and I called to Denny and Hogvardt, bidding the latter to bring his lantern with him. Thus protected, I stepped outof the door in the direction from which the sigh had come. Apparently we were to crown our victory by the capture of a wounded enemy.
An exclamation from Hogvardt told me that he, aided by the lantern, had come on the quarry; but Hogvardt spoke in disgust rather than triumph.
‘Oh, it’s only the little one!’ said he. ‘What’s wrong with him, I wonder.’ He stooped down and examined the prostrate form. ‘By heaven, I believe he’s not touched—yes, there’s a bump on his forehead, but not big enough for any of us to have given it.’
By this time Denny and I were with him, and we looked down on the boy’s pale face, which seemed almost deathlike in the glare of the lantern. The bump was not such a very small one, but it could hardly have been made by any of our weapons, for the flesh was not cut. A moment’s further inspection showed that it must be the result of a fall on the hard rocky road.
‘Perhaps he tripped on the cord, as you did on the cow,’ suggested Denny with a grin.
It seemed likely enough, but I gave very little thought to the question, for I was busy studying the boy’s face.
‘No doubt,’ said Hogvardt, ‘he fell in running away and was stunned; and they didn’tnotice it in the dark, or were afraid to stop. But they’ll be back, my lord, and soon.’
‘Carry him inside,’ said I. ‘It won’t hurt us to have a hostage.’
Denny lifted the lad in his long arms—Denny was a tall powerful fellow—and strode off with him. I followed, wondering who it was that we had got hold of: for the boy was strikingly handsome. I was last in and barred the door. Denny had set our prisoner down in an armchair, where he sat now, conscious again, but still with a dazed look in his large dark eyes as he glanced from me to the rest and back again to me, finally fixing a long gaze on my face.
‘Well, young man,’ said I, ‘you’ve begun this sort of thing early. Lifting cattle and taking murder in the day’s work is pretty good for a youngster like you. Who are you?’
‘Where am I?’ he cried, in that blurred indistinct kind of voice that comes with mental bewilderment.
‘You’re in my house,’ said I, ‘and the rest of your infernal gang’s outside and going to stay there. So you must make the best of it.’
The boy turned his head away and closed his eyes. Suddenly I snatched the lantern from Hogvardt. But I paused before I brought itclose to the boy’s face, as I had meant to do, and I said:
‘You fellows go and get something to eat, and a snooze if you like. I’ll look after this youngster. I’ll call you if anything happens outside.’
After a few unselfish protests they did as I bade them. I was left alone in the hall with the prisoner; soon merry voices from the kitchen told me that the battle was being fought again over the wine. I set the lantern close to the boy’s face.
‘H’m,’ said I, after a prolonged scrutiny. Then I sat down on the table and began to hum softly that wretched chant of One-Eyed Alexander’s, which had a terrible trick of sticking in a man’s head.
For a few minutes I hummed. The lad shivered, stirred uneasily, and opened his eyes. I had never seen such eyes; I could not conscientiously except even Beatrice Hipgrave’s, which were in their way quite fine. I hummed away; and the boy said, still in a dreamy voice, but with an imploring gesture of his hand:
‘Ah, no, not that! Not that, Constantine!’
‘He’s a tender-hearted youth,’ said I, and I was smiling now. The whole episode was singularly unusual and interesting.
The boy’s eyes were on mine again; I met hisglance full and square. Then I poured out some water and gave it to him. He took it with a trembling hand—the hand did not escape my notice—and drank it eagerly, setting the glass down with a sigh.
‘I am Lord Wheatley,’ said I, nodding to him. ‘You came to steal my cattle, and murder me, if it happened to be convenient, you know.’
The boy flashed out at me in a minute.
‘I didn’t. I thought you’d surrender if we got the cattle away.’
‘You thought!’ said I scornfully. ‘I suppose you did as you were bid.’
‘No; I told Constantine that they weren’t to—’ The boy stopped short, looked round him, and said in a surprised voice, ‘Where are all the rest of my people?’
‘The rest of your people,’ said I, ‘have run away, and you are in my hands. And I can do just as I please with you.’
His lips set in an obstinate curve, but he made no answer. I went on as sternly as I could.
‘And when I think of what I saw here yesterday, of that poor old man stabbed by your bloodthirsty crew—’
‘It was an accident,’ he cried sharply; the voice had lost its dreaminess and sounded clear now.
‘We’ll see about that when we get Constantineand Vlacho before a judge,’ I retorted grimly. ‘Anyhow, he was foully stabbed in his own house for doing what he had a perfect right to do.’
‘He had no right to sell the island,’ cried the boy, and he rose for a moment to his feet with a proud air, only to sink back into the chair again and stretch out his hand for water.
Now at this moment Denny, refreshed by meat and drink and in the highest of spirits, bounded into the hall.
‘How’s the prisoner?’ he cried.
‘Oh, he’s all right. There’s nothing the matter with him,’ I said, and as I spoke I moved the lantern, so that the boy’s face and figure were again in shadow.
‘That’s all right,’ observed Denny cheerfully. ‘Because I thought, Charley, we might get a little information out of him.’
‘Perhaps he won’t speak,’ I suggested, casting a glance at the captive who sat now motionless in the chair.
‘Oh, I think he will,’ said Denny confidently: and I observed for the first time that he held a very substantial-looking whip in his hand; he must have found it in the kitchen. ‘We’ll give the young ruffian a taste of this, if he’s obstinate,’ said Denny, and I cannot say that his tone witnessedany great desire that the boy should prove at once compliant.
I shifted my lantern so that I could see the proud young face, while Denny could not. The boy’s eyes met mine defiantly.
‘Do you see that whip?’ I asked. ‘Will you tell us all we want to know?’
The boy made no answer, but I saw trouble in his face, and his eyes did not meet mine so boldly now.
‘We’ll soon find a tongue for him,’ said Denny, in cheerful barbarity; ‘upon my word, he richly deserves a thrashing. Say the word, Charley!’
‘We haven’t asked him anything yet,’ said I.
‘Oh, I’ll ask him something. Look here, who was the fellow with you and Vlacho?’
Denny spoke in English; I turned his question into Greek. But the prisoner’s eyes told me that he had understood before I spoke. I smiled again.
The boy was silent; defiance and fear struggled in the dark eyes.
‘You see he’s an obstinate beggar,’ said Denny, as though he had observed all necessary forms and could now get to business; and he drew the lash of the whip through his fingers. I am afraid Denny was rather looking forward to executing justice with his own hands.
The boy rose again and stood facing that heartlessyoung ruffian Denny—it was thus that I thought of Denny at the moment; then once again he sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go out killing if I hadn’t more pluck than that,’ said Denny scornfully. ‘You’re not fit for the trade, my lad.’
I did not interpret this time; there was no need; the boy certainly understood. But he had no retort. His face was buried in those slim hands of his. For a moment he was quite still: then he moved a little; it was a movement that spoke of helpless pain, and I heard something very like a stifled sob.
‘Just leave us alone a little, Denny,’ said I. ‘He may tell me what he won’t tell you.’
‘Are you going to let him off?’ demanded Denny, suspiciously. ‘You never can be stiff in the back, Charley.’
‘I must see if he won’t speak to me first,’ I pleaded, meekly.
‘But if he won’t?’ insisted Denny.
‘If he won’t,’ said I, ‘and you still wish it, you may do what you like.’
Denny sheered off to the kitchen, with an air that did not seek to conceal his opinion of my foolish tender-heartedness. Again I was alone with the boy.
‘My friend is right,’ said I gravely. ‘You’re not fit for the trade. How came you to be in it?’
My question brought a new look, as the boy’s hands dropped from his face.
‘How came you,’ said I, ‘who ought to restrain these rascals, to be at their head? How came you, who ought to shun the society of men like Constantine Stefanopoulos and his tool Vlacho, to be working with them?’
I got no answer; only a frightened look appealed to me in the white glare of Hogvardt’s lantern. I came a step nearer and leant forward to ask my next question.
‘Who are you? What’s your name?’
‘My name—my name?’ stammered the prisoner. ‘I won’t tell my name.’
‘You’ll tell me nothing? You heard what I promised my friend?’
‘Yes, I heard,’ said the lad, with a face utterly pale, but with eyes that were again set in fierce determination.
I laughed a low laugh.
‘I believe you are fit for the trade after all,’ said I, and I looked at him with mingled distaste and admiration. But I had my last weapon still, my last question. I turned the lantern full on his face, I leant forward again, and I said in distinct slow tones—and the question sounded anabsurd one to be spoken in such an impressive way:
‘Do you generally wear—clothes like that?’
I had got home with that question. The pallor vanished, the haughty eyes sank. I saw long drooping lashes and a burning flush, and the boy’s face once again sought his hands.
At that moment I heard chairs pushed back in the kitchen. In came Hogvardt with an amused smile on his broad face; in came Watkins with his impassive acquiescence in anything that his lordship might order; in came Master Denny brandishing his whip in jovial relentlessness.
‘Well, has he told you anything?’ cried Denny. It was plain that he hoped for the answer ‘No.’
‘I have asked him half-a-dozen questions,’ said I, ‘and he has not answered one.’
‘All right,’ said Denny, with wonderful emphasis.
Had I been wrong to extort this much punishment for my most inhospitable reception? Sometimes now I think that I was cruel. In that night much had occurred to breed viciousness in a man of the most equable temper. But the thing had now gone to the extreme limit to which it could go, and I said to Denny:
‘It’s a gross case of obstinacy, of course, Denny,but I don’t see very well how we can horsewhip the lady.’
A sudden astounded cry, ‘The lady!’ rang from three pairs of lips, while the lady herself dropped her head on the table and fenced her face round about with her protecting arms.
‘You see,’ said I, ‘this lady is the Lady Euphrosyne.’
For who else could it be that would give orders to Constantine Stefanopoulos, and ask where ‘my people’ were? Who else, I also asked myself, save the daughter of the noble house, would boast the air, the hands, the face, that graced our young prisoner? And who else would understand English? In all certainty here was the Lady Euphrosyne.