“When do you mean to wear the Frank dress, Danaë?”
There was no answer, but Danaë’s brows were drawn together in a more pronounced frown. Angeliké tried again, becoming bolder.
“It is good thick cloth, like a man’s coat, but not so fine as our silks. Are you going to put it on now?”
“No!” burst explosively from Danaë.
“On Sunday, then? Not? But when?”
“Never!”
“But what a waste! If you are afraid of what our father will say, let us each put on half of it. You can choose whether you will wear the coat or the skirt, and I will have the other.”
“Are you mad? If any Europeans saw us they would die of laughing. The whole thing must be worn together.”
“But why don’t you wear it, then? Or if you won’t, you might let me. Oh, sister mine, do! You would show me how to put it on properly, and our father might beat me black and blue afterwards, if only I got to church in it first.”
“I would sooner tear it to pieces!” cried Danaë wrathfully. “No one shall wear it. It belongs to the Lady Zoe, to my Princess, and she herself helped me to put it on. Then I had to take it off, and I vowed that neither I nor anyone else should wear it until I saw her again. As for you—why, I would let one of the girls from the kitchen wear it rather than you.”
“Oh, very well, my lady! I’ll pay you out for that!” said Angeliké venomously, and slipped out of the room. A moment later, a wild tumult of shrieks and screams proclaimed to Danaë that her sister was in one of her fits of passion—which were credibly supposed in the household to be due to temporary demoniacal possession. In them Angeliké would tear her clothes, knock herself vehemently against the wall, and otherwise do as much damage as was compatible with avoiding obvious disfigurement. Danaë herself had been subject to similar attacks, of a somewhat less violent character, in the past, but now she went on calmly with her work of straightening the contents of her box, which Angeliké had disarranged, and laying the green gown carefully at the top. Suddenly the door burst open, and two stalwart women-servants paused rather sheepishly on the threshold. A stentorian shout pursued them up the stairs, however, “Hurry, children!” and ended their hesitation, and they marched across the room, banged down the lid of the box, and seizing it by the handles, carried it off.
“What are you doing with my box?” demanded Danaë angrily.
“The Despot’s orders, my lady!” was the reply, and the two together bumped and banged the box down the stairs, at the foot of which stood Prince Christodoridi. When he saw his daughter, he shouted to her to come down too, in a voice that rose triumphant above Angeliké’s wails and screams. In the courtyard two of the men who hung about the place were arranging armfuls of withered olive-branches, and another came up with a jar of oil. Angeliké’s shrieks were growing fainter. It almost seemed as though the course of events had not fallen out precisely as she intended. As Danaë came down the stairs, her father seized her wrist in an iron grip. She made no attempt at resistance, but he held her fast while, with set face, she watched her treasures, Zoe’s gown, the photographs of the Klaustra party, books, writing and sewing materials—all the relics of her life on the mainland—ruthlessly saturated with oil and piled into a bonfire. Angeliké was weeping now, unrestrainedly, but Danaë did not utter a sound. When the flames died down, her father suddenly pulled her round to face him.
“Now, Lady Danaë, I have a word to say to you. You bring back a European dress, intending to wear it at the nextpanegyris[Saint’s day rejoicings] and steal your sister’s bridegroom from her, do you? Well, you see the end of that. We will have no vile Frankish clothes or any other evil inventions in Strio, and any that are brought here will be treated as yours have been—” the voice was raised to reach the listening servants. “What you want, Lady Danaë, is a strict husband, and you shall have one, sooner than you expect. As for you, weeper!” he cast a scathing glance at the cowering Angeliké—“it will do you no harm to wait a little. You are in too great a hurry.”
Danaë, released with two black bruises on her wrist where he had gripped her, walked upstairs again with admirable steadiness, and was seen no more until the evening. What brought her out then was the voice of Angeliké, a frightened and miserable voice, at the door.
“Danaë, come down. Come down at once—to our mother. Something terrible—oh, I cannot utter it——”
The tone seemed genuine, and after a decent pause, for the sake of her own dignity, Danaë pulled back the bed with which she had blocked the door, and came out, following Angeliké down to their mother’s room. At first she thought that the obvious disturbance afflicting Princess Christodoridi was due to the destruction of the box and its contents, which she had promised herself much entertainment in examining, but she soon saw that it must be something worse. Her mother was sitting upright, and was clearly much excited.
“I cannot bear these sudden changes. They are so upsetting!” lamented the poor lady. “Why you should have chosen to come home just now, Danaë——”
“But what has happened?” asked Danaë breathlessly.
“I always said evil would come of sending you to be educated,” her mother went on. “Your father had always declared he would never hear of such a thing, and I agreed with him. Then he changes his mind suddenly, and expects mine to be changed even before I knew that he had changed his. But I never changed. ‘You will do what you like, of course,’ I said; ‘but mark my words, no good will come of it.’”
“Then I am sure you said it to yourself, and not to the Despot, my mother,” said Angeliké impatiently. “No one would have minded Danaë’s going away, if only she had not come back.”
“But what is it?” urged Danaë, in despair.
“Oh, it is your fault too, Angeliké,” said Princess Christodoridi, almost with energy. “What I have done to have two such daughters I don’t know. And when everything was so nicely settled, and even the rings ordered—I am sure your finger is thinner than your sister’s, Danaë. Oh yes, of course, that is what your father has done. He says it is you who are to marry Kyrios Narkissos, not Angeliké.”
“I won’t!” cried Danaë furiously.
“You shan’t!” muttered Angeliké, with determination.
“Now, what is the good of talking like that?” inquired their mother plaintively. “It is what the Despot says that is done, not what you or I say.”
“But Narkissos himself—and his father—” gasped Danaë.
“Kyrios Smaragdopoulos will be very pleased, for your father will give you the extra five hundred drachmæ they quarrelled about, because you are his elder daughter. And the young man will do as his father tells him, of course. And you will do as you are told, though really it is very awkward, with Angeliké’s dress nearly finished embroidering for the betrothal——”
“I will never marry him!” cried Danaë.
“Oh, don’t be foolish,” said her mother wearily. “If you had not come back just now, we should not have had all this trouble. Once they were betrothed, nothing could have been altered. And you too, Angeliké; if you had not been so jealous about your sister’s things, making your father destroy all that beautiful cloth and those pretty pictures, you would not have lost your bridegroom——”
And so on, and so on. Princess Christodoridi’s Christian name was a rank libel on her, for she could not scold. But she could complain, in a feeble but persistent stream of lamentation, calculated to wear down the hardest rock if uninterrupted, and at present both her daughters were too much crushed to attempt a diversion.
Itwas Angeliké who at last broke desperately into the flood of complaint. “Lady, are you on my father’s side, or ours?”
“How can you be so foolish, daughter mine?” was the querulous reply. “Have I ever been on any side but your father’s? How could I be anything else?”
“But you don’t agree with him, my mother? You don’t think it fair that Danaë, who has missed all her own chances, should come back and steal my bridegroom?”
“I’m not stealing him! I don’t want him!” cried Danaë.
“It is no use asking me to oppose your father,” said Princess Christodoridi, and this was obviously true.
“No, but if we can manage to get things right, you won’t prevent us? It’s all very well for Danaë to stand there and say she won’t marry Narkissos, but our father will force the ring on her finger and the crown on her head. But I have a plan. My mother, I will not tell you what it is, lest my father should suspect, but you will do what I ask?”
“If you are sure your father will not find out,” said her mother nervously.
“You will have done nothing for him to find out. His anger will be terrible, of course, but we are used to that, and it is worth it this time. Once the blessed rings are exchanged, no one can break the betrothal. My mother, Danaë and I must be dressed exactly alike. Leave the embroidered robe for the Sunday after the wedding, and let Danaë have a long coat like mine. And you were going to lend me your own veil.”
“Yes, but your father said it was too large—like a Roumi woman’s. I told him it was what everyone wore in my island, and he said we were ignorant heathen. I dare not let you wear it, child. He would pull it off you and tear it to pieces.”
“Ah, but we will cut it in two, my mother. Then it will be quite small, and we shall be alike.”
“But what waste! It is good muslin, real English. And when your father sees two brides——”
“He will not have time to think about it. And you will sacrifice your veil to save your daughter, mother mine? Ah, I knew it!” She kissed the Princess’s hand. “Danaë, can you faint?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I fainted once, not long ago.”
“Well, you must be able to do it properly. You had better practise. When is the betrothal to be, my mother?”
“Your father said it was no use wasting more time. He has sent word to Kyrios Smaragdopoulos and his son, and Danaë’s godfather, to be here in three days.”
“I must let Narkissos know at once,” mused Angeliké, under her breath. “He must be sullen, but not refuse to accept the change. And you, my mother, you will tell the Despot that Danaë is obstinate and swears she will not marry Narkissos, but girls are often like that, and very likely she will be all right on the day. And we will both offer gifts to the Fates, that all may be well. Let us go and make honey cakes at once.”
“At Klaustra, they said that there were no such things as the Fates,” said Danaë hesitatingly. Her mother sat up.
“Never let me hear you say such a thing again, Danaë,” she said, with unusual decision. “Wretched girl, are you not afraid what will happen to you? No Fates, indeed? One would think you had been born in a house where the proper ceremonies were not observed. Did not your father himself tie up the dogs on the third night after you were born, that the august ladies might not be disturbed while they partook of the banquet prepared for them, and decided upon your future? Those unbelievers at Klaustra, whoever they may be, will say there is no such thing as witches next.”
As this was exactly what Zoe had said, Danaë held her peace. Angeliké laughed.
“Even if we were not sure of the Fates, it would be prudent to propitiate them in case they existed,” she said. “So I shall give them honey cakes, and if things go wrong with you and right with me, Danaë, we shall know why. And I shall also weep. My father calls me the weeper. Holy Marina! he shall see quite as many tears as he expects!”
And in truth, during the next two days, red eyes and perpetual weeping met Prince Christodoridi’s gaze whenever he glanced towards his younger daughter. They made him impatient, but he did not really object to them nearly as much as to Danaë’s set, tearless face. He was vaguely conscious of a conflict of wills between his elder daughter and himself, and he was determined that this should be the decisive battle. Once Danaë was betrothed, there was no help for her, and the greater her objection to the proposed bridegroom, the more signal her father’s triumph. It was no business of his to forecast the course of a loveless marriage between an unwilling couple. Its working-out might safely be left to Narkissos and his parents.
As for Danaë, the fact of her dependence upon Angeliké galled her almost as much as her father’s summary disposal of her hand. But for the assurance that Angeliké’s heart was firmly set upon Narkissos, she would have feared being left in the lurch at the last moment. It was a consolation to feel that Angeliké was working solely in her own interests, since that ensured a certain amount of loyalty on her part, but it was not pleasant to be so deeply indebted to her, while to Angeliké the bitterest drop in her cup was undoubtedly the reflection that in securing her own happiness she was working temporary deliverance for Danaë. How to counteract this involuntary boon was a problem at which her busy brain was hard at work whenever it was not perfecting the details of the original scheme.
* * * * * * * *
“Danaë, wake up! There is a ship lying off the shore—apamporaki!” [steamer] It was the morning of the betrothal day, and Danaë, who had lain awake the night before, was still plunged in heavy sleep when her sister’s voice summoned her to the window. Out at sea, beyond the network of rocks and shoals which had formed an important part of the Striotes’ stock-in-trade in their palmy days as pirates and wreckers, lay a trim vessel, very unlike usual visitors to the island.
“I have only seen apamporakitwice—no, three times—before, when we went to Tortolana,” mused Angeliké. “Certainly none has ever come so near Strio. Do you think it is the English lord’s ship, Danaë?”
“Certainly not—why should it be? How can I tell? I have never seen Milordo’s ship,” replied Danaë, in such confusion that Angeliké was emboldened to make a further attempt.
“Oh, sister mine, tell me about Milordo! Why did he break off the marriage?”
“There was no talk of a marriage, therefore no breaking-off,” said Danaë harshly. “I have told you before that Milordo never dreamed of marrying me.”
This ought to have been decisive, but to Angeliké the blush and the sudden eager look called up by her suggestion as to the vessel’s ownership were far more eloquent than words. Still, it was evidently hopeless to get anything more out of Danaë, so she turned to another informant. This was Petros, who was still hanging about, though not at all by his own wish. By way of accounting at once plausibly and concisely for the various events that had occurred at Therma—a large proportion of which were quite unintelligible to himself—he had told Prince Christodoridi that it had been discovered too late that the Lady was Orthodox by religion and royal by descent, and that she was now openly acknowledged to have been the wife of Prince Romanos. Thereupon the Despot turned upon him furiously, and charging him with having brought a false report at first, drove him from his presence, ordering him to leave the island. But his master had ordered him to stay in Strio, and he felt it highly inadvisable to return to Therma without a protector of some kind, so that his position was most unenviable. Angeliké had first come upon him—in sufficient secrecy—two days before, and by the sacrifice of the least conspicuous coin from her cap had drawn from him a statement to the effect that the marriage-broker had certainly been busy, at the instance of Prince Romanos, in arranging a marriage between Milordo and Lady Danaë, but that the English lord had suddenly and insultingly broken off the negociations. Pressed as to the reason, he replied—with a lumping together of cause and effect, and a confusion of times, that were truly magnificent—that the Lady Danaë had chosen to masquerade for a while as a servant in the household at Klaustra, and it was the discovery of this that had made her suitor alter his mind. To-day Angeliké managed to get hold of Petros again. He answered her question almost before it was asked.
“Yes, lady, that is Milordo’s ship. I have seen it in Therma harbour.”
“But why does he come here? Does he wish to renew the treaty of marriage?” demanded Angeliké.
“How can I tell, lady?” Petros assumed a deep air of wisdom. “At any rate, it can hardly be very agreeable for the Lady Danaë to meet him after what happened.”
“But did it happen?” flashed forth Angeliké.
Petros looked grieved. “Lady, you have asked, and I have answered. You know best whether the Lady Danaë desired to return to Strio. To me in my humility it appeared that she did not. If Milordo thought so too, may he not be visiting the island to show her what she has lost?”
“But that is insulting to us!” cried Angeliké.
“The English are like that, lady. They will take infinite pains to insult those they dislike. Nay, I have seen them show atrocious rudeness for mere wantonness.”
Angeliké went slowly away, a new plan beginning to shape itself in her mind. As a preliminary step, she took the precaution of a whispered warning to Princess Christodoridi. “Keep Danaë with you in the kitchen all the morning, my mother. If my father sees her, he will know that she does not intend to submit, and we don’t want him to be angry beforehand.”
Her mother agreed with nervous readiness, and as a result Danaë was kept hard at work making cakes and sweetmeats, with no opportunity of stealing upstairs to look at the distant ship. For herself Angeliké had reserved the task of preparing the pillared loggia, which served as an open-air sitting-room, for the afternoon’s ceremony. Sweeping and dusting, erecting a temporary altar for the blessing of the rings, and overseeing the servants as they beat up and arranged the cushions on the divan for the expected guests, she was elaborately busy, and constantly in her father’s sight. Her cheerful aspect forced itself upon his attention at last, and was no doubt welcome, since even Prince Christodoridi could scarcely deny that Angeliké had been hardly treated. He caught one of her plaits as she hurried past him, and pulled it with something like approval.
“What, weeper! are the tears dried?”
“Quite dried up, lord!” showing a saucy and absolutely tearless face. “Are there not plenty of bridegrooms to be had besides Narkissos Smaragdopoulos?”
“Oh, that’s what makes you so cheerful, is it? And you don’t even mind your sister’s getting him?”
She laughed, with gleeful appreciation of an absurdity. “Why, lord, it is Danaë who minds! She declares she won’t marry him, and my mother is keeping her under her own eye lest she should try to run away. There is that ship, you know——”
“And what of that ship, girl?” His tone was thunderous, but Angeliké smiled innocently into his face.
“Why, lord, they say it belongs to a great and rich English lord, who is a friend of my brother. Now what I think is that this lord has been drawn to Strio by the report of the beauty of your second daughter. So there will be a marriage for me after all!”
“You are an impudent little minx!” said Prince Christodoridi, but without any show of anger. “But suppose it is Danaë he comes after?”
“Lord, you would not let her rob me of two bridegrooms?” The pretty face was so innocently grieved, the eyes so near tears, that Prince Christodoridi laughed and pinched Angeliké’s ear encouragingly.
“One bridegroom will be quite enough for her, I warrant, and once betrothed she is out of your way. But suppose the English lord doesn’t think you come up to the report he has heard?”
“Oh, do you think he will be disappointed, lord?” breathed Angeliké, with such anxious misery that her father’s heart was melted.
“Suppose we let him see you, girl? Shall I ask him to the betrothal? It is well to be courteous to strangers.”
“Ah, lord, if you would! And then nothing need be said unless—unless you should feel that you would like an English son-in-law. All the English are very rich, I have heard Danaë or some one say.”
“What does Danaë know about the English?” suspiciously.
“I don’t know, lord. She has never seen any of them, has she? I daresay,” meekly, “that it was not Danaë who told me. But why should he come to Strio at all, if he did not desire to present himself for your approval?”
Curiously enough, Armitage was asking himself much the same question—what was he doing off Strio? He had been restless at Klaustra, and had gravely given utterance to the opinion that the sea was calling him. A short cruise in the Egean, and he would return to see what he had long promised himself as a rare delight—the unfolding of spring in the great beech-woods on the mountain slopes. His hosts acquiesced in the most understanding way, and Zoe begged him, if he found himself anywhere in the neighbourhood of Strio, to make a point of visiting the island and seeing how poor Kalliopé was getting on. At Therma it was only polite to pay his respects to Prince Romanos, and ask if he could do anything for him in the islands, and as the Prince wished to send an important parcel to his sister, it was only natural that Armitage, not guessing that it contained the various little clothes and toys which Danaë had made for Janni at different times during her career as his nurse, and was designed to emphasize the completeness of her separation from him for the future, should volunteer to carry it. Thus there was really no choice about the yacht’s destination, but all the same, Armitage had a lurking fear that he was making a fool of himself when his boat took him ashore, and he noticed the critical way in which the inhabitants regarded him. Emancipation had not been by any means wholly a boon to the inhabitants of Strio—rather it had brought about a distinct diminution both of their liberties and their prosperity, owing to the restraints imposed by their union with the mainland kingdom. Therefore the friendliness for England and individual Englishmen, so noticeable in most Greek communities, was conspicuous by its absence, and the truculent looks of the swarthy loafers on the quay made Armitage feel as if he was venturing into a pirates’ lair.
But after all, this was the environment in which his island princess—as he always called Danaë in his thoughts—had grown up, and in which it ought to be possible to see her free and happy, untrammelled by the conventions which had suited her so ill, and he rambled through the tortuous lanes of the little town with great contentment, noting endless subjects for sketches. Then he came suddenly on Prince Christodoridi, on his way to the harbour to visit him on board, and they renewed the acquaintance begun years ago at Bashi Konak, and fraternised cordially. The Despot would hear of nothing but the Englishman’s accompanying him home at once to spend the day, preparatory to coming on shore for a regular visit. He should sketch as much as he liked, examine the Venetian work still extant in the fortress, and there was a little family ceremony that afternoon which he might find it interesting to attend—the betrothal of Prince Christodoridi’s daughter. Armitage was conscious of a distinct shock at first, but he recollected that there were two daughters, and reasoned that it was not likely they would be marrying Danaë off so soon after her return home. Therefore he sent his boat, which was to fetch him off at a certain time, back to the yacht, and returned up the hill to the fortress with his host.
Everything was now ready for the betrothal, and presently the guests began to drop in. Kyrios Smaragdopoulos had rather the appearance of a policeman haling an unwilling prisoner, so sullen was the handsome face of his son, and so unsuited his bearing to his festal attire, which included the widest and whitest and stiffest kilt Armitage had ever seen, and a jacket rich with gold embroidery. Narkissos sat apart and brooded, his father taking no notice of him except to see that he did not run away, and it was a relief when a burly jovial man swaggered in, who was introduced to Armitage as Parthenios Chalkiadi. He had been Prince Christodoridi’s best man and his elder daughter’s godfather, it seemed, and not only took an important part in to-day’s proceedings, but was also to be best man at his goddaughter’s wedding. It was natural he should be in the family secrets, and he whispered loudly behind his hand to Armitage, with a nod towards the gloomy bridegroom, “Wanted the other one!” which caused the guest to regard Narkissos with more interest, as a rejected suitor of Danaë’s. Meanwhile a priest, with flowing hair and beard and a frayed purple robe, had made his appearance with a youthful assistant, and there was a great sound of whispering and giggling through a doorway across which female forms sometimes flitted. Then an old woman looked out and called in an agitated voice for Kyrios Parthenios, and the godfather rolled across the room with great pomp. Above the whisperings of the women his rich voice was clearly audible somewhere in the back regions.
“Well, little one, back just in time to keep your sister from getting married first! She has plenty of time before her. But mercy on us! she’s as tall as you are. Two brides instead of one! We must take care the wrong one doesn’t get betrothed.”
Then it was Danaë! Armitage was conscious of a feeling—not of disappointment; he assured himself it was not disappointment—but of flatness, as if a promising romance had come to an unexpectedly sudden end. But Kyrios Smaragdopoulos had marched his reluctant son to the extemporised altar, on which two gold rings were placed, and a procession was entering the doorway—Parthenios Chalkiadi leading a veiled figure by the hand, another veiled figure supporting the first one closely, and an indeterminate throng of girls and women behind. It was Danaë! Armitage must have started or made a movement of some kind, for her eyes met his with a look which made him turn away as if he had seen something he had no business to see. Shame, misery, reproach, unavailing protest—he read them all in that one glance and the movement of recoil which accompanied it, and he half rose, with a wild impulse to save the girl somehow, though how he had no idea. But attention was diverted from his action by a shriek from the bridesmaid.
“She is fainting! Help, quick! Carry her back!”
Armitage had seen no sign of fainting, but Danaë was undoubtedly lying limp in her sister’s arms, and Kyrios Chalkiadi was looking down at the two in amazement. The women closed round them and hustled them back, and presently the godfather reappeared grumbling.
“The Pappas had better cut things as short as possible,” he said, the radiance of his face eclipsed. “The girl is overwrought—joyful occasion—too much excitement—— But in our young days who ever heard of a bride fainting at her betrothal?”
“Girls are poor creatures nowadays,” growled Prince Christodoridi. “Leave out the exhortation, Pappa,” he added to the priest, who had prepared a flowery one, and was naturally reluctant to omit it. While he and his patron argued together in low tones, Kyrios Chalkiadi sat down again by Armitage.
“I verily believe the bride dislikes the match as much as the bridegroom,” he said, in his roaring whisper, with a glance of contempt at the stolid Narkissos. “A nasty, sulky fellow—I don’t wonder she doesn’t want him.”
“Can nothing be done?” asked Armitage involuntarily.
His neighbour looked at him in astonishment, then laughed. “You show yourself indeed a perfect stranger here, lord. What could be done, when the parents have arranged matters? You may be sure that in a case like this the young people would rebel, if they thought it would be any use. But they’ll settle down. And let me advise you to exhibit less interest, friend Englishman,” he added warningly. “We know that you English have a taste for interfering in other people’s affairs, but it will do no good to the girl. Ah, I am wanted again!”
The warning he had received held Armitage fast in his place, but it seemed to him like a horrible dream as the veiled figure was brought in once more, supported by the strong arm of Kyrios Parthenios on one side, and by her sister on the other, Princess Christodoridi following anxiously close behind, and keeping back the other women, who were inclined to press unduly close. Narkissos was brought into position again, the rings were blessed, and a reluctant hand was disinterred from under the bride’s draperies. Parthenios Chalkiadi was clearly resolved to do his duty to the utmost. He put the rings on, took them off, and exchanged them, with strict attention to the words the priest was gabbling, and callous disregard of the attitude of the betrothal pair, while his left arm held the bride in a grip which suggested constraint at least as much as support. When the brief ceremony was over, he gave a laugh of relief.
“Sorry to have done you out of your sermon, Pappa. Better keep it for the wedding. Lady Danaë will have got used to the thought of her bridegroom by that time—— Why, what’s this? All-Holy Mother of God! we have betrothed the wrong one after all!”
For the shrinking form on his left had suddenly recovered strength, and stepped forward with extreme confidence to join the bridegroom, from whose countenance the clouds had instantaneously disappeared. Princess Christodoridi, running forward in obvious horror to lift the veil, disclosed the features of Angeliké, and dropped it with a shriek.
“Holy Nicholas! what is this?” roared Prince Christodoridi, charging at the triumphant pair like a wild bull. Angeliké sheltered herself immediately behind the stalwart form of her betrothed, with a trustfulness very pretty to see, and left him to answer, which he did with admirable courage.
“I engaged myself to marry the Lady Angeliké, lord, and I am now betrothed to her.”
“Oh, are you?” cried his prospective father-in-law. “Take off those rings! Here, Pappa!” to the retreating priest, “come back and do the service over again. My stick shall make acquaintance with your shoulders for this foolishness, you hussy! Take off that ring!” he shouted to his daughter.
But Angeliké kept her hand behind her, and remained coyly in the shadow, and Narkissos rose magnificently to the occasion.
“You may take the Lady Angeliké’s ring from my dead hand, lord, but while I live it does not leave me.”
“Come out, girl!” roared Prince Christodoridi, making a dash at his daughter. “I will have that ring off if I have to cut off your finger to get it,” but the priest, still sore on account of his wasted eloquence, interposed.
“That would be sacrilege, lord. Once the handfasting has taken place, thesymphonia[contract] is as binding as marriage itself. None can break it. Carry the case to the Bishop—to the Œcumenical Patriarch himself, and he will tell you the same.”
“I will go to the Patriarch, dog, and you shall see!” cried the irate father, and ceased perforce, foaming with rage. While he was still muttering inarticulately, Parthenios Chalkiadi, with considerable courage, stepped forward as peacemaker.
“I was as much taken aback as you, friend Agesilaos,” he said frankly, laying his hand on the Prince’s shoulder, “but I can’t say that I am altogether sorry for what has happened. It seems to me that these two young people are a good deal happier than they were half an hour ago. The only one who seems to have been badly treated is my goddaughter. What says the Lady Danaë? Does she wish the betrothal broken, if it can be done?”
“Nothing less so, lord,” cried Danaë eagerly. “I had no desire to marry the Lord Narkissos.”
“Then it looks as if everyone was satisfied,” said Kyrios Parthenios gravely. “Let us have the coffee, Danaë,” in the most audible of whispers. “Come, friend Agesilaos,” to Prince Christodoridi, “let the young folks kiss your hand. I’m sure I never saw a handsomer couple since the day I was best man to yourself and my friend Kyria Xantippe there. Ah, that’s right!”
Prince Christodoridisat alone on the terrace, in the most unamiable of tempers. Evening was drawing on, and the guests had departed, after doing full justice to the coffee and syrup, the preserves of roses and quinces, handed round by the girls. They were provided with a subject of conversation that would crop up for many a long day, and Prince Christodoridi writhed under the knowledge of it. He had been over-reached and publicly flouted, and what was worse, Loukas Smaragdopoulos held fast to the extra five hundred drachmæ. He had intended his son to marry the Despot’s elder daughter, he said, and had prepared apartments for them on a suitable scale, and if he was to be put off with the younger, at least he would not be done out of his money as well. It had required all the diplomacy of Parthenios Chalkiadi, and the restraint imposed by the presence of the English stranger, to keep the wrangle within due bounds, but Kyrios Loukas had gone away without consenting to forgo his claim, which meant that it would have to be acknowledged. And this was not the worst. If Prince Christodoridi carried his grievance to the Patriarchal tribunal, and asked for the annulment of the betrothal, it was ten to one that he would merely waste more money without obtaining satisfaction. But if Angeliké were married before her elder sister, he would be eternally disgraced in the opinion of all his acquaintances, yet to find a husband for Danaë as well meant the provision of two dowries at once—a prospect which was enough to wring tears of blood from the hapless father. It was little wonder that when Angeliké made an unobtrusive appearance, and began to clear away the coffee-cups, he swore at her angrily and bade her bring him his stick. But it seemed indeed as if the very foundations of the earth were out of course, since this hitherto submissive slave made no attempt to obey. Instead, she stood before him meekly with clasped hands.
“Why would you beat me, lord?” she asked softly.
“You know very well. Fetch that stick!” vociferated her father.
“Nay, lord; listen a moment. You robbed me of the bridegroom you had promised. Did I rebel? I wept, but even my tears were put away in obedience to your will. But when the opportunity offered—ah, lord, I was resigned, as I thought, but a voice in my heart bade me seize my chance, and I listened. Beat me if you will, but had you been in my place, would you have suffered your sister to steal your bridegroom?”
“It was not your sister’s doing; it was mine—and you have made your father a laughing-stock, girl.”
“Ah, lord, not so—never! Surely no one could ever laugh at you!”
The tone was so serious, so reverential, that Prince Christodoridi found his wrath melting away in a most unwonted manner. The thought was a gratifying one—and Angeliké was nestling close to his knees, and gazing up with admiring eyes into his face. Quite without warning she gave a little laugh. “I wonder why Danaë fainted!” she said.
“Because she is a fool, and you are another,” growled her father.
“I wonder—” Angeliké edged away a little—“I wonder why the English lord came here.”
“Not to behold your beauty, at any rate.”
“Oh!” with breathless interest; “was it to behold Danaë’s, lord?”
“Nonsense! The thoughts of you girls run on nothing but bridegrooms. Milordo was passing by, and came like a well-mannered man to salute me on his way.”
“Oh!” this time the tone breathed intense disappointment. “I did hope it might be on account of Danaë.”
“What do you mean by that?” Prince Christodoridi gripped her shoulder as she made a movement to rise. “What should he know about Danaë?”
“I don’t know, lord,” gazing at him with wide eyes of terror. “I have never spoken to him, nor seen him.”
“Of course not,” impatiently. “Do you mean that your sister has?”
“I—I don’t know. Perhaps—I don’t think so. It may not have been the same man. Don’t ask me, lord; ask Petros. I know no more than you do; how should I?”
“What has Petros been saying to you? What is this about your sister? Can this be the man——? Tell me at once, girl.”
“Petros said—” whimpered Angeliké—“at least, I mean he told Aristomaché, and she told me (but he said you knew),—that all the talk at Klaustra was that Milordo would marry Danaë. And one night she was dressed up in Frank clothes—all in cloth of gold like an empress—and they made a great feast, and Milordo and she sat side by side. She—she even put her arm in his, lord,” breathed modest Angeliké in horror, turning away her eyes. But Prince Christodoridi had been a scandalized participant in European dinner-parties, and had even, under pressure from his son, consented to offer his arm to a lady, so that he bore up under the shock better than she had hoped.
“But this cannot be the same man. How could he have the effrontery—? And yet he said—— Well, what of all this?”
“Why, lord, they all thought the betrothal would take place the next day, when my brother arrived suddenly, but instead of that, there was much talk at the house of Prince Theophanis, to which Danaë was summoned, and she came away looking like one dead, and the next day my brother brought her away to Therma. So everyone said that Milordo had refused to marry her, and they supposed it was because she had pretended to be a servant.”
“But he knew all about that!” said Prince Christodoridi, thoroughly puzzled.
“Did you know of it, then, lord? Oh, why was it?” Curiosity had led Angeliké beyond the bounds of prudence, and her father frowned.
“That is no concern of yours, girl. If he saw her at Klaustra, it was when she was passing as a servant.”
This was a bad blow to Angeliké’s theory, but a happy idea struck her. “But perhaps his parents interfered, lord. They may have thought she would have no dowry.”
“Your brother would have referred the matter to me. He knows that I should not grudge a—a reasonable sum to establish you both suitably.”
“Of course, lord, he must know. And yet—the match was broken off, and Milordo is here.”
“True. He is here,” her father repeated mechanically.
“And his parents are not here, lord.”
Prince Christodoridi looked at her sharply. “What do you mean by that, girl?”
“It looks almost,” said Angeliké, with an innocent little giggle, “as if he wanted to marry her after all.” This was going much farther than she had intended, but Armitage’s arrival had fitted in so miraculously with her plans that she could not allow it to be wasted.
“After all? What do you mean?”
“As if he might be willing even to marry her without a dowry, lord.”
The siren-voice was sweet, and Angeliké was crouching very confidingly close to her father. He shook her off with an oath.
“All-Holy Mother! He has said nothing about it.”
“But perhaps he will, lord; or you might notice something that would enable you to speak.”
“The fellow is not going to refuse my daughter twice!”
“No, lord; but since he has come here, surely he has no wish to refuse? And how could he say anything? Every civilised man knows that it falls to the maiden’s father to speak first. And—and he might not be sorry—just to satisfy his parents——”
“Yes? Plague take the girl, why won’t she speak out?”
“He might not be sorry if you insisted on the marriage, lord.”
The idea appealed to Prince Christodoridi, since it savoured of the methods of his ancestors, and he welcomed it with a pleased smile. But none the less, he put it aside valiantly.
“No, no; he is my guest, and we can’t force a wife upon him. But if I see anything to make me believe he has really come after Danaë, and that good manners are keeping him back—— But mind, not a word to your sister!”
“Oh no, lord!” said Angeliké heartily, with the full intention of disobeying at the earliest possible opportunity. When she went up to bed, creeping stealthily into their room, she found Danaë, as she expected, kneeling at the window with her eyes fixed on the distant lights of the yacht. With great tact, Angeliké took no notice of her immediate change of position, but yawned softly as she lighted the lamp.
“It has been a great day!” she said. “And to-morrow come the gifts. Oh, how I hope Narkissos will have chosen my dress the right colour! I told him blue and citron most carefully, but I know his father would get any other stripe that was a little cheaper, no matter how ugly it was.”
“Well, you have got Narkissos, at any rate,” said Danaë sharply. Angeliké’s claws were out in an instant.
“I believe you wanted him after all! You didn’t faint.”
“You know I don’t want him. I—I forgot.”
“You wouldn’t have done it at all if I had not cried out. If anyone had been looking they must have noticed. I know why you forgot,” with awful directness. “It was because of Milordo.”
“It wasn’t!” cried Danaë. But Angeliké’s distrustful eyes warned her that there was only one possible alternative, and she temporised. “Well, I was surprised to see him, of course.”
“Of course! If you mean glad, why don’t you say so?”
“Because I was not glad!” cried Danaë vehemently. “I was bowed down with shame—I could have died——”
“Oh, you are always talking about dying!” said Angeliké, altering her tactics skilfully to meet this surprise. “He is rich, and pleasant to look upon—though he has the face of a boy; I prefer men—and our father favours him.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Danaë.
“Promise not to tell—never to let out a word about it. Our father has chosen him for your bridegroom.”
Danaë flung up her arms wildly, then dropped them in despair. “Has he—has he spoken to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I think not; but perhaps he has.” It was necessary to walk warily in dealing with such explosive material.
“Then he must not. Oh, Angeliké, sister mine, he must not! It is not the custom of the English. With them the man speaks first.”
“But he might be refused!” cried Angeliké, aghast at the idea of subjecting the nobler sex to such an indignity. “Are you sure? Who told you?”
“Sofia, the Lady Zoe’s maid. And she said that with them a woman whose parents spoke for her would be eternally despised. Nor would the man consent to marry her.”
“Well, of all the barbarous customs! But fear not, my sister. No man refuses what the Despot of Strio offers.”
“Do you think I want him to marry me against his will?”
“But why should it be against his will? Kyrios Loukas was glad enough for Narkissos to marry one of us, though he had to make a fuss about the dowry——” She stopped abruptly. The crowning shame, her suggestion that Armitage might be induced to marry Danaë without a dowry, must be discreetly concealed, for by immemorial custom, a Striote girl whose father refused without due cause to provide for her had the right of appeal to the people in public assembly against the insult put upon her, and such an exposure would not suit Prince Christodoridi.
“It’s not a question of dowry!” cried Danaë. “Would you have cared to marry Narkissos if you knew he didn’t want you?”
“Of course, if I wanted him,” said the practical Angeliké. “And you want the English lord; you know you do.”
“I don’t! I don’t! I don’t want to marry anyone.”
“But that’s silly. You have got to be married. What else could become of you?”
“In Europe women do all sorts of things now. There are female teachers, and scribes.”
“As if we should ever be allowed to do anything of the kind! Of course, if one had a chance like that of getting away from here, and living where there was something going on, one would not care about getting married. But as it is, we may be thankful that there are bridegrooms to be found for us.”
“I am not! I won’t marry him! I don’t want to.”
“You talk so foolishly,” said Angeliké patiently. “If our father means you to marry Milordo, he will have to take you, and you will have to go to him. And once you are his wife——”
“Angeliké,” said Danaë quickly, “how is it that you have managed to send messages to Narkissos when you wished? I never heard of anyone’s doing it before.”
Then the seed so casually dropped had borne fruit! Angeliké smiled to herself as she replied, “That’s all you know about it! All the girls send messages if they wish. Why not make use of friend Petros?”
“I would not trust Petros if there was no one else in the world.”
“Well, what I do,” reluctantly, “is to get hold of Aristomaché. She is always going about, looking for suitable brides and bridegrooms, and she is to be trusted. She is sleeping here to-night, so as to see the gifts to-morrow.”
And the next morning Angeliké smiled again, when she found Danaë missing when she woke, and saw her shortly afterwards returning breathless from a hurried visit to the women-servants’ quarters. She could picture, as well as if she had heard the request uttered, the old woman despatching her grandson to waylay Armitage as he landed, and to tell him that some one wished to speak to him at a certain place. That would be the form of the message, since the matter was too delicate to be confided to the go-between, and the important thing now was to discover the place, and to contrive to direct Prince Christodoridi’s steps thither at the right time. But the Angeliké of the last two days was such an ingratiating creature, and the ruse to discover the date of her wedding so prettily transparent, that her father was rather pleased than otherwise to be dragged off to examine her own particular myrtle, and decide whether it would flower in time to provide her wreath, or whether some bush growing on lower ground must be laid under contribution.
Armitage received his message duly, and with mixed feelings. He was to turn aside to examine a built-up archway some little distance to the left of the fortress gate, and some one—nods and winks and meaning gestures—would come to speak to him there. He hoped in one way that it might be Danaë, for it seemed that etiquette would otherwise prevent him from speaking to her at all, and he had Zoe’s inquiries to make. But Parthenios Chalkiadi’s warning rang in his ears, and he had caught certain looks passing among the women the day before which seemed to indicate that he was somehow connected with Danaë in their minds. This was the more undesirable in that he had no very definite idea what his wishes or intentions were, and only a vague notion that perhaps he had better not have come to the island. But this was forgotten when he saw Danaë standing in the shelter of the archway, and sprang forward to meet her. She allowed him no time for conventional greeting.
“You will wonder how I got here, lord. I climbed down the wall.” She held out her hands, all bruised and scratched, and looked down at her torn and dusty skirt. “You will guess I should not have done that for nothing. Lord, turn back. There is a plot to kidnap you.”
On this version of the facts she had decided, after much mental wrestling. But Armitage was incredulous.
“But who would do such a thing, Lady Danaë? I am more than sorry that you should have taken so much trouble——”
She interrupted him hastily. “Don’t think of me, lord; but believe what I tell you. Do not enter the fortress. You would not have me betray my own people?” with the ghost of a smile. “But we are all pirates, you know, and you are rich, and can pay ransom. Go back while you can.”
“But I have messages for you from the Lady Zoe. Are you happy here?”
The glance she turned on him thrilled him with the remembrance of that other glance of yesterday. But she recollected herself quickly. “At least I am happier than yesterday morning I expected to be,” she said. “Yes, lord, tell the Lady Zoe that all is well. I am here in my own place, in the life to which I belong. It must be the best for me. Why should I not be happy?”
“Look me in the face and tell me that you are, Danaë.”
He spoke very gently, but Danaë could not meet his kind eyes. “No, that is unfair. You have no right to ask me that!” she said incoherently, with both hands pressed to her breast. “Go, lord, go, and tell my Princess that I tried to remember what I had learnt from her, but it would be happier for me if I could forget it. Ah, lord, if you have any kindness for the poor girl whom you once called beautiful, go, and let me forget!”
She avoided his attempt to detain her, and fled. Armitage would have followed her, but started to find himself suddenly confronted by Petros, who might have sprung from the earth, but more probably from the recess formed by the side of the gateway and the wall.
“My lord the Despot awaits Milordo,” he said with a bow.
Had he heard all that had passed? It was impossible to say; his face told nothing, and after one quick glance at him, Armitage turned again towards the great gate, very much perturbed in his mind. Should he ask Danaë to marry him? Pity, admiration, romance, urged him to do so; reason, prudence, a kind of shame that the man who had loved Zoe Theophanis should think of linking himself with a mere beautiful savage, held him back. In his mental struggle the warning Danaë had given him was slighted. These were not the days when British peers could be held to ransom in the islands of the Egean, nor would Prince Christodoridi be foolish enough to dream of such a thing.
“You have something to say to me, friend Milordo?” The words, uttered with extreme coldness, roused him from his reverie. Prince Christodoridi stood before him, but did not hold out his hand or offer any other sign of welcome. “I understand that such is the custom of your country,” he added impatiently, as Armitage stared at him.
“You must pardon me, lord, but I have not the slightest idea——”
The truth never occurred to Armitage, for Petros was still behind him, and it was impossible he should have told his master yet of the meeting under the wall. The Despot waved his hand magnificently.
“From the rampart just now, Milordo, I saw you in close converse with my elder daughter. Perhaps that also is one of your national customs?”
“It is certainly not the custom for a man to turn his back when he happens to meet a lady whose acquaintance he enjoys,” said Armitage with spirit. Prince Christodoridi smiled grimly.
“With us, when a man is found talking with an unmarried girl, he marries her—without a dowry.”
“And that is a grave deterrent?” with an answering smile.
“If he refuses, he is found the next dark night with a dagger in his heart.” Armitage’s eyes followed his host’s hand, by a kind of fascination, to the longest of the long curved daggers in his belt, but like most Englishmen, he had a rooted objection to being driven into any course. Five minutes ago he had been seriously contemplating the possibility of marrying Danaë, now it was absolutely out of the question.
“I can only recommend you to change your customs, lord. They are unduly old-fashioned,” he replied deliberately.
“You have cast a slur upon my daughter’s name, and you refuse to take the only step that can remove it. I suppose you are thinking of the dowry?” with a sneer.
“The dowry makes no difference whatever, but I refuse to be coerced into marrying any woman on earth—even the Lady Danaë. But nothing is farther from my wishes than to cast any slur upon her. In fact—— But we are neither of us cool enough to discuss such a question at this moment, Prince. With your permission, I will return on board, and you shall hear from me.”
“Have I your promise that you will send a formal request for my daughter’s hand?”
“Certainly not,” replied Armitage, in the gentle, reasonable tone of voice which always led his opponents astray. “You are still trying to force a promise out of me, which is preposterous.”
“You shall not go until you give it!” Prince Christodoridi had been coming nearer and nearer, and now he made a spring at his guest. Stepping back instinctively, Armitage set his back to the wall, but the wall gave way behind him, and the floor failed beneath his feet. Staggering helplessly, he had a momentary vision of the appalled face of Angeliké in the distance, before the wall which had opened to receive him closed again with a crash, leaving him in utter darkness on a steep smooth slope. Stumbling, sliding, clutching blindly at the walls, he descended swiftly, until he was brought up violently against masonry of some sort. To his left was a faint glimmer of light, and he groped his way towards it, to find himself in a chamber apparently hewn out of the living rock, with a small hole admitting light high above his head. The slope down which he had come was too steep and smooth to climb, and there was no means of reaching the window. Opposite the doorway of the dungeon, to the right of the slope, was a wooden door, which he shook in vain, and at the keyhole of which he shouted till he was tired. Most undoubtedly he was in a place from which it would be very difficult to get out, and he confessed to himself that he had walked neatly into a trap. For one moment he experienced a sinking of the heart as he wondered whether Danaë could be in the plot, but he drove away the doubt with a determination that surprised himself. No, she was not to blame, except for the attempt to save him which had led to this. Of course she could not tell him the exact nature of the demand to be made on him, and she had unwittingly precipitated the very danger she had tried to avert. Would they ill-treat her? he wondered, remembering her godfather’s warning. It was horrible to think of. If that absurd old father would only let him see her for a moment! It would be ridiculous to marry her without knowing that she wished it. At present she was scarcely likely to wish it, since the terrified sister had probably rushed with all speed to tell her that the English lord had chosen a dungeon rather than marriage with her. It was a horrible tangle, and he saw no way out of it.
Parthenios Chalkiadiand the two Smaragdopouloi were sitting in the loggia with Prince Christodoridi in the dusk. Kyrios Loukas and his son had come over from Tortolana to bring the silk gown and other presents to the bride that were demanded by custom from the father of the bridegroom, but Kyrios Parthenios had puffed up the hill uninvited, in a state of much perturbation. He had received a secret visit from Petros, who confided to him that he believed the Despot had seized the English lord, and was keeping him confined in one of his dungeons. As to the reason for this treatment, Petros professed ignorance so discreetly that his hearer was at no loss to divine the real cause; all he knew was that he had heard a voice, which he felt certain was Milordo’s, issuing from the very foundations of the fortress, and gathered that the owner was imprisoned underground. With a view to making repentance on his friend’s part as easy as possible, Kyrios Parthenios sent Petros off at once to the yacht, to request the captain to send a boat on shore for his owner at nine o’clock that evening, while he himself trudged up to the fortress, and breaking in on Prince Christodoridi and his friends, demanded boldly where the English lord was. In reply the Despot recounted his wrongs, which seemed to affect his hearers less deeply than the method he had taken to right them. Narkissos displayed little interest in either, for he was watching for Angeliké, with whom he hoped for a word or two in the shadows. Once he thought he saw her steal in and take down something from the wall, but she waved him back imperiously when he half-rose to follow her, and he sat gloomy, with his eyes fixed on the shadowy door. But his father took the news very much amiss.
“Holy Vasili! you can’t do that sort of thing nowadays, lord,” he observed sourly. “We shall be having a warship sent here.”
“It won’t interfere with you,” snapped Prince Christodoridi. “But if you prefer to be out of the business altogether, you have only to pay back that dowry.”
This was the last thing that Kyrios Smaragdopoulos wished to do, and he subsided grumbling. “I suppose a man may feel a little interest in the fate of a family about to be connected with his own, not to speak of the unpleasantness of such reports as will get about.”
“Yes, friend Agesilaos,” urged Parthenios Chalkiadi. “Think what will be said when it is known that the young man preferred imprisonment to marrying my goddaughter.”
“He won’t!” cried Prince Christodoridi furiously. “He will soon give in; you will see.”
“Don’t count upon it,” said his friend sadly. “There is such obstinacy in these English that they will die rather than yield. And after all, if he has erred in following here the barbarous customs of his own place, we should pity rather than hold him guilty.”
“Then is it such a deadly punishment to marry him to my daughter? You are too flattering, friend Parthenios! But it is more than a mere case of bad manners. My daughter Angeliké says——”
“The Lady Angeliké is anxious for her marriage, and knows that her sister must be married first,” said Parthenios shrewdly. “Friend, give me leave to visit the young man on your behalf. He has a pleasing face, and the English always tell the truth. If he is not already betrothed to some maiden of his own nation—” Prince Christodoridi’s face fell at the suggestion of this possibility—“let me see if we cannot find some way of getting out of the difficulty with honour to both of you and happiness to my goddaughter.”
“You will let him escape, thick-headed one,” growled Prince Christodoridi; “or at least he will knock you down and run away while you are rubbing your head and picking yourself up. Plague take you, girl! What are you standing there staring about for?” Narkissos had again made a motion to rise as Angeliké appeared in the doorway, but she waved him back and stood looking keenly round, trying to pierce the shadows with her eyes.
“Forgive me, lord,” she answered meekly. “My mother was asking for Danaë, and sent me to seek her. I have looked for her everywhere, and I thought she must be here.”
“Well, she is not here,” said Parthenios hastily, rising with unwonted agility. “You will let me speak with the youth, friend Agesilaos? A boat from his ship is to fetch him at nine o’clock, so there is no time to lose.”
“Give Kyrios Parthenios the key of the rock dungeon, Angeliké,” said the Prince, and Angeliké went to where the keys hung on the wall. A frightened exclamation came from her, and the whole bunch fell to the floor. She picked it up and brought it to her father.
“I—I am not sure which is the key, lord,” she faltered.
“Why, it is not here!” cried Prince Christodoridi. “What have you done with it, girl?”
“I, lord? I have not left my mother all the evening. Why should I take the key?” sobbed Angeliké, with ready tears.
“The Lady Danaë came in and took it away about a quarter of an hour ago,” said Narkissos with conviction, coming to the help of his betrothed. Prince Christodoridi rose, and put back Parthenios Chalkiadi with a powerful hand.
“Come all of you, friends, if you will—or rather, I request it as a favour. You will justify me, if such a thing is needed, for the girl must be shameless. If the man still refuses to marry her, she has brought her death upon herself.”
Angeliké’s whole frame tingled with delicious excitement. Her lover thought she was shivering with fear, and since the elder members of the party were too much occupied to heed the breach of etiquette, he drew close to her and they followed hand in hand, through a rough door which had been left ajar, and down a rude flight of stone steps, the disturbed dust on which showed that some one in trailing clothes had passed down them not long before. Poor Danaë, feeling her way fearfully in the dark, with a bundle of clothes under her arm and the huge purloined key in her hand!
Armitage had spent many hours, so he believed, in his dungeon, before the prospect of escape offered itself. Very soon after his incarceration, while he was still trying to attract by shouting the notice of possible passers-by, a distant voice coming through the airhole informed him that Petros had heard him, and was going for help at once. Thereupon the prisoner ceased his efforts and sat down, lest if he made any more noise he should be transferred to some even less accessible prison before the arrival of the armed party which he confidently expected his captain to send off at once to rescue him. He was in a towering rage—a very unusual frame of mind for him—and felt positive pleasure in the thought of fighting his way down to the harbour at the head of his men; but the hours went by, and the opportunity was not afforded him. No one came near him. It was evident that his obstinacy was to be subdued by hunger, and also by cold, for as it grew darker the chill of the dungeon became extreme. No sounds penetrated to him, and now that no light came through the airhole, he felt as if he was buried alive. Very early he decided to make a fight for it if anyone came to bring him food. He would leap upon him and knock him down, and he only hoped it might be Prince Christodoridi himself!
At last, when he had fallen into an uneasy sleep, with his back against the rough rock wall, he was roused by the sound of a key in the lock. There was a good deal of groping for the keyhole first, and then the key turned slowly, as though held by hands not strong enough to deal with it properly, and Armitage renounced his murderous intention in haste. Whoever this visitor might be, it was certainly not Prince Christodoridi, and he rather thought he knew who it was.
“Lord?” said a faltering voice, when the door creaked slowly open at last.
“I am here, Lady Danaë,” said an answering voice, so unexpectedly close to her that she gave a little shriek. But there was urgent need for haste, and she spoke rapidly.
“Here, lord, here are some garments. Put on the kilt over your own clothes, and the coat instead of yours, and pull the cap down well over your face. Then you will be able to pass through the servants without being perceived.”
“Sotīri’s clothes?” asked Armitage, taking the bundle from her hands, and she answered with a little laugh of shy pleasure.
“Yes, lord, Sotīri’s clothes. He is a useful boy.”
“Most useful. You must forgive me for slighting your warning, Lady Danaë. I did not know how completely you were still in the Middle Ages here.”
“Ah, lord, be thankful that you don’t live here! But hasten, for they may find out that the key is gone.”
Armitage wrestled vigorously with the jacket, which refused to accommodate itself to his broad shoulders. Happily it was not needful to fasten it, and he pulled on the cap, and announced himself as ready.
“I thought I would lock the door, and slip back and hang up the key again in its place,” said Danaë, pulling at it.
“Allow me,” said Armitage, and their hands met on the great rusty key as they both tugged at the door. As they pulled, he felt Danaë’s hands grow suddenly cold beneath his.
“Some one is coming! They have found out!” she gasped.
A distant light was glimmering round the turn of the passage by which she had come. There was no time to be lost. Armitage tore off the kilt and jacket and hurried into his own coat, flung the clothes into the cell, and dragged Danaë behind the door.
“I will go forward and meet them, and you must try to slip past when they are talking to me,” he said. “Don’t get locked up here, in any case. I’ll get you through if I can, but if not you must trust to me to do the best for you. Do you understand? Promise.”
“I promise,” she whispered, and crouched behind the door, at the foot of the slope, while Armitage went forward to the turn of the passage, calculating possibilities. There were three or four people coming down the steps, so that a general scrimmage, in which they would all join to thrust him back into the dungeon, would offer the best chance for Danaë to slip out from her hiding-place and run up the stairs. But they paused upon the steps and looked at him, the reproachful face of Kyrios Parthenios peering over Prince Christodoridi’s shoulder, and Angeliké’s wide eyes glaring above him.
“Who let you out, Milordo?” demanded Prince Christodoridi.
Armitage laughed. “If you are kind enough to leave my door open, friend Despot, you can hardly wonder if I walk out.”
“Who brought you the key, lord?” asked Kyrios Loukas curiously.
“If you don’t accept my explanation, I can only invite you to come down and look for yourselves,” replied the prisoner, with a shrug of his shoulders. Too late he remembered the Greek clothes he had thrown on the floor of the cell, but the lamp did not shed a very clear light, and he might be able to stand in front of them while Danaë escaped. His visitors followed him down through the doorway, and Prince Christodoridi swept the lamp round the place.
“We know some one must have——” he said angrily. “What are you making such faces for, girl?” for Angeliké was raising her eyebrows and pursing her lips with intense meaning.
“Oh, nothing, lord, nothing!” she stammered. “Do go; now; quick!” the words were a quite audible whisper. Armitage knew what was coming. From where her sister stood, Danaë was quite visible, penned into her hiding-place in all unconsciousness by Kyrios Smaragdopoulos.
“No escape for her or me!” he said to himself. “Well, let us do the only possible thing with the best grace at our command.” He stepped across to the door, just as Prince Christodoridi swept the light savagely in that direction, and led Danaë forward. “Lord and friends, I have the honour to ask the hand of the Lady Danaë in marriage. It was contrary to our customs to make the request of her father this morning, since I was not assured of her consent, but since I have had the happiness of seeing her again, I need hesitate no longer.”
“Such doings!” came in highly scandalised tones from Kyrios Loukas, while Narkissos giggled nervously in the background.
“I won’t——” burst from Danaë, but Armitage pressed her hand sharply, and her father turned on her in a fury.
“Go back to your mother, girl, this instant! And you too, Angeliké; what are you doing here?” The two girls vanished up the steps. “Friends, you are witnesses that the English lord has asked my elder daughter in marriage?”
“And I could ask nothing better for her!” said Kyrios Chalkiadi heartily. “And when am I to have the pleasure of bringing your bride to you, friend Milordo?”
“The sooner the better,” said Armitage gaily. “I must return to Therma next week. Why not take my bride with me?”
Narkissos was nudging his father, and Kyrios Loukas spoke. “Let us make a double wedding of it,” he said, with a vain attempt to emulate the joviality of the other two. “The Lady Danaë and her bridegroom can be betrothed and married first, and the contract between my son and her sister completed afterwards.”
“There is the dowry to settle,” interposed Parthenios.
“The girl gets no dowry from me,” said Prince Christodoridi laconically.
“Quite so,” said Armitage. “I marry the Lady Danaë without dowry. That is decided. I absolutely refuse to accept anything with her.”
“But why? There is no reason for it, lord, and among us such a thing——”
“Milordo has said that he is willing to take her without a dowry,” said Danaë’s father roughly.
“Certainly no one could expect you to force a dowry upon the bridegroom, lord,” said Kyrios Loukas. “Here we are all poor men, but we know how rich the English are, and if he does not require it, why, let us commend his moderation.”
“I refuse to take even a lepta,” said Armitage. “May I walk down the hill with you, friend godfather?” he asked of Parthenios. “You will have to instruct me in all my duties.”