The Prize

By Sydney C. Grier

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Title: The Prize

Author: Sydney C. Grier

Illustrator: Alfred Pearse

Release Date: November 30, 2021 [eBook #66851]

Language: English


Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRIZE ***




 THE PRIZE

 BY
 SYDNEY C. GRIER
 AUTHOR OF ‘THE HEIR,’ ‘THE PATH TO HONOUR,’
 ‘THE HERITAGE,’ ETC.


 (_Third in the Balkan Series II._)


 _WITH FRONTISPIECE BY A. PEARSE_

 William Blackwood and Sons
 Edinburgh and London
 1910



 [IMAGE: images/img_000.jpg
 CAPTION: DANAË.]




 CONTENTS.

 I. DANAË PLAYS THE EAVESDROPPER
 II. THE LADY
 III. THE LITTLE LORD
 IV. THE GIRDLE OF ISIDORA
 V. THE BRAND OF CAIN
 VI. THE SPY
 VII. THE EDUCATION OF KALLIOPÉ
 VIII. ROOTED IN DISHONOUR
 IX. ON THE TRACK
 X. THE PORTRAIT
 XI. THE RETURN OF PETROS
 XII. MISSING
 XIII. THE CULPRIT
 XIV. A RESCUE EXPEDITION
 XV. THE ACME
 XVI. _J’ACCUSE_
 XVII. THE USE OF FRIENDS
 XVIII. EXPELLED FROM PARADISE
 XIX. _PATRIA POTESTAS_
 XX. GREEK AND GREEK
 XXI. MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE
 XXII. _IN FORMÂ PAUPERIS_
 XXIII. GUESTS OF HONOUR
 XXIV. THE TALLY
 XXV. THE MASTER OF THE SITUATION
 XXVI. THE FAIR PRIZE WON




 THE PRIZE.

 CHAPTER I.
 DANAË PLAYS THE EAVESDROPPER.

The scene was a picture in itself. Sea and sky vied with one another
in the depth of their unruffled blue, and in the glorious sunshine and
clear air the cliffs were vividly, even startlingly, white. All round
the island they presented an inhospitable front to the voyager save at
one point, where advantage had been taken of a steep ravine running
down to the sea to find room for a number of white-walled, red-roofed
houses, which seemed to cling precariously to successive steps in the
rock, from the primitive harbour at its foot to the rude fortress at
the summit. On the land side, grey olive-trees came so close to the
fortress walls that either of the girls lounging in a shady spot on
the ramparts and lazily nibbling sunflower seeds could have touched
the upper branches with her hand by leaning over the parapet. In the
palmy days of Strio, when her pirates were the terror of the
surrounding waters, the rulers of the isle would have seen in the
olive-grove so near their walls merely a cover for probable enemies,
and would have swept it ruthlessly away. But these were peaceful
times, and the head of the Christodoridi was more concerned to wring
the last drachma from his rocky acres than from the reluctant hands of
seafarers.

The Despot of Strio (both Prince Christodoridi and his subjects clung
proudly to the ancient title) was a very great person--in Strio--and
was wont to talk familiarly of his sovereign, the King of Morea, as of
an equal whose state was bound to his by ancestral treaties. On the
mainland, however, and still more in what both Striotes and Moreans
called respectfully “Europe,” people were apt to laugh at the
pretensions of the island potentate, when they were not irritated by
them. Very wisely, therefore, Prince Christodoridi preferred to remain
where his authority was undisputed, and bestrode his rock, glorying in
the fact that not a woman within its confines could read or write.
Five years ago, his elder daughter Danaë, visiting her mother’s
relatives in a neighbouring island, had been swept with her cousins
into the “vacation school,” established in her holidays by an
energetic American lady teacher from the mainland, aghast at the
ignorance which surrounded her. But before the school had been a week
in session, Prince Christodoridi stalked grimly into the awed circle
and carried off his daughter, favouring the foreigner with his opinion
of her proceedings in language so exceedingly plain that it was well
she did not understand it. In that week Danaë had earned the
reputation of a terror with her schoolmistress, and a cause of awful
joy to her schoolfellows, but she resented bitterly the dramatic close
of her education. In a day or two more she would have possessed a
Frank dress--she was learning to make it--which she could have
flaunted proudly before the eyes of her mother and the other Striote
ladies, who still wore the embroidered skirt and apron and voluminous
girdle, the long coat and loose vest, of the days before Independence,
the poorer women replacing the skirt by wide trousers. Prince
Christodoridi was, supreme in sumptuary matters, as in all else, and
“Frank clothes” were anathema in his eyes.

Stretched upon the sun-warmed stones of the rampart, the parapet just
shielding them from the rays of the declining sun, Danaë and her
sister Angeliké squabbled noisily over the heap of sunflower seeds
between them. Danaë ate fair, taking one seed at a time, but
Angeliké had a greedy habit of selecting four or five of the plumpest
at once, and keeping them in her hand till they were wanted. She
always did it, and it always led to bickering, but this never occurred
to her as a reason for leaving it off. The handsome childish faces of
both girls were flushed with resentment, for as usual on these
occasions, grudges in no way connected with the matter in hand had
been brought up on either side. Their household tasks were finished,
and what had they to do but quarrel, until the happy hour should come
when Prince Christodoridi, having duly locked his family in, would
swagger down to the coffee-house to ruffle it among his subjects, and
his daughters would slip out, by ways best known to themselves, to
join the other girls of the place, who, shrouded in their dark shawls,
flitted ghostlike down back alleys and over roofs, to visit one
another and exchange the gossip of the day?

The heap of sunflower seeds was finished, though a remnant was still
left within the shelter of Angeliké’s fingers, when footsteps below
caused Danaë to look down into the courtyard. She withdrew her head
hurriedly. “It is our father and Petros!” she whispered, with
repressed excitement.

“There is nothing interesting about Petros,” said Angeliké, yawning
with disappointing indifference.

“Owl! does he not come from Therma?” demanded Danaë. “If our brother
has sent any message, he will give it now.”

“Owl yourself! There will be no message. My lord Romanos cares nothing
about us. When he was made Prince, you said he would send for us to
his court and give us kings for husbands, but he has never taken the
slightest notice. He cares no more about establishing us than he did
about our fighting for him.” Angeliké sneered unpleasantly.

Danaë flushed. “You never wanted to fight for him,” she said.

“I should think not! What good is it to us that he was chosen Prince?
And even if he had sent for us to Therma,” with a sudden change of
ground, “would there have been any pleasure in it? We don’t know
European ways, we can’t even speak French. People would have laughed
at us. If I can once get a husband and escape from Strio, that is all
I want, and you may be quite sure our father would never let us marry
Europeans.”

“I suppose a husband like Narkissos Smaragdopoulos would satisfy you?”
sneered Danaë in her turn.

“Of course he would. You can be nasty about him if you like. Everyone
knows that he never speaks to you since you upset the coffee over his
kilt in handing it to him.”

“And do they know who told him that I did it on purpose?”

“If they don’t, they probably think you told him yourself. It would be
just like you. What are you going to do?” as Danaë began to crawl
along the rampart in the direction taken by her father and the
handsome ruffianly fellow, half guard, half servant, who swaggered
after him.

“Hush!” said Danaë angrily. “I am going to hear what they are saying,
of course.”

“Then I shall tell our father that you listened.” The offensive and
defensive alliance against those in authority on the part of the two
girls was always liable to an interruption of this sort, when one of
the malcontents deserted temporarily to the side of power and brought
punishment upon the other.

“Then I shall tell our mother of the sweets that made you ill on the
vigil of Hagios Jakōbos, when she thought the fasting had been too
much for you,” Danaë flung back, and saw, as she expected, that
Angeliké had no answer ready. Satisfied with having thus protected
herself, she crawled on, until she found herself exactly above the two
men as they sat on one of the rude flights of steps that ran up to the
ramparts. Just here there was no parapet in whose shadow she might
shelter herself, but they had their backs to her, and were far enough
below not to see her, even if they turned round, when she was lying
flat on the wall. Listening anxiously to discover whether any
interesting topics had already been discussed, she was relieved to
find that her father was apparently still leading up to some important
point on which Petros seemed to be in no hurry to afford him
information.

“My son is too young to know his own best interests,” said Prince
Christodoridi, with dignity.

“His Highness is not exactly a boy,” growled Petros.

“And therefore his elders must do their best to save him from the
consequences of his youthful mistakes,” went on the Prince, as though
his sentence had not been interrupted.

“Then let his elders do their own work themselves, so that his
Highness may know to whom his gratitude is due,” was the surly
response.

“Miserable dog!” cried Prince Christodoridi in a fury. “Is it for this
I have maintained you close to my son’s person, charging you to keep
me acquainted with all that touches one so dear to me, from whose side
I am kept by my responsibilities here?”

“Some folks say it is his Highness’s own wish that keeps you here, O
my Prince--that since you refused to aid him with a single drachma in
gaining his position, he does not see why you should expect to derive
any benefit from it.”

“Thickhead! why should I spend money in championing the cause of God
and the saints? Is their power not sufficient? Has the cause not
triumphed? Yet my son, who derives from me the rights which are now
fully recognised, expresses no desire for my presence at his side.”

“Perhaps his Highness thinks less of his rights than you do, my
Prince.” Petros was keenly enjoying the inconsistency of his lord’s
last two utterances. “I have heard him say that he owed his success to
the intrigues of the Powers, and that right was altogether on the side
of the Englishman, him of Klaustra.”

“And after that you still think my son is able to take care of
himself?” asked the Prince pathetically. “I tell you, Petraki, he will
be his own ruin. Come, earn your wages, and let us save the misguided
one from the destruction that threatens him.”

“I take his Highness’s wages too, and I don’t know what he will think
about my earning them,” grumbled Petros. “If the Lady had not
distrusted me and tried to turn the Lord Romanos against me----”

Danaë raised her head a little, and bent forward, so as to make sure
of not missing a word. There was nothing revolting to her in the idea
that her father should employ her brother’s confidential servant as a
spy upon him, for it was of a piece with the methods which she saw in
operation around her every day, and it was only natural that he should
wish to participate in the good fortune of the son he had banished and
wished to disinherit. Romanos Christodoridi, elected Prince of Emathia
by the free vote of the inhabitants, under the auspices of the Powers
of Europe, ought to have been a gold mine to his relatives, and Danaë
felt no reluctance to subject the brother whose indifference had so
deeply disappointed her to a little interference with his plans.
Besides, “the Lady” sounded interesting.

“I did not ask for your reasons, friend Petros,” said Prince
Christodoridi, disposing, with a snap of his fingers, of the belated
scruples of conscience which were troubling his instrument. “I ask for
obedience and truth. What of this woman, then? Who is she?”

“They call her ‘the Lady’ in Therma, O my Prince,” Petros spoke
doggedly. “She lives in a retired house outside the city, and never
goes out, and receives no one but his Highness.”

“She is perhaps old enough to be his mother?” asked the Prince
sarcastically.

“Nay, my Prince, she is young and very beautiful. Also she is a Latin,
and she calls his Highness her husband.”

Prince Christodoridi laughed ferociously. “Husband, indeed! and she a
Latin! How do you know these things, Petros?”

“His Highness takes me to guard him when he visits the house, my
Prince, and I alone have been permitted to pass within the gates.”

“Then if you are able to enter, you must do what has to be done.” The
words came with lightning swiftness.

“Nay, my Prince, the gate can only be opened from within. His Highness
says some word which I have not heard to the old woman who keeps the
door.”

“And you are too feeble to climb a wall, my poor Petraki?”

“O my Prince, the wall is guarded on the outside. It is through the
sentries that the common people have learnt to laugh and jest about
the Lady.”

“Then this disgrace is a matter of common talk--at a moment when the
Emperor of Scythia is offering his daughter as a bride to my son?”

“I think it is his cousin, my Prince. The Emperor’s daughters are all
very young, they say.”

“His daughter,” repeated Prince Christodoridi firmly. “Anything else
would be an insult only to be washed out in blood. And is this fair
prospect for Emathia and our ancient house to be destroyed for the
sake of a Latin woman?”

“That is for you to say, my Prince. I have no love for the Lady. Why
should I, when the Lord Romanos desired to leave me to guard her, and
she refused, saying that she disliked my looks and did not trust me?
Had she accepted my services, I must have defended her to the death,
but now I should not be sorry to see her dealt with as she deserves.”

“Then who was left to guard her in your place?”

“No one, my Prince. The Lady refused to have anyone with her but her
women-servants, saying that the guards outside were sufficient.”

“I think the Lady has consulted our convenience rather than her own,”
smiled Prince Christodoridi. “Come, friend Petros, will you venture to
tell me now that it is impossible to reach her?”

“Impossible unless one had a confederate inside the gates, my Prince.
The door must be opened, as you see.”

“Then introduce a confederate, by all means. Holy Michael! does this
fellow call himself a Striote?”

“And who is the confederate to be, my Prince? For I have no wish to
put my neck in jeopardy over this--removal, nor do I think that you
have. _Kyrie Eleēson_! look at that, lord!”

Crossing himself hastily, he clutched at the Prince’s wrist with a
trembling hand, and pointed to the shadow of the rampart on the ground
in front of them. Fully evident in the treacherous beams of the
sinking sun was the outline of a human figure on the summit of the
wall, with head raised to listen greedily to what was said.

“Thickhead! why speak of it?” Prince Christodoridi was up the stairs
in a moment, with an agility highly creditable to his sixty years, and
had Danaë’s wrists in an iron grasp and a hand over her mouth, before
she could even move. “Take her feet, fool! and bring her here.” They
were inside one of the deserted towers in an instant, and before
Danaë realised fully what had happened, she was bound hand and foot
with the sash which Petros stripped off at his lord’s sharp command.
Prince Christodoridi chose out deliberately a long thin dagger from
the armoury in his belt, and dangled it before his daughter’s
horrified eyes.

“How much have you heard, wicked one?” he demanded.

“Everything, lord.” The words would hardly make themselves audible.

“What were we talking about?”

“About my brother Romanos--how he has given himself over to an evil
witch of a Latin woman, who has made him forget his own house and his
duty to it.”

“But what affair is it of yours?” Prince Christodoridi was puzzled by
the warmth of personal feeling in the answer.

“Is it not the affair of all when one of us disgraces himself, lord?”
Danaë was regaining her courage now that discovery had not been
followed by instant death.

“No, insolent one! Has your mother not taught you yet that it is no
affair of a woman what any of her men choose to do? Then you will have
time to learn it in solitude here while Petros returns to his master.”

Danaë grew pale, for there were dreadful tales of the dungeons under
the tower, but she answered undauntedly, “So be it, lord. If the
guilty one is punished, I shall but rejoice.”

“And what would you do to the guilty one?” asked her father curiously.

Her eyes flashed. “Lord, I would tear her from that fair house whither
she draws my brother to his destruction, and she should never see it
again.”

“So the woman is the guilty one!” said Prince Christodoridi with grim
amusement. “And what then, my lady?”

“I would bring her here, lord, and cast her into a dungeon from which
she should never escape. But when her beauty was gone, and her face as
evil and ugly as herself, I would summon my brother and bid him behold
her, that he might laugh at his own foolishness, and go his way.”

“And that you would account sufficient punishment?”

“Surely, lord, for her it would be worse than death, and she deserves
it. But my brother has been led away.”

“Worse than death?” said Prince Christodoridi meditatively. “But not
so safe, daughter--not so safe. Still,” he stopped and cut the knots
in the sash with his dagger, and allowed Danaë to rise from her
cramped position on the floor, “you are a worthy child of the
Christodoridi, I believe. Would you help in carrying out this
vengeance, little one?”

“Try me, lord! This fellow needs a confederate, does he? Let me go. I
will enter the woman’s household as the meanest of her servants, and
wait patiently until I can deliver her bound into his hands to be
brought hither. Then I will dance for joy above her dungeon.”

“But what has she done to you?” asked Prince Christodoridi, still
moved entirely by curiosity, and not by any disapproval of his
daughter’s sentiments.

“She has bewitched my brother, lord. Is it not enough for you that she
has bewitched your son?”

“Lady Danaë knows nothing of the matter. She is too young to do what
has to be done, and I will not risk discovery by taking her with me,”
growled Petros.

“Friend Petros, the women of the Christodoridi are never too young to
do what the head of their house commands,” said the Prince.

“And you know, lord, whether any weakness of mine would lead to
discovery,” cried Danaë eagerly. “I have risked much for my brother
already--even your displeasure.”

This reminder was a bold stroke, for Danaë had suffered severely at
her father’s hands when, warned secretly by Angeliké, he had
instituted a search of the fishing-boat in which a band of volunteers
from Strio were going to the help of Prince Romanos and his insurgent
companions in Hagiamavra, and had discovered among them his elder
daughter dressed in boy’s clothes. She had been brought back with
ignominy, and cruelly beaten, but the incident had given Prince
Christodoridi a certain reluctant respect for her. Moreover, she had
promptly repaid the faithless Angeliké by revealing her gratified
acceptance of the serenades addressed to her by a young Striote who
had travelled as far as Alexandria, and in so doing had rubbed off
some of the awe with which his lord and his lord’s family should
properly be regarded. Prince Christodoridi was nothing if not
impartial, and Angeliké’s shoulders vied with Danaë’s in the bruises
they exhibited for many weeks, while she had the added sting of
knowing that her father considered Danaë had far the best of the
fray.

“There is no question of displeasure here,” said Prince Christodoridi
pointedly. “Successful, you may return. Unsuccessful, no one must know
that you belonged to the Christodoridi.”

“Be it so, lord. I go under a false name to deliver my brother from
his enchantment. If I succeed, the girls will sing of me in the dance;
if I fail, I disappear. What is a woman more or less when the hope of
the house is concerned?”

“All-Holy Mother of God! I could wish you had been my son, Danaë,”
cried the Prince, with unwonted enthusiasm, “instead of that popinjay
Romanos! But make no mistake,” he added repressively, “I send you
merely because I would not reveal to any other the disgrace that
threatens us. You will swear to obey the worthy Petros as if he were
myself, since he will answer to me for your failure or success.”

“I am putting my neck in a noose,” grumbled Petros.

“Promise me first, lord, that you will wait to see if I succeed, and
not suffer my sister to be married before me,” said Danaë, greatly
daring. Her father frowned heavily.

“Would you make conditions with me, insolent one? Is a younger sister
ever married before her elder? You will obey Petros in everything, and
he has my authority to take any steps that may be necessary with
regard to you.”

“The old woman at the Lady’s house said they wanted a girl to look
after the child,” said Petros, with a slow grin. “I said I might be
able to bring a niece of mine back from the islands. If Lady Danaë
will be my niece, and obey me in all things, I will take her, but not
otherwise. Holy Antony! if the Lord Romanos knew what was plotting
against his love”--Prince Christodoridi glanced at him
sharply--“perpetual imprisonment, no less--my life would not be worth
a drachma, and I desire to continue in his service until he enters
Czarigrad in triumph as Emperor.”

“Peace! you talk too much. Lady Danaë will obey you, and you will be
responsible for her,” said Prince Christodoridi sharply. “Come, girl!”
and with a hand on Danaë’s shoulder he marched her down the steps,
across the courtyard, and into the room where her mother, roused by
his approach from an unlicensed nap, looked up with eyes not unlike
those of a comfortable but apprehensive cow.

“What has Danaë been doing now?” she asked feebly.

“She is ill brought up. I have often asked you why you did not train
her better,” replied Prince Christodoridi, mindful of discipline. “I
am going to send her to be educated where she will learn obedience.”

Princess Christodoridi had never defied her husband, nor even
disappointed him, save in failing to provide the son who was to have
supplanted Romanos, but at this extraordinary betrayal of past
convictions she ventured a mild protest.

“But, lord, you have always said----”

“May I not do what I will with my own daughter?” cried the Prince
furiously. “The girl goes to-morrow.”

Princess Christodoridi collapsed, and Angeliké, from a sheltered
corner, made signs of derision. But Danaë had provided beforehand
against any undue elation on Angeliké’s part, and was content.




 CHAPTER II.
 THE LADY.

It was a very woe-begone and dishevelled Danaë, not at all like an
inspired deliverer, who stumbled ashore on the quay at Therma at the
rough bidding of Petros. The passage had been a stormy one, and the
island girl, who could have faced a gale without serious discomfort in
a fishing-boat, had succumbed hopelessly to the vile odours and
eccentric motion of the wretched little steamer that carried her from
the neighbouring island of Tortolana, Strio’s nearest link with
civilisation, to the capital of her brother’s principality. Either his
qualms of conscience, or the possession of uncontrolled authority, had
transformed the stolid Petros into a very truculent ruffian--or
perhaps it was merely that he had determined to subject his “niece” to
a severe test at the outset of their relationship. However this might
be, he reviled her with much choice of language whenever he came
across her prostrate and suffering form, threatening her with his
stick when she roused herself to protest, and when they entered the
harbour, locked her up for some hours in an empty cabin while he went
on shore to arrange for getting her to “the Lady’s” house. Returning,
he summoned her forth with curses--which she divined were drawn from
him by some fresh proof of confidence from the master he was plotting
to betray--and she followed him meekly through the streets, carrying
her modest bundle, while he swaggered ahead, never deigning to cast a
glance at her. The new Therma, rebuilt on European methods after its
bombardment by the Powers, was a city of enchantment to the little
barbarian from Strio, but she durst not let her eyes wander to the
tall white houses or the astonishing shops. The swarming crowd of all
nationalities that jostled her as she stumbled along, ill and
miserable, in the wake of Petros, was simply a collection of moving
obstacles, blocking the way to the attainment of her aim, the
deliverance of the brother who represented all the romance that had
ever touched her life from the spells of the witch-woman. Danaë knew
very little about the Powers of Europe, but she was a great authority
on witches, like all the women of her island.

Her weary feet had carried her through many wide streets, past the
ruined fortifications, now fast becoming overgrown with bushes, and
out into a region of villas, set in lofty gardens, all enclosed with
high walls, when the sudden apparition of a soldier on guard reminded
her of what she had heard on the rampart. The sentry winked at Petros
as he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at a gateway in the
wall.

“He’s there,” he said. “Told me you’d be coming.”

Petros grunted, and went on to the door, which opened as if by magic.
Danaë followed him in, and the door was closed instantly by an old
woman behind it. Inside was one of Petros’s fellow-guardsmen, in full
Greek costume, in charge of three horses, and Petros joined him
immediately, after a perfunctory gesture, suggestive of washing his
hands of Danaë, in the direction of the old woman, who sniffed
significantly.

“Well, I can’t say very much for your island girls,” she observed,
eying the newcomer. “I expected a fine strapping lass who would be
some good at work. But it’s not your fault, child,” she added more
kindly, “and I daresay you won’t look so bad when you have some decent
clothes on. Come and have something to eat before you go before the
Lady.”

“Couldn’t I see the Lady first?” asked Danaë meekly, anxious to get
the first interview over.

“Certainly not,” was the decisive reply. “Come this way, and do as
you’re told.” Danaë was whirled along a path between the bushes, and
into a large disorderly kitchen, where another old woman was arranging
afternoon tea on a tray with the utmost nicety, in the midst of
onions, wine-jars, oil-flasks, raw meat and other unusual
accompaniments. “This young person thinks she can give orders here,
Despina,” remarked the guide.

Despina looked up from her tray. “Then the sooner she learns to the
contrary the better,” she observed succinctly, carrying it off.

“Yes, indeed,” said the other old woman, setting food before Danaë.
“Everyone that comes inside these walls may as well know that whatever
the Lady says, that has to be done, whether it’s having English tea in
the middle of the afternoon, or dressing the blessed child like a
grown-up person, without any swathings. They may call her Princess
outside or not, as they like, but she is Princess here.”

“But why should she be called Princess?” ventured Danaë, looking up
from her bread and cheese.

“What else should the Prince’s wife be called, girl?”

“Petros--my uncle--always calls her the Lady.”

“And so she is the Lady, but she’s the Princess too. Didn’t I myself
see her married to him at Bashi Konak, with the Princesses of Dardania
looking on?”

“But I thought she was a Latin?” said Danaë, aghast.

“So she is, I suppose, and that’s why the wedding was kept private.
But Latin or not, a marriage is a marriage, and when it’s
acknowledged, the Princess will remember those who have been faithful
to her. Not that I would tell you all this if there was any chance of
your going and talking about it outside, girl,” she added hastily, as
Despina returned, “but there isn’t. Once you’re here, you stay here.”

“But will the marriage always be kept private?”

“Of course not,” said Despina, with considerable irritation. “How
could it, with the young Prince growing up, and all? And the sooner
his Highness acknowledges it the better, say I.”

“And so anyone would say,” agreed the other old woman. “But how it’s
to be done now, Despina, is more than you or I can tell, wise as you
may think yourself. It seems to me that the Lady has missed her
chance.”

“Missed her chance?” cried Despina angrily. “She’s missed three
chances, and you know it as well as I do, Mariora. She missed one when
she let him marry her privately, instead of standing out for her
rights, and she missed the second that night she came to me all
trembling to say he swore he could not live without her, and would she
not come to Therma secretly until he could safely acknowledge the
marriage? That was her worst mistake, but she might have redeemed it
when the child was born, and she refused, even when I begged of her to
do it. ‘I will not stoop to extort recognition from my husband, if my
entreaties cannot avail, my Despina,’ she said, and stuck to it. And
entreaties! you can see she tries them every time he comes, and what’s
the good? She’s tiring him out, she is.”

Danaë’s eyes were aflame with indignation, not against her brother,
but the Lady. The enchantress was not satisfied with ensnaring her
victim, then; she wished to keep him for ever, to ruin his future
without hope of remedy. It never occurred to Danaë for a moment to
regard the marriage at Bashi Konak as binding--she was far too
strongly Orthodox to admit that a Greek could marry a Latin by Latin
rites--but she feared that Prince Romanos might be induced to go
through a second ceremony, prior to which the bride would renounce her
schismatic creed. Then woe to all hopes of an alliance with Scythian
royalty, to the great aggrandisement of the Christodoridi. Danaë’s
courage rose again, and she felt that the trials of her journey were
well worth enduring if they enabled her to defeat the Lady’s plans.

“If you have finished, my girl, you can go to the Lady now,” said
Mariora. “The Prince will be with her, but you need not be afraid of
him. He comes from the islands himself, though I’m glad to say he
doesn’t talk the island talk.”

This slur on the purity of her Greek sent Danaë haughtily out of the
kitchen, and guided by the loud directions of the two old women, she
passed through a stone-paved hall, and across a wide shady verandah.
Under a tree on the sloping lawn in front a lady and gentleman were at
tea. Danaë advanced boldly, with no fear of being recognised, since
her half-brother and she had never met. The lady heard the sound of
her slippers on the gravel and looked round, then turned back to the
gentleman and spoke rapidly in French.

“Such a tiresome thing!” she said. “It seems that foolish Despina
asked Petros to find me a nurse-girl in the islands, and he has
brought back some niece of his own. And I dislike Petros so much that
I don’t want any of his family here.”

“Put the blame on me,” said Prince Romanos softly. “I was glad to
think that my son would know the lullabies his father used to hear as
a child.”

“Poet!” said the lady, half fondly, half in scorn.

“But if the idea displeases you, by all means send the girl back at
once, my beloved. What are my fancies compared with your wishes?”

“We will see what she is like. Come here, child.”

Danaë approached, continuing to scan the pair with sharp suspicious
glances. Even her prejudiced mind could not deny that the Lady was
very beautiful, and she fastened greedily on a slight droop at the
corners of the finely formed mouth, a lift of the delicate eyebrows,
as signs of ill-temper counterbalancing good looks. But the
discontented expression was far more evident in her companion. He was
a handsome man, a good deal older than his wife, and his sallow face
bore abundant marks of anxiety and worry. These Danaë set down
promptly to the Lady’s account. She was worse than a witch, she was a
vampire, drawing forth the Prince’s vitality and feeding upon it for
the enhancement of her own youth and beauty.

“Such a terribly rough-looking girl! so uncouth!” said the Lady in
dismay. The tone was intelligible, if not the words.

“Not so bad for Strio, where we think more of strength than
refinement. I suppose my sisters must be somewhere about her age now.”

“I hope they are differently dressed, then. With those looped-up
trousers and bare legs she might be a boy.”

“This is a fisher-girl,” said Prince Romanos, with some coldness.
“They always have their clothes short for scrambling over the rocks.
My sisters wear the proper national dress, of course.”

“Well, there is no fishing for her to do here,” said the Lady sharply.
“Tell Despina to see that you are properly dressed before you come
into my presence again, child,” she added in Greek, spoken with a
foreign accent.

“At your pleasure, my Lady,” muttered Danaë, with a wrathful glance
which the Prince took for one of reproach.

“Fear not, little one,” he said pleasantly. “The Lady is not angry
with thee, but she does not know the island of the blue sea and the
white rock and the grey olive as thou and I do. What do they call
thee?”

“Eurynomé of the Andropouloi, lord.”

“The Andropouloi! Is the island as full of them as ever? Why, thou art
surely the daughter of Petros’s sister Theano? I remember she was to
marry an Andropoulos soon after I left Strio.”

“Stephanos is her husband’s name, lord--sword-bearer to the Despot.”

“Why doesn’t she call you _Despoti mou_, instead of _Kyrie_?” asked
the Lady sharply.

“Probably because to her there is only one Despot in the world. Tell
the Lady whom you mean when you speak of the Despot, child.”

“He of Strio, lord,” with evident surprise.

“Just so. But here there are two other Despots, he of Therma, which is
myself, and he of Klaustra, who is----”

“My dear Romanos! She will think you are in earnest.”

“And am I not, my most beautiful? But come, child, tell me whether the
girls run about over the roofs in the spring evenings in Strio as they
used to do?”

Danaë was horrified. “But no one knows about it, lord--especially no
man.”

“Not even the lad who hides in a doorway to get speech with one
particular girl? If not, how do I know?”

The memory of certain experiences of Angeliké’s made Danaë hesitate
to repeat her negative. She hung her head miserably, and the Prince
laughed.

“Aha, little one! There was a certain pretty Praxinoë twenty years
ago----” The Lady withdrew herself slightly, with a little motion of
disgust, and his laugh became embarrassed. “Well, she drove me from
Strio and cost me my father’s favour, so perhaps the less said about
her the better. Go back to the old women, little one, but grow not
into a Fate or a Grey Sister like them, and take good care of the
little lord. Sing him the island songs, that he may grow up with the
sound of the sea in his ears.”

“Your foot is on my head, lord,” responded Danaë, in a choking voice,
as she turned away. Her whole heart went out to this handsome,
tired-looking brother of hers, who had loved the stones of Strio
throughout twenty years of exile. How gladly would she have fought and
died to win him his principality, and how willingly now would she
submit to contumely and harshness to save him from the clutches of the
beautiful, cold-hearted, discontented woman at his side, who was
living on his very life-blood!

“That girl won’t be bad-looking, when you have brushed her up a
little, Olimpia,” said the Prince, in French again, when she was gone.
The same little shudder of repulsion as before answered him, and he
turned round quickly. “Alas, my beautiful one! you should not have
married Apolis the poet if you did not expect him to discern beauty
wherever it was to be found.”

“You are right. I should never have married Apolis the poet--nor
Romanos the Prince either,” she answered, in a strangled voice. “Nor
would I have done it if I had dreamt how it was to turn out.”

“I thought, we had agreed it was useless to enter upon this subject
again for the present,” said the Prince, with polite weariness.

She fired up at once. “Agreed? I never agreed. You said it was
useless, but how can it do any good to leave things as they are? The
longer you delay to acknowledge me publicly as your wife, the more
difficult it will be. Even now, how will you account for the two years
that I have lived concealed here?”

“It is more than difficult. It is impossible,” he said through his
teeth.

She glanced at him with mingled terror and indignation in her eyes,
and he raised his hand soothingly.

“Do not mistake me, my most beautiful. It is quite possible for you to
leave this house, force your way into the Palace--the guards shall
have orders not to stop you--and lay the proofs of our marriage before
the Council, calling in those good, kind-hearted meddlers”--the sneer
was terrific--“Princess Emilia and her mother-in-law, to vouch to your
words. The result is simple. Exit Romanos, Prince of Emathia, and
enter the Englishman, Prince Maurice Theophanis, with his wife and his
sister and his sister’s husband, to succeed to all the honours your
husband lays down.”

“You know I don’t want you to lose your kingdom. For what other reason
have I submitted to this two years’ concealment? But how can things
ever be better? What hope is there that you will ever find it safe to
acknowledge me as your wife?”

“Ah, now my beloved is becoming more reasonable! Listen, then, my
little dove. I have a hope--a great hope--that I may be able to
accomplish your wish--and my own--very shortly. This railway imbroglio
must be settled first. At present Scythia and Pannonia are bidding
against one another for the privilege of traversing your husband’s
state, while he merely intimates that the price offered is not high
enough. They are raising their offers. I have already had a shadowy
hint of the bare possibility that my position may be made permanent
instead of merely renewable after five years--even that it may become
hereditary.”

“Who offers that?” she asked, with a gasp.

“Ah, that I can hardly tell you at present. But you see, my Olimpia,
the frightful delicacy of the situation. The merest breath of
suspicion would blast irretrievably this charming prospect--and
incidentally your husband’s whole career. Wait until the proposal is
made definitely, until the bargain is completed, and instead of the
mere temporary nominee of Europe, Romanos the First is acknowledged
ruler of Emathia in his own right. Then is the moment for him proudly
to present his Princess to an admiring world, and to announce that the
succession is already secured in the person of a remarkably vigorous
infant heir.”

The Lady’s troubled features relaxed into an involuntary smile. “Ah,
that would be magnificent!” she said. “You swear it, Romanos? that
there shall be no more delay, no more of this vain entreaty on my
part, but that the moment your position is assured you will justify me
to the world?”

“I swear it! by all the natural objects to which poets have ever
appealed to ratify their vows.”

His lightness jarred upon her. “Do you think it is any pleasure to me
to lower myself by these continual appeals to you?” she demanded.

“I hope so, my soul, for you can hardly imagine it is any pleasure to
me. Ah, beautiful one, not more tragedy, I beseech you! Smile and look
lovingly upon your poet. The Prince has enough of seriousness
outside.”

She repressed with an effort the words thronging to her lips. “Very
well, I will say no more. But I must tell you this, that my father is
more than ever dissatisfied with my position here. He writes that he
proposes to visit Therma, and hopes to induce you to acknowledge me
publicly. If you refuse, I know he will wish to take me away with
him.”

“He may wish, but you will not go. When you vowed yourself to me,
Olimpia, you put it out of the power of your father or mine to part
us.”

“But, dearest, his patience is sorely tried. You know he only
consented to keep the secret of our marriage on condition that it was
announced as soon as you were established in power, and the
announcement has been put off so long and so often. His honour is his
dearest possession, and he fears a stain upon it.”

“Then let him remain at home until he is summoned to his daughter’s
entry into Therma as Princess. No, Olimpia, I am not joking. Make your
father understand that if he even shows himself in Emathia while this
negociation is proceeding, he will set tongues wagging, and the
mischief will be done. He must not come.”

“He hints that he has something to communicate which would make it
easier for you to acknowledge the marriage,” she faltered, cowed by
his tone. “He meant to tell us about it after the acknowledgment, but
now----”

“Holy Spiridion! let him write it, then. Anything to make the
announcement easier will be welcome enough to me, the saints know. But
no visit at present. I see what it is, Kyria Olimpia, you are dull!
Shall I bring Theophanis and his brother-in-law here to tea when they
come?”

“And their wives?” she asked pointedly.

He flushed with annoyance. “The ladies, with unusual discretion, have
not proposed to accompany their husbands on this visit. It is purely
on business--this railway business. Nothing less would drag our two
virtuous Englishmen from their herculean labours at Klaustra to this
frivolous place.”

“You may bring them to call on me if they know the truth--not
otherwise.”

Prince Romanos swore under his breath. “Some demon of obstinacy seems
to possess you to-day, Olimpia. I thought you were satisfied.”

“Forgive me, my husband. Surely it seems a good thought, to bring the
Englishmen here and tell them the truth under a promise of secrecy?
They are honourable men, and would watch over Janni’s rights if
anything happens to you and me.”

“You are incorrigible, Olimpia. Don’t you see that those two men are
the very last to whom the secret must be revealed? Theophanis is my
rival, and bound for his own sake to take advantage of any slip on my
part.”

“But he is so honourable, Romanos--punctiliously, quixotically
honourable, as you have often said yourself.”

He moved restlessly. “That’s all very well, but he may be secretly
plotting against me all the time. And to give him a hold upon me
now--it would be sheer insanity. I told you it was the railway
business they were coming to discuss. Doesn’t it occur to you that
these good simple fools would never willingly consent to allow either
Scythia or Pannonia to gain the power over us that the concession
would give them?”

“But what do they propose you should do?”

“They have some idea of an international guarantee, which would merely
mean that we should have ten nations claiming control over our affairs
instead of one. No, if they like to construct the line entirely from
their own resources, and so keep it all in the family, as one may say,
I am quite willing. It will leave Emathia independent, and keep them
from intriguing against me by using up their money. But they won’t. So
they are coming to argue about it, and I shall have to ply them with
fair words and try to hustle them back to Klaustra before the
negociations come to a head.”

“But do you think it safe to give Scythia or Pannonia the control of
the line?”

“I should not, if they had not something supremely desirable to offer
in exchange. You know what that is, and you should be the last person
to have scruples about it.”

“Yes, let me see,” she said meditatively. “You are confirmed in the
absolute possession of Emathia, and it is secured to your heirs.
“And--” she paused--“you marry the third cousin twice removed of the
Emperor of Scythia. You intend to murder me, I suppose? For I warn
you, Prince Romanos Christodoridi, that I will not accept a divorce,
nor will I go tamely away disgraced. I am your wife,” her voice broke,
“and for my child’s sake, I mean to be acknowledged as your Princess.”
She burst away from him in a passion of tears, and ran into the house.

“Now how in the world did she manage to hear of that little point?”
demanded Prince Romanos of himself, as he rose reluctantly to follow
her. “The most delicate matter of all--to reap the benefit without
paying the price. She will ruin everything in this mood. Olimpia!
Olimpia!” he raised his voice, “you are cruelly unjust to me. I insist
upon your hearing what I have to say.”




 CHAPTER III.
 THE LITTLE LORD.

Even when the first strangeness had worn off, Danaë remained an
incongruous element in the Lady’s secluded household. As a Striote,
speaking the island _patois_, she was a predestined adherent of the
Prince in the eyes of the two old women, and therefore an enemy of
their mistress, and to make things worse, she was ignorant of the
standard of “European” culture to which they had painfully attained.
Life within the bounds of the garden, mitigated only by a saint’s-day
visit to the nearest church, was miserably confined after the active
existence to which Danaë had been accustomed, and she scandalised her
custodians by her exploits in climbing trees and scrambling up walls.
Old Despina went out every day to do the household shopping, in the
course of which she managed to pick up and bring home to her mistress
an extraordinary variety of gossip reflecting on the Prince, but she
would never take the girl with her. Danaë’s longings to make closer
acquaintance with the crowded streets and the enticing shops were in
no way satisfied by the short walks to church in the company of
Mariora, both of them so closely swathed in their shawls that nothing
of their faces could be seen. But Despina assured her mistress that
the girl was such a savage that if she was allowed into the town she
was sure to make a scene of some kind, or at least to attract
attention by her staring and her uncouth remarks, and as the Lady was
above all things desirous to escape notice until the moment of her
vindication arrived, Danaë was sentenced to remain within the
grounds.

Even the thought of the punishment in store for the Lady would not
have enabled the girl to endure the confinement but for the society of
the baby. He was a notably joyous child, the brooding sorrow of his
unhappy mother leaving him untouched. Danaë and he took to one
another at first sight, and she became his devoted slave. With sublime
inconsistency, she saw in him the heir of the Christodoridi. He was
named Joannes, after the patriot Emperor who had fallen on the walls
of Czarigrad in the vain attempt to repel the final onslaught of the
conquering Roumis, and from whom the Christodoridi were descended in
the female line, and Danaë told herself proudly that he should yet
sit upon his ancestor’s throne. His preparation for this exalted
future should be her task, and hers alone. Released from the baleful
influence of the Lady, Prince Romanos might be trusted to make his
Imperial marriage and safeguard his own career, but Danaë would carry
off Janni to Strio, and bring him up a fearless climber and a daring
seaman, as became a son of the sea. Whether the Prince allowed her
quietly to take possession of his son, or whether she was obliged to
act without consulting him, she hugged herself daily in the thought
that the Lady would have no voice in the matter. Nay, from her prison
the unfortunate mother should be permitted to see her child in the
distance, growing up without knowledge of her and happy in his
ignorance.

It was impossible for the Lady to be unaware of the feelings with
which Danaë regarded her, though she found the girl’s island Greek
almost unintelligible. Sullen looks, deepening into positive hostility
when Janni was taken to his mother, could not be mistaken, but the
Lady set them down to an excessive loyalty to the house of
Christodoridi, and jealousy of the foreigner who had married into it.
Eurynomé suffered from home-sickness, no doubt, and that was why she
was always so cross. Kindness was wasted on her, since one could not
import her native rock bodily into Therma harbour, and after one or
two careless attempts to break down the nurse-girl’s enmity, her
mistress shrugged her shoulders and left her to herself, secure in her
devotion to Janni. Danaë breathed more freely when the Lady ceased
her efforts, for was she not a witch? and kindness from her could only
be looked upon with suspicion. But it was possible that her
indifference was merely a ruse, and therefore Danaë exhausted all her
store of charms to protect herself and the baby. Mariora caught her
one day stealing into the kitchen to rub her finger on the sooty side
of a saucepan, for did not everyone--save foreigners and
atheists--know that a dab of soot behind a child’s ear was the surest
means of averting the evil eye? But Despina and Mariora laid aside
their differences to drag the culprit into their mistress’s presence,
and accuse her with one voice of laying spells on the illustrious
little lord--a charge which Danaë found particularly galling from
those who ought to have shared her Orthodox beliefs had they not been
corrupted by European incredulity. The Lady would have been merely
amused, had not the remedy been such a dirty one, but as it was,
Danaë received so severe a scolding that Despina ventured hopefully
to ask leave to give her a good beating. The Lady looked annoyed.

“No,” she said; “if Eurynomé cannot do what she is told, she must go
back to her island. I am not going to take the responsibility of
teaching her common sense. Her uncle is the person to do that. You may
go, Eurynomé.”

“Alas, Lady mine!” lamented Despina, “you have lost a chance. There is
great evil in this wicked girl’s heart towards you, and I would have
beaten it out before it grows into deeds.”

“My good Despina, what harm can a wretched nurse-girl, who could not
even make herself understood outside, do to me? It is the Prince’s
fancy that she should attend on the little lord, and I should be sorry
if he thought I had a prejudice against her. If he sees for himself
that she is troublesome, he will tell Petros to take her away.”

Danaë, lingering shamelessly to listen at the door, stamped her foot
as she hurried away, boiling over with rage.

“So be it, Lady! so be it!” she muttered. “I can do you no harm, can
I? And I can’t talk your mincing foreign Greek? You will find before
very long that I can! I make my bow to you, my Lady. You will know me
better when I bring my Jannaki to the window of your dungeon, and
teach him to spit upon you!”

Danaë could not have explained why her mistress’s indifference
wounded her more than active dislike would have done, but so it was.
The company of the two old women, with their taunts and nods of
triumph, was equally intolerable, and she never rested until she had
found a hiding-place for herself and Janni where they could be by
themselves. It was close to the house, so that she could hear at once
if she was called, in the grove of ilex-trees which masked the
approach to the kitchen premises. The branches of one of the trees
grew close to the ground, and to Danaë it was child’s play to clamber
into them with Janni girt closely to her with a shawl. Once well above
the ground, she climbed higher and higher until they were quite
concealed by the foliage from anyone below, reaching a convenient
forked branch where she could sit in comfort, and where she broke away
the twigs cautiously to give herself a view over the garden. In spite
of all her care, it was not long before her two enemies divined that
she had some hidden refuge, and began to hunt for it. Shaking with
laughter, and holding up a warning finger in front of Janni’s rosy
face, she would hear them shuffling among the stiff dead leaves below
her, peering round the tree-trunks and scanning the lower branches
keenly. They knew that she must be in the wood, unfortunately, for the
first time that she took Janni up the tree the climb made him
fractious, and she was obliged to sing to quiet him, so that it was no
use denying the fact when Mariora demanded where she had been, making
that noise so close to the house, but when they required further
particulars, she assumed an expression of idiocy that was absolutely
impenetrable. The old women were equal to her, however, and one
unfortunate day, descending her tree hastily in answer to Mariora’s
loud summons from the kitchen door, Danaë almost fell into the arms
of Despina, crouching among the dead leaves. Then indeed there was a
moment of triumph for the Lady’s two faithful attendants. Gleefully
they haled Danaë by main force before their mistress, and charged her
with endangering the little lord’s life and limbs by taking him to the
top of the tallest tree in the gardens. She was voluble in her
denials, but the tell-tale leaves and pieces of bark, traces of her
hurried descent, which decorated her hair and clothes and the shawl in
which Janni was wrapped, belied her words, and her mistress was the
more disturbed because of her former confidence.

“I knew you were disobedient to the servants and disrespectful to me,
Eurynomé, but I thought I could trust you to take care of the little
lord,” she said. “This is too much. Your uncle must deal with you. I
can stand no more.”

With huge delight Despina and Mariora dragged their prisoner away and
shut her up in the wood-shed until Petros should arrive with the
Prince. Janni’s piteous wailings for “Nono,” which could only be
calmed by undivided attention from his mother, troubled them not a
whit, but they added fuel to the fire which burned in the rebellious
heart of the girl who crouched exhausted on the ground after a wild
and futile attack on the door. If Danaë had felt before that she did
well to be angry with the Lady and her household, she would now gladly
have seen them all lying dead before her. Her wrath was still hot when
the two old women reappeared, and with various kicks and pinches,
which were returned with interest, pulled and pushed her into the
presence of her judges. Her cap, with its rows of silver coins, was
half torn off, the many little plaits of her hair ragged and
dishevelled, as she stood with sullen face and heaving breast before
the Prince; but Janni, seated on his father’s knee, held out his arms
to her with a delighted “Ah, Nono!” The girl’s face changed as if by
magic as she started forward to take him, but Despina and Mariora held
her forcibly back, and the Lady took instant possession of her son--a
precaution which he resented by a violent howl.

“Give him your watch to play with,” she said hastily to her husband,
“or we shall not be able to hear ourselves speak. Eurynomé is the
only person who can manage him when he gets into these passions.”

Obediently Prince Romanos dangled his watch by the chain before his
son’s face, held it close to his ear that he might hear it tick, and
finally relinquished it to him to suck--as is the wont of
inexperienced fathers confronted with a crisis of the kind, until the
howls subsided sufficiently to allow his wife to make herself heard.

“You understand,” she said to Petros, who stood deprecatingly by,
“that this is not the first time your niece has behaved badly. I have
borne with her as long as I could, but we have had no peace since she
entered the household. She is a most extraordinary girl. Why can’t she
do what she is told? Is it your island independence?”

“If it please the Lady, I think some demon must have taken up his
dwelling in her,” said Petros helplessly, and Despina and Mariora
exchanged triumphant glances.

“She had better go home at once. The little lord’s life is not safe
while she is here,” said the Lady decisively.

“Will it be safe when she is gone?” asked the Prince, with a desperate
effort to rescue the watch, which Janni, now growing black in the
face, was attempting to swallow.

“All-Holy Mother! you will kill the child, lord!” shrieked Danaë,
tearing herself from her warders and rushing forward. A moment’s
struggle and the watch was once more in its owner’s possession, and
Janni in his nurse’s arms, crowing with delight as he grabbed at the
coins in her cap.

“See how fond the child is of her!” said the Prince to his wife. “Is
it true, Eurynomé, that thou wouldst have killed the little lord?”

“Lord, I would die for him,” replied Danaë fervently.

“You see, Olimpia. There must be some mistake.”

“I can never have her about him again.”

“My most beloved, you don’t understand our island-people. The women
make the most devoted nurses in the world, and have died for their
charges, as she says. She is a wild creature who does not understand
civilised ways, but I would trust her with the child through anything.
Let Petros speak to her seriously, and I’ll be bound you will see a
great change in her.”

“If Petros can make her understand that she is to do what she is told,
and that Janni is to be brought up in my way, not hers, I might think
of it.”

“Surely, my Lady, there is a way of making women understand, and I
have never known it fail,” said Petros unctuously, with a glance at
his master’s riding-whip. The Prince laughed uncomfortably.

“No, no, friend Petraki, we are not in the islands now. Give the girl
a good talking-to, that’s enough.”

Petros looked at the Lady, whose delicate brows were drawn into a
slight frown. “Leave it to me, lord. Does not the girl come from my
place? Is she to bring disgrace on me by angering the mistress I
brought her to serve? In five minutes she shall kiss the Lady’s foot
and ask pardon--yes, and promise amendment. Follow me, wretched one.”

“Well, don’t be too hard upon her. Follow thine uncle, little one, and
fear not. The Lady and I will come to thy help if he beats thee.”

“He will not, lord.” The words were uttered with such concentrated
fury that Prince Romanos turned rather uneasily to his wife as Danaë,
with head held high, followed the retreating form of Petros.

“That is really a very remarkable girl, Olimpia. Our women are usually
kept in better order.”

“Then I wish Petros had not chosen the exception to bring here. If you
knew the trouble Eurynomé has made in the house, you would not be so
horrified by the thought of her getting a beating. She thoroughly
deserves it, and no doubt, as her uncle says, it is the only argument
that people of that type understand. I have stood endless
unpleasantness, but when it comes to risking Janni’s life----”

“My beautiful one, you are agitating yourself needlessly. Rather than
bring a tear into the eyes of my Princess--” he stole a glance at her
to see how the word was received--“the girl shall go back to her place
to-morrow. But if she is really penitent, and promises to do better,
is it not well to have one about the child who is truly devoted to
him?”

“And who recalls to you, lord, those happy days of your youth in
Strio?” said the Lady, imitating sarcastically Danaë’s island-speech.
“Well, as it seems quite certain that Petros is not beating her, do
you think we might venture to have tea?”

Behind the screen of trees, Danaë was facing Petros with blazing
eyes. “If you dare to lay a finger upon me, I will tell everything to
the Lord Romanos,” she said hoarsely.

“I am not such a fool, my lady. I will leave my lord your father to do
the beating when you are packed back to Strio with the work undone
that you came for.”

“And why is the work undone?” Danaë recovered herself after a
momentary pause of consternation. “Because you were not ready! I have
been waiting eagerly to do my part, but you have never called upon me.
You may be sure, insolent one, that the Despot shall hear the truth,
whatever he may be pleased to do to me.”

The hereditary tendency to obedience in Petros responded immediately
to the hectoring tone. “Indeed, my lady, I am to blame, but it has not
been my fault. This is the first time that I have seen you alone, to
make the final arrangements.”

“Is everything arranged on your side?” demanded Danaë, unappeased.

“Everything, lady mine. The helpers are secured--and indeed it was not
difficult to find them. There are those in Therma as well as in Strio
who hate the Lady. And it will be well to do it soon--this week--while
the English lords are here. The Lord Romanos will have less time for
coming here, nor will he so easily remark my absence. Moreover, he
will have less opportunity for inquiring into the matter afterwards.”

“That does not concern me,” said Danaë loftily. “It is your part to
leave no traces. You have a boat ready at a suitable place, able to
sail at any moment?”

“A boat, my lady?” Petros was taken aback. “Why a boat?”

Danaë stamped her foot. “Fool! to carry off the Lady to Strio to her
prison, of course. And how are the little lord and I to return
thither, pray? Did you think the Lord Romanos would willingly part
with his son?”

“My lady”--Petros looked at her with cunning eyes--“you are wiser than
I. I have indeed been remiss, but the boat shall be ready. How could
my lord your father be other than delighted to receive the beloved
wife and child of his illustrious son?”

“She is not his wife!” cried Danaë. “His wife must be Orthodox and of
royal blood. She is neither.”

“Yet the little lord will be welcomed and honoured as the heir of the
Christodoridi?” insinuated Petros humbly.

Danaë felt as though a pitfall had opened before her feet, but she
faced him undauntedly. “That does not concern you, friend Petros. The
Despot will do as he pleases. I have not felt obliged to share with
you the secret instructions he gave me.”

“And I did not expect it, my lady. Only--there are some who would
willingly make everything secure by killing the Lady instead of merely
carrying her off.”

The chronicles of the Christodoridi included a not inconsiderable
variety of cold-blooded murders, but Danaë blenched. Nevertheless,
she endeavoured vigorously to justify herself, realising that Petros
was gloating over her horror.

“What is that to us? You have the Despot’s orders to bring her to
Strio, not to kill her. To remove her evil influence from the Lord
Romanos is a good deed, but to shed blood would be to bring sin upon
our souls. Moreover, I, at least, would sooner have the witch in
captivity, where I knew her to be secure, than set her malicious ghost
free to haunt me.”

“Great is the wisdom of Kyria Danaë!” said Petros, with extreme
respect, “and her words shall be obeyed. Take this, my lady,” he
handed her a minute wedge of iron, “and hide it safely. The time we
choose must be when Despina has gone to do her shopping, for the fewer
witnesses the better, and therefore you must find means to let me know
if she has not been out yet any day when I attend the Lord Romanos
hither. Then I will keep her in talk while she lets us out, and you
must slip the wedge into the hole of the lock, so that the bolt cannot
shoot home. The rest you can leave to me.”

Danaë considered her instructions. “It will be difficult to get near
the gate, but I will manage it somehow. You have made arrangements for
getting the Lady unperceived to the boat?”

“Is it for me to share with you the secret instructions I have
received from my lord your father, lady?” asked Petros sulkily--then,
with a spasm of geniality, “But all the Despot’s thoughts are yours,
as we know. Does the idea of a mock funeral procession, with yourself
and the little lord among the mourners, please you, my lady?”

“Excellent!” cried Danaë. “Nothing could be better.”

“Then all is well, and all is ready. Therefore return now, Eurynomé,
and kiss the Lady’s hand, and promise her to behave better in future.”

“I will not do it!” cried Danaë, her anger reviving.

“Then you return at once to Strio, my lady, and the plan falls
through. No vengeance on the Lady!”

“Even for that I would not do it,” she said wrathfully. “But to save
my brother and Janni from her evil arts--” she pushed past Petros, and
marched doggedly to the tea-table. “Grant me pardon, Lady mine. I will
not risk the little lord’s life again,” she forced herself to say.

“On your knees, Eurynomé!” said Prince Romanos sharply, conscious of
his wife’s raised eyebrows, and the girl obeyed sullenly. The Lady
held out a delicate hand with obvious lack of eagerness, and Danaë
kissed it and dropped it as if it had been a hot coal, retiring
awkwardly enough at an imperative sign from her brother.

“I can’t congratulate you on your _protégée’s_ manners,” said the
Lady lightly.

“No one is better fitted to improve them than yourself, my beloved
Olimpia. And at least she is staunch, and would give her heart’s blood
for Janni.”

“What is the danger at which you are always hinting? Is there
something new?”

“There is always a certain amount of unpleasantness,” he replied
evasively. “And this visit of Theophanis and his brother-in-law will
stir up their supporters. My beautiful one, it is my particular wish
that you have a proper guard for the present--inside the garden.”

“To guard the Princess--or the Lady?” she asked coldly.

He uttered a furious exclamation. “Olimpia, you are enough to drive a
man mad! Do you think I have invited Theophanis here to hand over the
crown to him? It will task all my powers to hoodwink him and Glafko as
to the promising negociation which is to end by seating you beside me
on the throne, and would you have me ruin everything by making him
aware of your existence now?”

“Perhaps you are also hoodwinking me on the same subject? No, I will
have no guards within these walls. Here, at any rate, I need not see
the pointing finger, or hear the things your people say of me. Any
danger that may threaten Janni or me is entirely due to your refusing,
in defiance of all your promises, to acknowledge us, and I will not
accept further protection at your hands while the concealment lasts.”

“Olimpia!” Prince Romanos had thrown himself on his knees, in an
attitude that would have been impossibly theatrical in any other man.
“You wrong me deeply; I call all the saints to witness to it. Believe
me, you should not remain in concealment another hour, if the
necessity were not urgent. It is your throne and mine--Janni’s throne,
our son’s throne--that is in danger. Trust your husband,” he leaned
forward and enfolded her hands in his--“or if not your husband, trust
the poet to whom you plighted your troth on the marble terrace among
the orange-trees.”

“I do trust you,” she said wearily, allowing her hands to rest in
his--“because I must. I remain here because I have nowhere else to go.
I have wounded my father grievously for your sake by begging him not
to come. You may send your guards here if you will tell them the truth
about me. But within these walls everyone must know that I am the
Princess and your wife.”

“It is impossible,” he murmured gloomily.

“So I thought. So it will always be when I urge you to make the truth
known. You have no intention whatever of acknowledging it.”

“My most beautiful and best beloved, you are cruelly wrong, and I will
prove it to you. If I place in your keeping the most sacred treasure
of our house, handed down for hundreds of years before the birth of
John Theophanis himself, will you believe me then? If anything should
happen to me, you have only to produce that jewel to show that I
acknowledged you as my honoured wife, and as rightful Empress of the
East. Ah, my beloved, you are yielding! I will not ask you to see me
again until I can put the treasure into your hands, and you will own
how much you have misjudged your Apolis.”




 CHAPTER IV.
 THE GIRDLE OF ISIDORA.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning, and Despina was clattering
things furiously in the kitchen as she collected baskets and other
aids to shopping, for she was late in starting. The Lady sat in the
morning-room opening on the verandah, writing a letter which seemed,
from her frequent pauses, to be difficult to frame, and Danaë was
playing bo-peep with Janni in and out of the window. Above the child’s
shouts of laughter came the imperative sound of the door-bell, and
Danaë caught him up in her arms, and followed at a discreet distance
in Despina’s wake as she went to open the door.

“Aha, old mother, you won’t be able to start just yet!” she cried
mockingly, as the Prince rode in, followed by Petros, for Despina
would never delegate even to Mariora the duty of keeping the door in
her absence.

“May he that is without and afar [_i.e._, the devil] fly away with
that girl! If I catch her, I’ll teach her saucy tongue a lesson!”
muttered the old woman furiously.

“I should recommend a red-hot skewer,” was the soothing suggestion of
Petros, as he flashed a glance towards Danaë to show that he had
understood her intimation. “A monk at the Holy Mountain told me that
the worst of scolds could be cured by marking a cross on her tongue
with it, if the proper prayers were said at the same time.”

Despina requited his sympathy with another curse, and Danaë laughed
as she followed the Prince, who had taken Janni in his arms. He gave
the child back to her as they reached the house, and she sat down
again on the verandah while he greeted his wife. Reading in her eyes
the question she was too proud to ask, he unbuttoned his tunic, and
took out something wrapped in linen which had been concealed there.
Danaë, her curiosity aroused, watched him with eager eyes while he
unrolled it, but she sang mechanically to Janni the while, lest her
interest should be observed. One by one he released from the
protecting folds a series of circular plaques of gold, gleaming with
jewels and translucent enamel, while the Lady looked on, puzzled and a
little disappointed, and Danaë’s breath came quick and fast.

“Byzantine, I suppose?” said the Lady, fingering one of the plaques;
“and not intentionally comic?”

“Wait!” said Prince Romanos sharply. He was fitting the plaques
together by means of the little gold hooks and chains attached to
each, until they formed a small portrait-gallery of severe-featured
saints, with jewelled halos and dresses. He held it up. “If the people
in the streets as I passed had known that I was bringing this to you,
Olimpia, they would have torn me limb from limb. It is the girdle of
the Empress Isidora.”

Danaë gasped, in spite of herself, at the sound of the name, which
was the only word she understood, but she had already guessed what the
jewel was. Handed down in the Christodoridi family was a metrical
version of the exploits of the famous, and infamous, Empress, in which
the girdle figured largely, and Danaë could have named each
ill-favoured saint from memory. And this treasure, the badge of
Orthodox sovereignty, her infatuated brother was now handing over to
the schismatic woman who had bewitched him! Even the Lady, who knew
nothing of its legendary fame, was impressed as she took it into her
hands.

“It is a magnificent thing!” she said. “Why have you never shown it to
me before?”

“Because I have never had it in my possession, or even set eyes upon
it, till now. In fact, I did not know that it was still in existence.
For your possession of it, my most beautiful, you may thank Prince
Theophanis, or rather Lady Eirene, his wife.”

“You will hardly ask me to believe that Princess Theophanis has
acknowledged the justice of your claims so far as to send you this by
her husband?”

“Very far from it, my dearest. She has no knowledge of its present
whereabouts, and if you are to keep it, she had better not know.”

“But to whom does it really belong?”

“To the head of the descendants of John Theophanis. That, my Olimpia,
is your husband, as the inhabitants of Emathia testified by their free
vote. But the girdle has been preserved since the fall of Czarigrad in
the family of the Princess Eirene, and I have reason to believe that
she regards it as her own property.”

“And you have contrived to rob her jewel-case during her husband’s
absence here?” asked the Lady lightly.

“Your poet does not go to work quite so crudely, Olimpia. No, it seems
that it is ten years or more since anyone saw the girdle. Before her
marriage the Princess was detained in a sort of honourable captivity
at the old Scythian Consulate here, from which she escaped to join
Theophanis. Unfortunately for her, knowing that the Scythian Imperial
family were most anxious to possess the jewel, in order to support
their claims to the heritage of the Cæsars, she contrived a
hiding-place for it, from which she had not time to rescue it when the
opportunity of escape came. There it must have remained ever since,
for even when the Consulate was burnt by the Roumi mob before the
bombardment, the walls in great part remained standing. But just
lately she saw in the papers that we were clearing away the ruins to
make the new boulevard, and immediately hurried her husband off to
make inquiries. Knowing Maurice Theophanis, you won’t be surprised to
hear that he chose me, in strictest secrecy, as the recipient of his
inquiries--for which I should imagine his wife will have a word or two
to say to him when he gets home. It seems that Princess Eirene managed
to pick a large stone out of the wall with her scissors, and hide the
girdle in the rubble behind it. As she had fitted the stone in again
neatly enough to escape the observation of the spies who surrounded
her, I thought it was very likely the treasure was there still, but I
said a good deal to Theophanis about fire and plunderers. We visited
the ruins, and Glafko--who has a plaguy exact mind--located as nearly
as he could the spot where the Princess’s room had been. In their
presence I promised the workmen a large reward if they found anything,
and fearful penalties unless they gave it up, and then I carried our
friends off to a review. The walls were duly knocked down, and nothing
was found. But Daniloff, the chief of police, used himself to be
employed at the Scythian Consulate in the old days, and he had visited
the spot the night before. He found the girdle and brought it to me,
wrapped up in odds and ends of paper, and he and I cleaned it and
polished it ourselves. No one else on earth dreams where it is.”

“That girl outside will know,” said the Lady, without looking towards
Danaë.

“Nonsense! she doesn’t understand French. All she knows is that I have
brought you a present of jewellery to-day--surely a very natural thing
to do. It is not as if she had ever heard of the girdle and its
history.”

“And the obvious thing, to her, would be that I should put it on at
once.” She passed the glittering links round her waist, confining the
folds of the loose flowing gown of rich wine-colour she was wearing.
Before she could snap the clasp into place the Prince’s hand stopped
her.

“Wait, Olimpia. I must tell you that they say the girdle brings
ill-luck with it.”

The Lady laughed, and fastened the clasp. “I will risk the ill-luck if
it makes me Empress,” she said.

Prince Romanos gazed at her in unfeigned admiration. “Olimpia, you are
magnificent! You look the Empress to the life. May I yet see you wear
the girdle at our coronation in Hagion Pneuma!” He knelt and lifted
the edge of the wine-coloured robe to his lips. “Hail to the Orthodox
Empress!” he said fervently in Greek, and Danaë thrilled with horror
at the sacrilege. Were there no bounds to her brother’s infatuation?

The Lady blushed slightly at the fervour of her husband’s tone.
Perhaps she also saw, as she looked dreamily far beyond him, the dim
splendours of the great cathedral of Czarigrad, rescued from the
Moslem and restored to Christian uses, and crowded with rejoicing
people assembled to welcome back the descendant of John Theophanis to
the throne of his ancestors--saw herself in imperial robes beside him,
and Janni, grown a goodly youth, acclaimed as the heir of the Eastern
Empire. Then she shivered a little, and unfastened the clasp again.

“Don’t speak Greek; it is not safe with the girl about. You have made
me almost afraid of letting even Despina know that I have the girdle,
yet she has my keys. I will put it here,” she opened a drawer of her
bureau by a spring, and laid the jewel inside it, Danaë watching her
every movement, “until I can make an excuse to get them and hide it in
the safe. And now tell me what it is you want me to do for you in
return for it.”

“Most beautiful and beloved, will you not believe that your poet
brought you a gift solely that he might feast his eyes upon your
beauty adorned with it, and enjoy your pleasure?”

“Not for a moment,” said the Lady decisively.

“Ah, hard-hearted one! will nothing move you? Well, then, dearest, I
claim your promise made the other day. You will allow me to quarter a
guard for you within these walls?”

“I made no promise!” she said quickly.

“Not in words, I own, but it was implied, in return for the gift I
hoped to bring you, and have now brought. Listen, Olimpia; I am in a
very difficult position. Theophanis and his brother-in-law have made
this week a perfect hell to me. The shifts and excuses to which I have
been driven to baulk their curiosity are really humiliating to look
back upon. I am compelled--simply for the sake of averting the
suspicions I saw beginning to spring up in their minds--to appear to
fall in with their scheme for the railway route. Of course it is
exactly opposite to the one on which your hopes--our hopes--depend,
but I must throw them off the scent for a week or two, or until I can
get things definitely settled. Theophanis and Glafko are returning
home fairly satisfied, but to make things quite smooth I was obliged
to volunteer to go part of the way with them, to see a place where
there would be difficulty in getting the line through. It is a Moslem
colony--_evkaf_ [or _wakf_, land set apart for religious uses] land,
a mosque and a cemetery--and any sensible person would have seen at
once that it was an insuperable obstacle to their pet route, but they
want to negociate about it, relying on Glafko’s influence with the
Roumis, I suppose, and--in a moment of thoughtlessness, I confess--I
proposed enthusiastically to go with them and see what could be done.”

“Which means that you will be away from Therma--how long?”

“Four days, not more; three, if I am lucky.”

“And you have never gone away before without sending Janni and me into
safety at Thamnos first!”

“My dear Olimpia, this is such a short time. And the notice was so
brief; I start with them to-day, and there was no time to arrange
anything. Then consider what is to be gained--the fulfilment of our
dearest hopes. You on the throne beside me, Janni acknowledged heir of
Emathia--safety and recognition, in short, if I can only keep those
two meddlesome Englishmen in the dark till my great _coup_ is made.”

“And your police are not capable of protecting this house against the
mob, even with the help of the soldiers outside?”

“It is not the mob I am afraid of, but those who are
your--our--enemies for political, dynastic reasons.”

She raised her eyebrows. “The Theophanis family?”

“Let me beg you not to consider me altogether a fool, Olimpia. No, not
the Theophanis family. But you are aware that your existence is not
entirely unknown in the city; you have often complained to me of the
fact. I have reason to believe that it has reached the knowledge of
the very people with whom I am carrying on my secret negociations.
They may not know your real position, but they are quite capable of
seeing in you and Janni a possible obstacle to the realisation of
their aims, and in that case you and Janni would be sentenced to
disappear. Now do you see what I mean? I may have been brutal, but you
have forced me to speak plainly.”

The Lady frowned, paying little attention to his excuses. “In plain
words, then, you think that opportunity will be taken of your absence
to murder your wife and son?”

“I don’t think it will be so, or I should not go, but I think it is
possible that such an attempt might be made. Consider Janni, Olimpia,
if you will not consider yourself.”

“I am considering myself,” she said quickly; “or rather, I am
considering the dignity of your wife. The Princess of Emathia may be
pardoned a little pride, Romanos--may she not? But Janni is in danger,
you say? Well, then, I well yield as far as this. You may post your
guards round the house at night. Arrange matters with Despina, and let
me hear nothing of them. They must be gone before I come out of doors
in the morning, and they must only arrive after dark--I will not walk
in the garden late. I will not see or be seen by any more of your
subjects till you acknowledge me; that piece of pride I keep. But we
shall be protected, according to your wish; for I suppose even you do
not expect a murderous attack to be made upon us in the daytime?”

“No, I think that ought to be enough,” he said reluctantly. “I shall
be a little happier in my mind, knowing that the garden is thoroughly
patrolled. Accept your poet’s gratitude, my Princess, and vouchsafe
him a gracious farewell. I have innumerable things to do before I join
Theophanis and Glafko this afternoon. They start this morning, with a
patriarchal paraphernalia of tents and baggage-mules, for the fancy
for exploring their proposed new route forbids their making use of the
railway, and I catch them up, travelling light. But I dare not stay
longer.”

“And poor Despina will be distracted by the delay in her marketing,”
said the Lady lightly. She took her husband’s arm, and walked with him
into the garden, Danaë following with Janni in her arms, and the
little iron wedge which Petros had given her clasped tightly in her
hand. The Lady remained out of sight of the gate, but while his father
was speaking to Despina, Janni clamoured to see the horses, and Danaë
carried him to watch the riders mount. She hardly knew how she could
contrive to slip the wedge into the lock, for Despina, fuming with
impatience, was clearly in a desperate hurry. To add to her
irritation, the horse which Petros rode began to dance hither and
thither, apparently desiring to go anywhere rather than through the
gate, and in his efforts to control it, Petros caught his spur in the
old woman’s embroidered apron, and the stuff only yielded with a
jagged tear. Then the horse went through the gateway with a bound, and
Petros was left sitting on the ground with an expression of such
intense astonishment that even Despina, while reviling him loudly,
could hardly help laughing.

“Come on, Petraki! What’s the matter?” cried his master, turning
round.

“I knew something would happen when we met that priest just as we were
starting, my Prince,” moaned Petros lugubriously, noting with the tail
of his eye that Danaë, venturing as far as the doorpost in
sympathetic curiosity, had slipped the wedge into the hole.

“If you hadn’t been so clumsy, nothing would have happened, fellow,”
snapped Despina, contemplating her ruined apron. “I didn’t meet a
priest, so why should I be unlucky?”

“And I did meet him, and nothing has happened to me,” said Prince
Romanos gaily. “Get yourself a new apron with that, old mother, and
don’t croak. Make haste, friend Petros,” as the sentry brought up the
horse, which he had captured; “or shall I send the police for you with
an ambulance?”

“O my Prince, I think I can get to the Palace,” said Petros, rising
with many groans, “but after that----”

“You will have to go on the sick-list instead of coming into the
country with me. That’s where my ill-luck comes in,” said the Prince,
as his retainer hoisted himself with tremendous difficulty into the
saddle.

“Take the little lord in, Eurynomé,” cried Despina wrathfully. “How
often have I not told you that no modest girl goes peeping out of
gates, and there you are, absolutely outside! You’re a bad one, and I
always said so.”

Danaë obeyed, too much excited even to give Despina as good as she
gave, so near and clear to her mind was the culmination of the plot.
Her brother was going away somewhere, and Petros had contrived to
avoid going with him, and the door could be opened by anyone who knew
the secret of the obstructed lock. Moreover, the saints--so she
gratefully phrased it--had put in her way the means of escape from the
fears of Janni’s future in Strio which had been suggested by the words
of Petros when last they met. With the Girdle of Isidora in her
possession, she could bargain for his safety with her father. Prince
Christodoridi was an unsatisfactory person to bargain with--she
recognised it quite dispassionately and not without admiration--since
he never kept any promises that were not strictly in accordance with
his own interests, but with the treasure of the family in her hands,
it would be hard if Danaë could not manage to bind him down to
tolerance of Janni’s presence, if not to actual recognition of his
rights. To leave the girdle where it was, for her brother to bestow on
some other schismatic woman, was a thought which only suggested itself
to be scouted.

The morning passed quietly. Despina went out with her baskets,
shutting the gate with a tremendous bang, since the lock was difficult
to manipulate. The Lady compassionated her on having to start so late
on such a hot day, and called Mariora to carry her chair and table out
of doors. The favourite spot on the lawn in front of the house was not
sufficiently shady to-day, and only the thick foliage of the ilexes
afforded tolerable shelter. The Lady sat down to finish her letter,
with Danaë and Janni playing on the ground beside her, and Mariora
returned to her work. As the day grew hotter and the air and the hum
of insects more drowsy, the child became sleepy and fretful.

“Carry him indoors, Eurynomé,” said the Lady, looking up from her
writing. “It is early for his sleep, but the excitement this morning
must have tired him. I will come and sit beside him while you have
your dinner.”

“It is done as you command, my Lady,” responded Danaë, with unusual
meekness, and she lifted the child to carry him into the house. On the
verandah she paused. There were sounds at the gate. The Lady had heard
them too, and risen from her chair, just as Mariora rushed through the
hall from the kitchen.

“Fly, my Lady, hide yourself! Murderers!” shrieked the old woman. “I
will keep them back!” and she pushed her mistress violently inside the
house and ran towards the gate, brandishing a chopper. The Lady turned
to snatch Janni out of Danaë’s arms, but drew back suddenly.

“Hide him, my Eurynomé, save him! You love him, I know.”

“They will do you no harm, Lady,” responded Danaë confidently, “nor
the little lord either.”

“What do you know about it, girl? Listen!” as the clash of weapons and
a terrible sobbing shriek reached their ears. “Ah, my poor Mariora!
Take him, hide him--you have some place. I will go and meet them and
give you time.” She pressed a passionate kiss on Janni’s sleepy eyes.
“Save him, I charge you, Eurynomé. Go, go quickly!”

Overmastered by sheer force of will, Danaë fled through the hall and
kitchen and out into the ilex-grove, seeing nothing but the tall red
figure stepping out with uncovered head into the blinding sunshine. A
clamour of words followed her, menaces and evil names, then the Lady’s
voice, very clear and distinct in her foreign Greek.

“I am the wife of the Lord Romanos. If you kill me, you kill your
Princess.”

Again that clash of steel, and Danaë’s stubborn heart misgave her.
Pausing only to wind her shawl firmly round Janni and herself, she
began to climb, hurriedly and furiously, and never ceased until she
had reached her eyrie, where no one could see her from below. She
found a cradle among the branches for Janni, and tied him there safely
before she ventured to look out of the window she had made for
herself. On the lawn lay a prostrate figure in a red gown, dreadfully
still, with a deeper red spreading from it to the grass, and men in
the uniform of the Prince’s guard were searching eagerly among the
trees. Others came rushing out of the house as she watched.

“Not a soul there! Where are they?” was the cry. “What is the use of
killing the she-wolf if the cub is left alive?”

Then Petros was false! More than that, it came upon Danaë like a blow
that her father had planned this murder all along, and deliberately
made use of her to further his plot. In the sudden revulsion of
feeling she forgot her own hatred of the Lady, and the ignoble part it
had led her to play. Janni was alive, left to her charge by his
murdered mother, and she would save him if she died for it. Sick and
shaking, she crawled back to where she had left him, and found him
peacefully asleep. Seating herself in a fork of the branches beside
him, she loosened her dagger in its sheath. If they were tracked to
the tree, no one should touch him while she remained alive.




 CHAPTER V.
 THE BRAND OF CAIN.

Danaë woke from the sleep or stupor that had overcome her to find
Janni patting her face.

“Wake up, Nono, wake up!” he was saying, as he was wont to do in the
early morning. “Breakfast!”

With a horrible spasm of fear, she covered his mouth quickly with the
shawl, fearing his voice might have been heard, then listened
apprehensively. But no sound came from below, and Janni was struggling
to get rid of the shawl, and insisting, in his own language, which
only Danaë understood, that he was very hungry, and would shortly
roar if breakfast was not forthcoming. Judging by her own sensations
that some hours must have passed since she had climbed the tree, she
ventured to crawl back to her point of vantage and peer cautiously
forth. The dreadful red form still lay where it had fallen, marring
the peaceful beauty of the garden with its rigid lines and clenched
hands, but of the murderers there was no sign. Could they have guessed
that she and Janni were hidden in the grounds, and be lying in wait in
the house, ready to pounce upon them when hunger should drive them
forth? Danaë shook from head to foot as the thought occurred to her,
but a howl from Janni brought her back to him in a panic, and made
action inevitable. Quieting him with promises and entreaties, she let
herself down from the tree, and starting at every sound, crept through
the bushes and reconnoitred the kitchen door. There was no one to be
seen, and she ventured inside. Everything was thrown about and broken,
but no one was there. Kicking off her slippers, she crept through the
hall to the front of the house. Curtains had been roughly pulled down,
pieces of furniture dragged from their places, evidently to make sure
that no one was hiding behind them, and all receptacles ransacked. The
sight of the bureau standing open gave her a shock, but she saw at
once that the secret drawer had not been discovered. Approaching
noiselessly, she touched the spring, and the Girdle of Isidora, in all
its antique and sacred beauty, lay before her worshipping eyes. With a
sudden impulse she snatched it up, and fastened it with trembling
fingers round her waist, hidden by her long coat and apron, leaving
the drawer open.

A distant wail reminded her of her charge, and she returned hastily
into the kitchen to look for food. Some milk she was able to rescue
from a broken crock, but there was none of the white bread which was
always bought for Janni. Surely Despina ought to have returned with
her purchases by this time? Danaë ran out towards the gate, avoiding
with a shudder the tumbled heap which showed where Mariora had made
her gallant and ineffectual stand on behalf of her mistress, but
recoiled hastily. Almost at her very feet lay Despina, dead among her
baskets. She had been attacked from behind and cut down as soon as she
was inside the gate. With iron resolution the girl crushed down the
desire that seized her to run away screaming--anywhere, anywhere, away
from those three corpses. Janni remained alive and dependent on her,
and she must take care of him. Setting her teeth, she stepped forward
gingerly until she was able to seize one of the baskets. Happily, it
was the one containing the bread, and she hurried back to Janni, and
brought him down from the tree and fed him. She found a hiding-place
in the bushes, close to the spot where the Lady had sat writing that
morning, and tried to get the child to sleep again while she thought
things out. How she was to place him in safety she could not tell. She
did not even know the way to the Palace, and besides, her brother
might even now have started on his expedition. Moreover, there was the
disquieting fact that the murderers had all worn the uniform of the
guard, which seemed to ring her round with fresh perils. The guard
were then in the plot to destroy the Lady and her son, and to go to
the Palace would be to walk straight into their clutches. Worse still,
they were to provide a detachment to garrison the garden that night,
so the Prince had told Despina when he announced his approaching
journey before he rode out, and they would no doubt use the
opportunity to place the three dead bodies inside the house, and
remove all traces of the tragedy from the outside. They were not to
come near the house itself, nor to see anything of the inmates, so
their orders ran, and therefore the horrible business would in the
most natural way remain undiscovered until Prince Romanos returned to
Therma and came to see his wife.

And in the meantime? Danaë’s heart sank. Her brother would be away
three or four days, as he had told Despina, and it would fall to her
to keep Janni safely concealed and fed for that time. The slightest
sign of their presence, the faintest wail from the child, and the
murderous crew who had killed his mother would be upon them. There
would be no more milk, even if she could make the bread last which she
had found in the basket, and Janni was not accustomed to bear
privation silently. Nor was a tree an ideal sleeping-place for three
or four nights, especially when any movement in the branches might
betray your presence to bloodthirsty enemies below. Slowly a plan grew
up in Danaë’s mind. She and Janni would escape from the garden while
there was time, before the guard arrived that evening. The gate was
out of the question owing to the presence of the sentry, but the wall
was easy to climb, especially where trees grew close to it. Danaë had
no mind to trust herself in Therma, but she knew, by longing
observation from her treetops, which way lay the open country, and
there it must be possible to find villages where she and Janni might
be sheltered until she could manage to communicate with her brother.
Crawling out of her concealment, she picked up the letter which the
Lady had been writing, and which had fallen to the ground, folded it
and hid it in her dress. It would be a credential should she be forced
to approach Prince Romanos through a third person, less likely by far
to arouse suspicion or to provoke danger than the famous girdle. Then
she ventured back into the house to collect a few clothes for herself
and Janni, which she made into a bundle with the rest of the bread,
and hid among the trees at the point she thought best for crossing the
wall. Returning to fetch the child, she was horrified to hear violent
blows upon the gate. The guard had arrived early--the mob of the city
were attacking the house--the conjectures, both equally alarming,
chased one another through her brain as she caught up Janni, and
rushed with him once more to the tree of refuge. But before she could
mount it she heard her brother’s voice.

“Open the door, Despina! it is I. The lock will not work. Unfasten the
bolt. Are you all asleep?”

Saved as by a miracle! Danaë left Janni on the ground, and ran
joyfully to the gate, where she struggled vainly with the lock, while
the Prince demanded impatiently why the door was not opened.

“It is I, lord--Eurynomé; and the bolts are not fastened, but the key
will not turn.”

“The key? What are you doing with the key? Where is Despina? She knows
how to open it.”

“Alas, lord! I found it in the door. An evil fate has overtaken
Despina.”

“Holy Basil! what do you mean, girl? Call Mariora, then. What has
happened? Will you fumble to all eternity?”

“Lord, there is no one to call.” In spite of herself, tears were very
near Danaë’s voice. “There came men----”

“Men? what men? What did they do? Open the door, girl! What of my
wife--of the Lady?”

“The little lord is safe, lord.”

The words were spoken very low, and they were downed by the noise of a
vigorous assault on the door. Evidently Prince Romanos had called the
sentry to his help, for the stout planks gave way with a crash, and he
burst in. “Where is your mistress?” he cried fiercely, seizing Danaë
by the shoulder.

“She lies there, lord. She has not moved,” she faltered.

“A doctor! fetch a doctor!” cried Prince Romanos to the sentry, “and,
Christos,” to the guard who was holding his horse, “the police--no,
the chief of police. He is to come alone. Show me where your mistress
is, Eurynomé. You say she has fainted?”

He passed the bodies of the two old women without heeding them,
dragging Danaë with him at a pace which almost whirled her off her
feet, until he released her with a suddenness that sent her staggering
among the bushes. He had seen the rigid red figure on the grass. For
the moment Danaë thought he would have fled, unable to face it, but
he pulled himself together and went on, treading with fearful,
uncertain steps. He was kneeling beside his dead wife, laying a hand
on heart and brow, assuring himself of the awful truth, and then he
broke into a wild lamentation which thrilled Danaë to the core, for
its rough island Greek showed her the primitive Striote under the mask
of the denationalised European.

“Alas, Olimpia, my fairest! Dear love of my heart, whom I wooed under
the orange-trees in the twilight, who shouldst have sat beside me on
the throne! Beloved, thou hast left me too soon; thou, who didst lay
a healing hand upon my tortured brow, shouldst have worn with me the
diadem of New Rome. Like a shy proud fawn wast thou when I first
beheld thee, fearing to hear of the love to which thine own heart
leaped out in response; like the stricken deer wounded by the huntsman
do I see thee now. In thy glory did I behold thee last, beautiful
exceedingly, worthily apparelled--not Helen’s self could have excelled
thee. But now thou liest low; cruel Charon has snatched thee from me,
who wast my eyes, my soul, my life, my all----”

Danaë could bear no more. Her brother was unconscious of her
presence, and she burst through the bushes and ran across the lawn to
the spot where she had left Janni. Catching him up, she hastened back
and tried to put him into his father’s arms.

“See, lord, you are not left wholly desolate. There is yet one to love
and that loves you.”

“Take the child away!” said Prince Romanos angrily.

“But, lord, your little son!”

“Take him away. What do I care for him? It is his mother I want--not a
baby that cannot speak.” He turned again to the Lady’s body. “Sweet,
hast thou no word for thy lover? How has he sinned that those lips are
closed and silent which have so often overflowed with words of love?
But no, it is neither his sin nor thine, but the iniquity of those who
sought to strike him through thee----”

A howl from Janni, whom the indignant and perplexed Danaë had been
vainly endeavouring to console for his father’s repulse, broke into
the lament.

“Will you take that child away, girl? Is this a scene for his young
eyes? Take him to the nursery, and keep him there until I send for
you.”

“You bid me go, lord, and take with me the little lord?” demanded
Danaë, thrilling with outraged pride and affection on behalf of her
little charge.

“Yes, go, in the name of the All-Holy Mother of God, and leave me
alone with my dead!”

“I go, lord!” said Danaë impressively, but she doubted whether he
even heard her. He was bending over his wife again.

“Most beloved, open those lips but for an instant, and tell me to
whose cursed treachery I owe this blow. Let thy spirit visit me at
night, my beautiful one, and keep vengeance ever in my mind. If there
be one left alive of those who slew thee----”

The familiar voice, raised in a half chant, grew faint in Danaë’s
ears. She was stalking majestically across the grass, hushing the
protesting Janni in her arms, and listening greedily for some word of
recall. No one should say she had stolen away secretly, but if she was
driven out she would go. His son, his heir, was nothing to Prince
Romanos in comparison with the dead body of the schismatic woman! He
would leave him without protection in the house, till the conspirators
returned and finished their deadly work! Very well, then; he should
see no more of Janni until he had learnt to value him properly. Danaë
would at once save the child and punish the father. Mingled with her
lofty resolves was perhaps a vague idea of averting retribution. The
death of the Lady was without doubt in some measure due to her; she
would blot out her guilt by saving the Lady’s son.

Prince Romanos did not call her back, and when she looked round from
the edge of the wood he was still kneeling over his wife’s body. Her
heart hardened against him, and she picked up the bundle she had left
under the trees and went on as far as the wall. She climbed up easily
enough, and dropped the bundle over, then returned for Janni, and
wound him closely in her shawl. The ground outside was happily soft,
for on this side the garden adjoined a large piece of land belonging
to the Prince which he had planted with trees, with the intention of
making it into a park in future, and she was able to let herself down
safely by her hands. She had often longed to explore this piece of
woodland, and when it was once crossed she would be well away from the
city. She started very happily, beguiling the way by conversation with
Janni, though after a time it occurred to her that there was nothing
very interesting in the rows of young trees and the growing shrubs.
Janni was heavy to carry, too, when it was not a question of merely
rambling about the garden, but she held on stoutly, sustained by her
very mingled motives.

Sitting down at last to rest at the top of a hill up which she had
laboured with considerable difficulty, she looked back over the way
she had come. The sea in the distance gave her a moment’s wild longing
for Strio, but there would be no safety there for Janni, she saw that
now. Rather must she look nearer, to the new Therma, with its streets
of tall white houses crossing and recrossing with mathematical
regularity, and the Emathian flag flying over the Palace, the position
of which she could easily distinguish now, dominating the broad road
leading from the great square called the Place de l’Europe Unie. But
between the Palace and herself was the villa among its woods, with her
brother mourning over the tragedy she had helped to bring upon him,
and she wondered hopelessly how the tangle was ever to be unravelled,
how she could keep Janni in her own charge, and yet see him restored
to his proper position. But her desultory musings were suddenly
focussed into a keen and pressing anxiety. Among the young trees
between her and the wall of the garden something was moving. At first
it looked like a bright bird flying low, but as she watched it she
realised that it was the gay fez and golden tassel of a man of the
Prince’s guard. There was no need to ask herself who it could be.
Petros had guessed that she had fled with the child, had tracked her
path, and was following hard on her heels, that he might finish his
evil work, and make sure of the victim who had been snatched from him
in the morning.

Terror lent wings to Danaë’s tired feet, and catching up Janni, she
hurried on down the hill. There was no time to look for villages, and
what village would shelter her against the demand of a servant of the
Prince? She stumbled along wildly, looking hopelessly round for some
hiding-place that might enable her to evade the pursuer. But he had
reached the top of the hill while she was still full in view, and his
shouts of “Eurynomé! stop, girl!” his adjurations and threats of
vengeance, came to her faintly on the wind, though she strove to shut
her ears to them. Tired as she was, and burdened with the child, she
had no hope of outdistancing him, but she struggled on, though it
seemed to her that he was now so close that she could hear his heavy
footsteps. Then, as she reached the foot of the hill, and an artfully
contrived glade opened before her, she saw one single chance of
safety, for there were the figures of men and horses under the trees.
Two men wearing “European” clothes, and evidently not Emathians, were
walking up and down impatiently, as though waiting for somebody, and
behind them were four horses under the charge of two armed guards.
There was no doubt in Danaë’s mind as to the identity of the
strangers. They must be the Englishmen whom Prince Romanos had told
Despina he was to meet and accompany on their journey--and therefore
they were an additional danger. The single subject on which Danaë and
the two old women were in agreement was that of the preposterous
baselessness of the claims of the schismatic Englishman who dared to
put himself forward as heir of the Eastern Empire by right of direct
descent from the Emperor John Theophanis. When the Orthodox position
was triumphantly vindicated by the election of Prince Romanos, who
could trace his lineage only in the female line, to the throne of
Emathia, he had relegated the rival claimant, so Danaë firmly
believed, to a species of honourable imprisonment in a remote part of
the principality. Here he could amuse himself by playing the ruler
under strict supervision, and was even allowed to visit Therma on
asking permission. Judging him by herself, however, Danaë had no
faith in his gratitude for this considerate treatment, and saw in him
merely another menace to Janni’s safety if he discovered who he was.
But the danger of Petros hot on her heels was more pressing, since she
had always understood that Englishmen were easily to be deceived. Yet
how, in any case, was Petros to be kept from publishing the perilous
truth? Her quick scheming brain worked at tremendous pressure during
the last agitated minutes of her stumbling run.

“Come back, girl! Will you ruin everything?” she heard Petros cry, as
he made a final attempt to head her off, and only found himself at the
top of a slope too steep to descend. He was obliged to go round, and
she reached the two Englishmen, who had paused, astonished, in their
walk, and threw herself panting at the feet of one of them, a keen
hard-faced man with noticeably blue eyes.

“Mercy, lord! justice! protection!” she sobbed.

“This is Prince Theophanis, if you want to speak to him.” The
blue-eyed man indicated his companion, and Danaë transferred her plea
to him almost mechanically, her tired arms loosing their hold of
Janni, who slid to the ground and began to investigate the strangers’
boots with much interest.

“Save us, lord, this poor child and me, from the evildoer who pursues
us! He will tell you that he is my uncle, but it is not true. I have
nothing to do with him, nothing whatever.”

“Why, it is Petros!” said Prince Theophanis in surprise, as the
guardsman made his appearance, hot and angry. “Do you say that this
girl is your niece, friend Petros?”

“Why should I say it, lord, when it is not true? Thank the saints, she
is no kin of mine!”

He stopped abruptly, and Danaë could have cried aloud with joy. She
had Petros in her power; he was afraid of her, or he would have
contradicted her words. He was waiting for her to tell her story;
obviously, then, he did not wish these strangers to know of his
treachery to his master, and she might use her hold over him to save
Janni. With an admirable transport of gratitude, she flung herself
down and kissed the ground before the Prince’s feet.

“Ah, lord, what power is yours since even this wicked wretch must tell
the truth in your presence! You will permit your suppliant to lay her
woes before you?”

“Tell me your trouble, by all means, if I can help you, but don’t
kneel there. What is your name?”

“Lord, it is meet for me to kneel at your gracious feet, and this
child with me.” She captured Janni’s hands, and made him embrace the
Prince’s boots, then sat up and poured forth her tale. “Lord, my name
is Kalliopé Vlasso, and I dwell in Therma with my sister and her
husband, who is in the Prince’s guard--a comrade of that ruffian
there. He it was who led my brother-in-law into the love of strong
drink--not _mastika_, lord, but _raki_ and such horrible things--so
that he would come home and frighten and grievously abuse my sister
and me. But last night he was like one possessed of a demon, and after
beating us both, he dragged my unhappy sister out of the house by the
hair of her head, and beat and kicked her till she died--the
neighbours all looking on and fearing to interfere. Then, terrified
lest he should kill us also, I snatched up the child, my nephew, and
fled away, out of the street and the city, seeking only safety. But
why this evil wretch should have pursued us I know not, save that it
can be for no good reason.”

“You come from the islands, as he does, and he meant to take care of
you, perhaps?” suggested the blue-eyed man. Danaë repudiated the
suggestion with terrified vigour.

“Nay, lord, I have never been out of Therma in my life. I speak but as
the people in our street speak.”

“Well, friend Petros, what have you to say?” asked Prince Theophanis.
“Why were you chasing the girl?”

“For no pleasure of my own, I assure you, lord,” responded Petros,
with excellent indignation. “The ungrateful minx may say what she
likes, but I came merely because I was sworn by the holy cross to do
it, and I wish I had never promised. All the morning I was busy
helping--busy, I mean--” he paused, embarrassed.

“Helping the murderer to escape, I suppose?” said the blue-eyed man,
and he brightened up.

“There is no deceiving the Lord Glafko, I know that of old. Well,
lord, my unhappy comrade found means to entreat me to seek out this
girl and the child, his son, and see that they did not starve, so I
tracked them as far as this. Your excellencies can see that compassion
alone made me do it. The girl has the tongue of a demon, and the brat
is too young to work. I have nowhere to put them, but I came, and you
see my reward.”

“The girl will be wanted as a witness, surely?” said the Prince.

Petros shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, as to that, there will be
witnesses enough,” he said. “But it will relieve me of her. The police
will clap her into prison and keep her safe.”

“My Prince!” cried Danaë frantically, “you will not let them throw me
into prison, and rob me of the child entrusted to me with her last
breath by my dying sister?”

She stopped abruptly, for the dramatic instinct was leading her into
possible pitfalls, but the two Englishmen were consulting apart for a
moment, and had not noticed the slip. An Emathian prison, though
better than in Roumi days, was not an ideal training-school for a
respectable girl.

“The place is overrun with servants already,” said the blue-eyed man.

“One more would not make much difference. Zoe might find work for her
in the nursery, and the child is about your boy’s age. Make a good
playfellow for him.”

“H’m! we had better leave that to Zoe,” remarked the blue-eyed man,
with distinct hesitation. “A child from the slums of Therma----”

“Lord,” interposed Danaë tearfully, aware that her case was being
discussed, “you will not give me up to him?”

“See, lord,” said Petros, with the air of one conferring a vast
benefit, “why not take the girl to serve in your house? She has been
taught to work, and a good beating now and then will keep her up to
it. If her witness should be needed, I will get a letter written to
say so, but I should be glad to let my poor comrade know that she and
the child were safely away from the city, and not getting into
mischief.”

“We will see,” said Prince Theophanis. “Will you come to Klaustra,
Kalliopé, to serve my wife, or my sister, the Lord Glafko’s wife, as
they shall decide? You can bring the child with you, of course.”

Danaë bowed her head again at his feet. “Your handmaid could ask no
better, lord,” she said.




 CHAPTER VI.
 THE SPY.

“You understand, then,” said Prince Theophanis to Petros, “that I
will take the girl into my service for the present, but that if she is
required as a witness, the police have only to let me know, and the
Princess will see that she is sent down under proper escort to
Therma?”

“The Lady Eirene will hardly thank you for burdening her with such
trash, lord,” said Petros, with the familiarity of old acquaintance;
“but my poor comrade will kiss the _icons_ for you night and morning,
in gratitude for your protection granted to his son. When the matter
has been forgotten, he will obtain pardon from the Lord Romanos, and
come and claim the child.”

“Ah, by the bye, what has happened to Prince Romanos?” asked the man
called Glafko quickly. “He was to join us here at three, and we have
waited nearly two hours.”

“Truly, lord, I know not. I have not seen my master since the early
morning, when I was thrown from my horse while in attendance upon him,
and he graciously excused me from duty for the rest of the day.”

Danaë listened with delight. Petros was a worthy fellow-conspirator,
after all. He was taking pains to round off her story neatly, and
provide against any chance allusion to the fact of his having been
seen out in this direction.

“You pursued the girl all the way from Therma after getting a bad
fall?” said the blue-eyed man. “Truly, you are a stout-hearted fellow,
friend Petros!”

Petros looked down, with admirably simulated confusion. “Perhaps I may
have been glad to get the day to myself, lord,” he admitted. “There
was the promise to my poor comrade--and I could not broach the matter
to my master, lest he should feel compelled to hand over to the police
one whom he would much prefer to protect.”

“Exactly. Prince Romanos knows nothing.” But Danaë detected a mocking
undercurrent in the blue-eyed man’s speech. He was suspicious about
something, she saw, and she wished she had not told that purposeless
lie about the islands. However, since it was told, it must be
maintained.

“If I might venture to offer counsel, it would be that the Lord
Theophanis and the Lord Glafko should ride on to the end of to-day’s
short stage, and wait for the Lord Romanos at the inn,” said Petros
respectfully. “Since he is late, he will doubtless ride fast thither
by the road, but if not, I shall meet him in my return to Therma, and
can tell him where they are.”

“I suppose we can’t do better,” said Prince Theophanis, beckoning to
the guards to bring up the horses.

“Many be your years, friend Petraki!” said Danaë triumphantly,
prudence forgotten for the moment.

“Wait, my lady, only wait!” he responded, with heartfelt warmth. The
blue-eyed man called Glafko was watching them closely, so that no more
was possible.

“Logofet,” said the Prince, as the guards came up, “you had better
walk, and let the girl ride your horse as far as the inn. To-morrow we
can find her a place on one of the mules.”

The man called Logofet obeyed without demur, much to Danaë’s
astonishment, for she had expected nothing better than to trudge
alongside holding a stirrup. The guards were Thracian Emathians, she
knew by their dress and equipment, and she was prepared to regard
them, as Exarchists, as rather worse than ordinary schismatics, but
they seemed to treat women better than the staunch Patriarchists to
whom she was accustomed. She was just making up her prejudiced little
mind that this was due to poorness of spirit, when she was forcibly
undeceived. She had never mounted a horse before--there were none in
Strio--and when Logofet swung her into the saddle, it was with such
unnecessary force that she went over on the other side. Happily his
comrade was there, and caught her.

“Fool!” he growled, as he restored her to her place. “If the Prince
had seen thee----!”

“The devil fly away with the Prince and the girl too!” snarled
Logofet. “If I had known we were to be ruled by women, I would never
have joined thee, Gavril.”

“Peace! thou art a wild savage from the hills,” said Gavril
contemptuously, “and both the Prince and I can do very well without
thee, if the honour of serving him and Glafko is not enough for thee.
There! Glafko looks round. Thou hast delayed us both with thy
foolishness, and we shall not again be chosen to attend the Prince.”

“So much the better!” muttered Logofet, inciting the horse to a
disquieting prance as he led it. “Hold tight, girl! Is it not enough
for thee to be taken to Klaustra, where kitchen-wenches must be
treated like queens, that thou shouldst try to dismount every step of
the way?”

Horribly frightened, and much encumbered by the necessity of holding
Janni firmly on her knee, Danaë did her best to obey, but the horse’s
movements under Logofet’s leading made her perfectly sick with terror,
until she cried out a despairing appeal to be allowed to walk. The
Prince and his brother-in-law turned instantly, and Logofet received a
sharp rebuke, while Gavril was ordered to lead both horses. Thus
relieved, Danaë succeeded in maintaining her position for an hour or
more, until, as dusk was falling, they reached a wayside inn, the
inner courtyard of which was full of horses and mules and guards and
servants. Those of the latter who wore the livery of Prince Romanos
were separating themselves and their beasts from the rest, so that
there was much confusion.

“No sign of him yet, Wylie,” said the Prince to his companion.

“No, but here is a messenger, I imagine,” as one of the Therma
guardsmen swaggered up with a note.

“He says he can’t come--sudden severe personal bereavement,” said the
Prince, after reading it.

“Ah, he’s playing us false, as I expected. Well, let us get rid of his
fellows, and then I will commend Miss Kalliopé Vlasso to the special
care of the landlord’s wife. I mean to keep an eye on that young
lady.”

 * * * * * * * *

“What maggot have you got in your head about this luckless girl?”
asked the Prince, when he and his brother-in-law met at supper. They
spoke English, as was usual when they were alone together.

“I presume that even you can see there’s something remarkably fishy
about her. Why did she and friend Petros, after breathing such violent
mutual hostility, fall like lambs into the same story, and back each
other up?”

“Because it was true, I suppose. But I see. You think they were both
in the plot, and that the hostility was only a blind?”

“And very badly carried out. What makes me certain is the girl’s
denying that she comes from the islands. If ever I heard an island
voice, it’s hers.”

“But her ancestors may have come from there.”

“But she has the type of face. Look here, we’ll ask Armitage when he
comes. If he doesn’t say it is an island type----”

“Yes, but if he does, what does it prove?”

“That she and Petros are acquainted, and probably related, in spite of
her strenuous denials.”

“I suppose you mean me to understand that she was an accomplice in the
sister’s murder, and that we are helping her to fly from justice?”

“By Jove! I shouldn’t wonder,” cried Wylie. “No, I hadn’t thought of
that, though it did cross my mind that the philanthropic Petros was in
all probability the murderous husband of the story. We are certainly
introducing a novel element into our home circle.”

“But that’s absurd. We won’t take her with us.”

“What are we to do--leave her here? That’s exactly what I don’t want
to do. You don’t see my point. What will you take that there has been
no murder at all?”

“I don’t see what you mean.”

“Well, listen. I will send a man back to Therma to-night to bring out
the earliest issues of the papers in the morning. If the girl was
concerned in the affair the fact will have come out by this time. By
her account, the thing was public enough. But if there is no murder in
the papers at all?”

“Because it has been hushed up?”

“No, because it never happened. Because the story was ingeniously
contrived to furnish a reason for the girl’s foisting herself on us,
and going with us to Klaustra.”

“But why burden herself with the child?”

“To make it look more natural, I suppose. How can I tell what’s at the
back of their minds? But you can see that Romanos has contrived to
make us introduce of our own accord the spy who is to keep an eye on
us.”

“We send her back with compliments, I suppose?”

“Not a bit of it. We take her home--the little serpent!--and cherish
her in our collective bosom, keeping a sharp look-out as to her
possibilities of stinging. In other words, we’ll put her where she can
see everything--in the nursery, if I can get Zoe to agree--and take
good care that she tells nothing but the truth. The more she lives in
our very midst, the easier it will be to supervise her correspondence
and her comings and goings.”

“I don’t see making things easy for her, Wylie.”

“Why, what harm can she do, provided she tells the truth? We have
nothing to be ashamed of. And surely it’s better to have our spy
labelled, than not to know who could be trusted and who not?”

“Wylie, I don’t like it. The child--it occurs to me--what if there is
some design against your boy?”

Colonel Wylie’s face showed signs of wavering for a moment, then
regained its decisive lines. “Can’t help that, Maurice. If Zoe and I
and Linton can’t look after the child, why, we deserve to lose him. At
any rate, there’s no plan of substitution, for this baby would be a
puny creature beside him. But I’ll warn Zoe, of course, and get her
help in keeping a watch on the girl. We must sift this thing to the
bottom, for it’s all part and parcel of the disloyalty which I am
convinced Romanos is plotting, and which you won’t believe in.”

“And if the papers confirm the girl’s story in the morning?”

“Why shouldn’t he have had the whole thing made up and inserted? No,
perhaps that’s a little too much. I will beg the young woman’s pardon
if it is so.”

But the papers were entirely on Wylie’s side in the morning,
containing not a word of any such tragedy as Danaë had described. On
the other hand, the landlord’s wife beckoned him mysteriously aside,
and expressed it as her opinion that there was something very queer
about that girl who said she was going to Klaustra to wait on the
Princesses. She had cried out in the night so loud as to wake the
servant-girls who slept with her, and one of them who understood Greek
said that her cries were all of knives and blood, and her own share in
some dreadful deed. The others had teased her to tell them about it,
but she refused to say a word, and they were now sending her to
Coventry in consequence. The news was perplexing, for Wylie could
scarcely believe the girl to be such a practised plotter as even to
support her story by the simulation of nightly terrors. In the faint
hope of clearing up the mystery, he tried to take her by surprise.

“Why did you call out in the night that your sister’s death was your
fault, Kalliopé?” he asked her.

The questioning of the girls had prepared Danaë for further
curiosity, and she answered demurely, “Alas, lord! it is true. I
stirred up my sister to scold her husband when he came home drunk, or
she would have received him meekly, and he would not have killed her.”

He was not prepared with further questions, and she retired in mild
triumph, to take her place with Janni on one of the mules. Wylie’s
obvious suspicions put her on her mettle. She was far too clever to
make palpable efforts to disarm them, but set herself to learn all she
could of her new surroundings, that she might provide against further
attempts to take her by surprise. From some of the guards who could
speak Greek she discovered, much to her astonishment, that the
position of the Theophanis family was by no means that of dependants
upon Prince Romanos. They were the recognised rulers of the northern
or Slav portion of the principality, raising troops and administering
justice, though in subjection to the Therma Government. Danaë’s
assertion of their inferior lot was laughed to scorn, and she was
informed, to her great indignation, that the brunt of the struggle for
freedom in the Hagiamavra peninsula, the glory of which she had always
believed to be her brother’s peculiar possession, had been borne by
them. Why they had allowed themselves to be defeated in the
_plébiscite_ that followed, when their followers would gladly have
manipulated the voting in their favour, no one quite knew, but it was
understood that they had weighty and cunning reasons for accepting
temporarily a subordinate place, from which they would emerge as
undisputed masters of the whole of Emathia. Danaë’s heart leaped when
she heard this. To the glory of saving Janni should be added that of
unmasking the plot which threatened her brother’s rule, and she would
return to Therma doubly a deliverer.

Information regarding the family life of her hereditary foes was
equally easy to obtain. Prince Theophanis and the Lord Glafko were
inseparable friends, neither taking any action without consulting the
other. It was shrewdly suspected that this complete unity was not
altogether to the taste of the Lady Eirene, the Prince’s wife. Her
title to represent the Imperial line was equal, if not superior, to
his, and she was believed to advocate a much more energetic policy
than that pursued by her husband and his friend. But much less had
been heard of her views and wishes since the death of her little son
at the time of the apparent collapse of the family fortunes, and the
guards considered that she had learnt to accept the inferior place
proper to a childless woman. Her sister-in-law, the Lady Zoe, ranked
far higher in the estimation of the Emathians, since in the veins of
her son ran the blood not only of the Theophanis Emperors but of their
adored Glafko, whom they handsomely credited with having led them to
victory in Hagiamavra. To Danaë’s ears this feeling supplied only the
crowning proof of the impiety and heresy of the Slavs among the
Emathians. They could welcome a mere ordinary Englishman, schismatic
to the backbone, without one drop of royal blood, as the ancestor of
their future Emperors! Little did they know that the child she held in
her arms could trace his descent through a succession of Despots of
Strio and Venetian Patricians of unbroken Orthodoxy, until---- A chill
seized her as she remembered Janni’s schismatic mother, but after all,
that mother was dead, and the obvious course was to declare that she
had been Orthodox from her youth up.

A new idea for Janni’s future suggested itself to Danaë’s active mind
on the journey. The child had taken a great fancy to Prince
Theophanis, and held out his arms whenever he came near--an invitation
which the bereaved father could never neglect. The jealous pang which
seized Danaë at first soon gave place to approval. If Prince
Theophanis should wish to adopt Janni! The ironical prospect of his
bringing up his rival’s son to supplant himself, and unconsciously
destroying the prospects of his own nephew, gave her the keenest
delight. She spared no pains to deepen the fondness of the man and the
child for each other, but it was impossible to find out whether the
Prince had any such thought as she desired in his mind.

“Ah, lord, take care of him!” she said impulsively one day, as he bent
to lift Janni before him on his horse. “He is greater than he seems.”

A whimsical smile crossed the Prince’s face. “And are you also greater
than you seem, Kalliopé?” he asked her.

“I am only a poor servant-girl, lord. Do not mock me!” she entreated,
covering her very real confusion by a hasty retreat.

“There’s something mighty queer about her, whatever she is,” said
Wylie, looking after her. “If she has been coached in all she says,
the plot is too deep for my poor brain.”

“It was awfully good of the plotters to send us this little chap, at
any rate,” said the Prince. “I wonder whether Eirene could bring
herself to take to him?”

“I don’t know whether she could, but she certainly won’t. No, I beg
your pardon, Maurice; I had no right to say that. When she sees how
fond you are of him----”

“That would make no difference,” said Maurice sharply.

“Well, we can’t tell. Don’t force the idea on her. She may think of it
for herself. I’ll take the little chap and Kalliopé straight to Zoe
when we get in, so that your wife can just come in and see them
casually.”

“Thanks, Wylie. You and Zoe are really frightfully good----”

“Oh, shut up, old man! I thought we agreed long ago that there was to
be no more of that sort of thing. It’s little enough we can do to make
things easier for you--and your wife, and we’re heartily glad to do
it.”

Danaë, unaware of these arrangements, was rather taken aback on her
arrival at the Konak at Klaustra. The place had been the abode of the
Roumi Governor in the days before liberation, and had been adapted to
European use by the erection of a second storey on three sides of the
hollow square of buildings surrounding the paved court. The central
portion, facing the gateway, was evidently the residence of the
Prince, and a lady in black stood at the top of the steps, with a
background of gaily dressed servants. She came forward to welcome her
husband, and bestowed also a greeting--not a specially cordial one--on
Wylie, who saluted in return, and reined his horse round as soon as
Prince and Princess Theophanis had gone indoors. Danaë was preparing
to dismount and follow them, but he told her hastily to stay where she
was, and turned the mule. The buildings on the left-hand side of the
square formed another dwelling, of less pretensions, and here also a
lady was waiting on the steps. Before Wylie could dismount she ran
down to him, and Danaë watched their greeting with curiosity and
interest. The Lady Zoe was not beautiful, nor particularly young, but
she was unaccountably reminded of another couple she would fain have
forgotten--Janni’s mother and Prince Romanos, now sundered for ever
through her instrumentality.

“And where is the autocrat?” inquired Wylie gaily of his wife.

“Just inside. I would not let Linton bring him out here, lest Maurice
should see--and be reminded----”

“Of course. Let’s go in and pay our respects. Oh, by the bye, Zoe,
what do you say to starting an understudy for him? We have picked up
rather a jolly little waif of about his age, and brought him along
with his nurse.”

“Graham! what an extraordinary thing to do! A child that you know
nothing of? Show him to me at once. He looks clean, at any rate,” she
admitted reluctantly, “and he has rather a dear little face. Are you
sure he hasn’t been anywhere where there’s infection?”

“I can only say that he hasn’t come out with anything between Therma
and here. The girl is tremendously careful of him, too, but I don’t
know anything about his surroundings before we got him. It is a queer
business altogether.”

“Lady, my little lord is tired and hungry,” said Danaë piteously, as
Janni’s eyes began to wrinkle up, and his mouth to open, while the
lady addressed as Zoe stood undecided.

“Poor little man! so he is.” She took him into her arms, and the
impending yell collapsed as if by magic. “He shall share Harold’s
supper, at any rate. Come in, nurse. What is your name? Kalliopé?
Have you had charge of him long?”

“Since he was born, my lady,” lied Danaë with her usual hardihood,
resisting the impulse to snatch her darling from the stranger’s arms,
and following meekly up the steps. At the top stood an elderly English
maid holding a child of about Janni’s age, and dark-haired like him,
but more strongly built, and with his father’s deep blue eyes.

“Hasn’t he grown?” demanded the mother ecstatically, as Wylie took the
child, with a kind word to the maid. “He gets more like you every day.
You must see it.”

“Never was such a likeness, sir,” corroborated the nurse dutifully.
“And so knowing, bless his little heart!”

“Here’s a companion for him. Let’s see what they think of one
another,” said Wylie, waiving judiciously the question of likeness.
“Put yours down here, Zoe. Nonsense! why shouldn’t they like it?”

His wife had demurred, and as it proved, with reason, for when the two
children were set face to face upon the divan, their first
acknowledgment of each other’s presence, after one horrified stare,
was a simultaneous yell. Danaë flew to the rescue of her charge, and
the English nurse of hers, and Wylie stood astonished, while his wife
laughed.

“They will make friends over their bread and milk,” she said. “Come,
Kalliopé.”

Mounting the steps to the roof of the original buildings, they reached
the modern rooms, fitted up in English style, which formed the home of
the Wylies. Danaë glanced round with something like awe at the
appointments of the nursery. She had thought Janni’s nursery at the
villa “European” in the extreme, but it had been nothing like this.
Wylie brought in a second high chair from another room, and the two
nurses were speedily engaged in feeding their respective charges with
bread and milk. Very quickly Danaë observed, to her confusion, that
Janni’s table manners were not producing a favourable impression. He
grabbed at the spoon, filled his mouth too full, and choked, to the
great scandal of his neighbour opposite, who commented on his
behaviour obviously, though unintelligibly, in the nurse’s ear.

“There, there, Master Harold! he don’t know no better,” she said
reprovingly, turning to the parents to add admiringly, “Did you ever
see anybody so quick to notice things, ma’am?”




 CHAPTER VII.
 THE EDUCATION OF KALLIOPÉ.

Before the meal was over, Danaë became aware that the number of the
spectators was increased. Prince and Princess Theophanis had come in
quietly, and were watching the children as they ate.

“Not a bad little chap, is he?” said Maurice at last.

His wife shrugged her shoulders. “Not a bad-looking child, certainly.
But no look of race about him.”

Danaë understood the tone, if not the words, and bristled angrily in
Janni’s defence. But the Prince was speaking again. “You wouldn’t like
us to take charge of him, I suppose, Eirene, as Zoe and Wylie have
their own?”

“Maurice!” She turned upon him with poignant reproach. “To take
Constantine’s place?”

“No, nonsense! No one could ever take Con’s place. But I thought it
might be an interest for you, to have a child about the house.”

“What interest could there be for me in any ordinary child like that?
He would not be a descendant of John Theophanis.”

The name caught Danaë’s attention, and she looked up so sharply that
Wylie noticed it. “What do you know of John Theophanis, Kalliopé?” he
asked her in Greek.

“He was the great Roman Emperor, lord, the blessed martyr from whom
the Lord Romanos is descended,” she replied. Princess Theophanis
turned quickly.

“The Lord Romanos!” she cried. “Girl, that upstart can only trace his
descent from the Emperor’s daughter. Here in this room are the true
descendants of John Theophanis, my husband and his sister descended
from his elder son, I from the younger. And this child--” her voice
grew harsh--“is the sole representative of the line in his generation.
Do you understand? Tell me what I have said.”

“That you are all descended from John Theophanis, lady,” said Danaë
sullenly, “and that this child is his rightful heir.” But her hands
were on Janni’s shoulders, though her defiant eyes wandered from
little Harold’s face to that of the Princess.

“My dear Eirene!” said Zoe, laughing uncomfortably, for there was a
sense of something electric in the atmosphere. “Is it really necessary
to require a confession of the Theophanis faith from every wretched
servant-girl who comes into the house? What does it signify whether
she believes in our claims or not?”

“If you are inclined to belittle your child’s rights, Zoe, I am not,”
said the Princess coldly. Evidently her husband felt the moment was
not propitious for urging his wishes, for the matter dropped. But when
Zoe and her husband were alone together, Wylie showed that he had not
forgotten it.

“That girl has some closer association with the name of John
Theophanis than merely her Prince’s descent, Zoe,” he said. “Find out
all you can about her--without letting her see that you are
cross-questioning her, if possible. I don’t know what to make of her.”

“But what is there suspicious about her, Graham? She seems devoted to
the child.”

“Yes, but the whole thing is so queer. I had better tell you exactly
what we know of her.” He related the story of their first meeting, and
mentioned the points which had struck him at various times as
suspicious, his wife listening with close attention.

“But I don’t see how it fits in,” she said at last. “If she is a spy,
why hamper herself with the child?”

“That’s what Maurice said. And then it struck him afterwards--I don’t
want to frighten you, Zoe--that there might be some design against
Harold. But I don’t see it. Still, surely the very purposelessness of
bringing a baby with her would tend to make her less likely to be
suspected?”

“But what design could there be against Harold? Graham, what have you
heard? You must tell me.”

“My dear girl, I have heard nothing. It is simply that there were the
usual rumours in Therma that Romanos was trying to negociate a royal
alliance, and I suppose it is possible that the interested parties
might wish to get rid of any other aspirants to the throne.”

“By kidnapping Harold?” She paused in sheer horror, then laughed. “You
mean that they hope to deceive me by leaving that poor little shrimp
in his place? I think that is really rather far-fetched. At any rate,
I promise you that Linton and I will keep a very wide-open eye on
Janni and his nurse, and if any wiles can get the truth out of her, it
shall come to light. Then you still think Prince Romanos is not to be
trusted?”

“His whole manner was most unsatisfactory. Putting off and putting
off, slipping out of things and drawing red herrings across the trail.
Of course, if the story of the projected Scythian marriage is true,
one can understand it----”

Zoe interrupted him. “I don’t think you need be afraid of that,
Graham. Think how long the rumours have been going on. Besides--I
can’t give you my authority, because it was told me in confidence--but
I have every reason to believe that no such marriage can possibly take
place.”

“Then the mystery is deeper than ever--unless he is coquetting with
the idea in the hope of getting some good out of it. But in that case
he ought to let us into the secret. What are you to do with a man who
won’t play fair to his own side?”

“But suppose you disapproved of the secret? It seems to me that he is
very wise--from his own point of view. But it is horribly tiresome, of
course--not being able to trust him, I mean. Oh, Graham, what about
Eirene’s girdle? Were you able to get it back?”

“No, unfortunately. Everything seemed all right and above-board. The
wall might never have been disturbed since the day she hid the thing,
but there was merely an empty hole. And one can’t help remembering,
you know, that the Scythian Imperial family would do anything to lay
their hands on the Girdle of Isidora. But then, according to you,
there’s nothing in that idea----”

“Nothing at all, I firmly believe. But I think Prince Romanos is
capable of a good deal in other ways--which makes me not at all
anxious to have a tool of his in the house. So I shall watch pretty
keenly to catch Kalliopé tripping.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, might I speak to you a minute?” said
Linton on the threshold, and Zoe joined her. She had a heap of little
clothes on her arm. “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I thought I
should like you just to see these. They are what was just taken off of
that little boy Johnny. That nurse of his is singing him to sleep
now--a thing I never have allowed in my nursery, nor never will--and
he as naughty as possible, a fine contrast to Master Harold; so I’ve
put his bed in her room.”

“But the things look very nice, Linton--and very clean,” said Zoe,
fingering them in some perplexity.

“That’s just it, ma’am. Look at the stuff--and the trimmings. And all
English-made--leastways European, as they call it. It’s my belief,
ma’am, that child has been stolen, and from a good home, too.”

Zoe gasped. The variety of explanations of which Kalliopé and her
proceedings were capable was becoming bewildering. Under Linton’s
stern eye she recovered herself quickly.

“Well, Linton, we must take great care of him, and make sure that she
does not carry him away anywhere else, while we watch the papers and
see if any child has been lost. I will talk to Kalliopé, and try to
find out something more about her, but we must be careful not to let
her see she is suspected.”

Unfortunately, Linton was not a person who found it easy to disguise
her feelings, when they were of an unflattering character. Her whole
demeanour, to Danaë’s quick eye, was instinct with suspicion, and the
girl improved the opportunity given her by the night to put her
defences in order. The next morning, while Linton was busy in the
nursery, Zoe came as usual to sit on the wide verandah when her
house-keeping duties were done, to look after Harold, and naturally
found Danaë there, keeping an eye on both children. After trying in
vain to lead up to things gradually, she asked a direct question.

“Why does Janni wear European clothes, Kalliopé?”

The girl turned with a flash of bright eyes and white teeth. “I
wondered when you would notice it, my lady. My sister was in the
service of a great Frank lady before her marriage, and the lady has
always sent Jannaki the clothes that her own little boy has outgrown.”

“He must grow very fast. The clothes look nearly new.”

“So much the better for Janni, my lady.”

“Why do you call Janni ‘my little lord’--_kyriaki mou_?” asked Zoe,
changing the conversation abruptly.

“But I don’t, lady. Why should I?”

“You called him so to me last night.” Zoe’s voice had hardened,
imperceptibly to herself. Danaë gave her one glance out of her black
eyes, then laughed confusedly.

“It was only foolishness, lady. Does he not wear the little lord’s
clothes? And we are proud of a first-born son in--” she had all but
said “in Strio,” but substituted just in time--“in the islands. He is
often called the little lord by the women.”

“Then you do come from the islands? Why did you tell my husband you
had never been there?”

“Because I never have, my lady. I have always lived in Therma, but my
family come from the islands. I suppose that is why that wretch Petros
sought us out,” she added hardily. “Being island-born himself,
doubtless he wished to hear the island-talk again.”

Zoe reflected for a moment. The explanation was glib enough, but it
did not altogether satisfy her. “Do you always tell the truth,
Kalliopé?” she asked boldly.

“O my lady, I never told a lie in my life!” replied the unblushing
Danaë, with virtuous indignation. Her hostess abandoned the
unpromising field of inquiry, and began to talk about the children.

“They are very much of an age,” she said.

“But the Lord Harold is much fatter,” said Danaë politely, yet with
an air that implied size was by no means everything.

“How well you have caught his name, Kalliopé! Have you ever heard it
before?” Danaë’s eyes were uncomprehending, but she declined to give
herself away by answering, and Zoe went on. “His first name is
Maurice, after my brother, but we could not have two Maurices, so we
called him Harold, after a dear friend of ours who nearly lost his
life in trying to help us in Hagiamavra. Sometimes we call him Childe
Harold, to distinguish him. You have heard of Byron’s poem?”

Any other Greek girl would have kindled to enthusiasm at the name of
Byron, but Danaë remained woefully perplexed, though she muttered, in
a hopeless attempt to save appearances, that she knew the poem well.
Then, perceiving that she had made a blunder, she dashed into a bold
confidence.

“Lady, I will tell you a great secret. I feared at first, but now I
know that I can trust you, since you received my Jannaki kindly, and
gave him a place with your own child. Once I told the Lord Theophanis
that the child was greater than he seemed, which made him laugh, and
doubtless the Lord Glafko believed I was speaking falsely. But it is
true. Janni is not my sister’s child. Her boy died, and this is the
son of the great Frank lady in whose house my sister served, as I told
you.”

Danaë stopped suddenly. In the Lady Zoe’s eyes there was a look of
dawning comprehension. Was it possible that the scandals agitating
Therma had reached her ears, and that she was within an inch of
guessing the truth? The girl plunged wildly into further invention.
“He was her youngest child, lady, and she had children enough before.
She desired to make a long journey with the great lord her husband,
and they did not wish to take the child, for they were to be away for
two whole years. So she sent for my sister to Czarigrad, and entrusted
the little lord to her, with money for his food and clothes, and
started with her husband. That was how the little lord came to us.”

“And how long ago was this?”

Danaë embarked on elaborate calculations with the aid of her fingers.
“Eight--nine weeks, my lady.”

“But you told me you had been with him from his birth!”

“Well--almost from his birth, lady,” conceded Danaë pleasantly.

“And where is his mother now?”

“I know not, my lady. How can I tell?”

“But were you not to write to her?”

“Nay, my lady. Who of us could write?”

“But she could not leave her child without making some
arrangement--What is her name?”

“That also I know not, lady mine. My sister knew.”

“But this is absurd! No one could have been so mad. What about the
money she paid to your sister?”

“It was hidden somewhere in the house, lady. Perhaps my brother-in-law
found it, or Petros.”

“Does Petros know anything about the Frank lady?”

“I cannot tell, my lady. Why should he?”

Zoe gave up her questioning for the moment in despair. “Then all that
you told me about the clothes was false?”

“Well, it was not quite true, my lady.”

“But I thought you never told lies? If you say different things on
different days, which am I to believe?”

This seemed a new idea to Danaë, and she pondered it. “Whichever
pleases you best, lady,” she said at last.

“But what I want is the truth. Can’t you understand, Kalliopé, that I
prefer an unpleasant truth to a pleasant falsehood?”

“You may think so now, my lady, but you do not know,” said Danaë in a
tone which clearly promised Zoe immunity from unpleasant truths so far
as it lay with her.

“I can’t make anything of her!” Zoe told her husband afterwards. “She
is very pretty, and she seems to have taken a fancy to me, but I am
beginning to think you can’t believe a word she says.”

“Her flights of fancy are certainly surprising,” agreed Wylie.

“Yes; as if any mother could be so unnatural! But meanwhile, who is
the child, and what are we to do about him? And another thing, Graham:
I don’t believe the story of the Frank lady a bit. There is a great
likeness between Kalliopé and the child--I have seen it several
times. They both remind me of some one else, too, but I can’t think
who it is. It is most mysterious.”

“Well, the likeness--if it is not a mere imagination of yours--makes
it probable that the tale of the Frank lady is only invented to add to
the child’s importance. Otherwise----”

“You think we ought to put the whole thing into the hands of the
Therma police?”

“Not while she tells a different story every day. I still think that
it’s to the secret police we owe her presence here at all. Therefore I
should say wait a little, and see if we can arrive at any residuum of
truth by the time her invention is exhausted.”

“But it’s so dreadful to feel that everything one asks her leads her
to tell fresh falsehoods!” lamented Zoe. “She doesn’t seem to have an
idea that it’s wrong.”

This was quite true. That falsehood should be a sin--as bad as eating
meat on a fast-day, or neglecting to salute an icon--was absolutely
incomprehensible to Danaë. Moreover, the fact that her new
acquaintances so regarded it did not in the least raise them in her
estimation. She thought of them, not as occupying a pinnacle of lofty
if austere morality, but as fools, and the impression was deepened by
a conversation she held with Linton, who laboured faithfully to awaken
her to a sense of her lamentable moral condition. They had been
watching from the verandah the stream of claimants and suppliants who
sought the presence of Prince Theophanis every morning, and Danaë
remarked on this accessibility. So far as she could see, his guards
let them enter impartially in the order of their coming, and no one
obtained first place by means of a bribe.

“Well, I should think not!” cried Linton, in vigorous if colloquial
Greek. “Colonel Wylie would have something to say to any man who took
a bribe.”

“Do the Prince and the Lord Glafko divide the presents that are
brought, or does the Prince keep them all?” asked Danaë.

“Presents? what presents?”

“The presents that they will not suffer the guards to take.”

Linton snorted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, my girl.
Neither the Prince nor my master have anything to do with presents.
What is needed for the household is honestly bought and paid for, and
the people are beginning to understand it.”

Danaë laughed. “The great ones take their commission on the taxes,
then?”

“You seem to think the Roumis are still here, Kalliopé. The taxes are
collected by the Therma Government, and the Prince merely sees that
it’s done. And little enough gratitude he gets for all his work, and
the peace and order the Colonel keeps with his police. This
tumble-down old place, and nothing more.”

“You would have me believe that this is all kept up upon nothing?”
with open incredulity.

“The Prince spends out of his own pocket to do it.”

Danaë laughed freely. “That is very fine--to talk about. The money
returns to him somehow, of course. He is laying up a great store--or
the ladies spend it upon jewels.”

“My lady’s jewels could be bought with a hundred-pound note any day,”
said Linton indignantly. “The Princess has a better show, but they
came to her from her own family. And the one thing she prizes most of
all has been stolen, and she can’t get it back--a waistband with
pictures of saints all over it.”

“These English people are mad,” was Danaë’s inconsequent rejoinder.
“Or else you must think I am, to expect me to believe such things. I
am not a child, to be deceived with fairy tales.”

She left Linton rather abruptly, and went to play with the children.
It was disquieting to remember that she had brought the Girdle of
Isidora under the roof of the person who considered herself its
rightful owner. On the night of her arrival, she had hidden it
cunningly, with the Lady’s unfinished letter, inside her mattress, and
now as soon as she could steal away, she went to make sure that it was
safe. She would have liked to make Zoe an accomplice by entrusting it
to her, but something told her that in that case the Princess Eirene
would very quickly receive it again, and she pushed it sadly back into
its hiding-place.

“I could bear to see my own lady wearing it,” she said to herself,
“but not the evil-eyed one.”

For ever since her first sight of Eirene, Danaë had been convinced
that she regarded little Harold with an evil eye. It was quite
natural, since he stood in her own son’s place, but it was also
strongly to be resisted. For several days Linton and her mistress were
perplexed by the overpowering smell of garlic which hung about Harold.
Garlic was a forbidden delicacy in the nursery, and when Danaë felt
an irresistible craving for it, she was obliged to seek the
hospitality of the kitchen. But Harold’s hair and pinafores were
strongly scented, and the smell was obvious in the room itself. It was
Wylie who at last discovered a clove of garlic placed on the lintel of
the door, and Zoe, watching while Linton was out of the way, caught
Danaë rubbing the child’s head and shoulders with it. The offender
was impenitent.

“It is to avert the evil eye,” she said. “Everyone knows it is the
best thing--almost infallible.”

“You are never to do it in future,” said Zoe.

“Then the Lord Harold will pine away and die, my lady.”

“Nonsense! I won’t have it, do you hear?”

“As you will, lady,” reluctantly. “But at least I will say _Skordon_!
_skordon_! [garlic] whenever the Lady Eirene comes in. I will do what
I can, though that is not nearly so much good.”

It was in the faint hope of breaking Danaë of some of her
superstitions that Zoe began to teach her to read. She would not have
suspected in the girl any desire for such an accomplishment, if she
had not caught her poring diligently over a torn newspaper held upside
down. Linton could read, and therefore Danaë owed it to herself to
pretend to be able to do so. She received her mistress’s offer without
enthusiasm.

“Of course I could read as well as anyone when I was a child, but I
have forgotten it,” she observed airily.

But when the lessons had continued some few days, she astonished Zoe
by looking up and remarking, “I told you a lie the other day, my lady.
I never got beyond _theta_ at school.”

“Then you were at school, Kalliopé? Where?”

“Only for a week, lady--in Tortolana.”

“Tortolana? But that is one of the islands--near Strio?”

“Yes, my lady.” Danaë looked up smiling, and then realised the
admission she had made. She grew crimson to the very tips of her ears
as she bent over the book again, and Zoe bemoaned herself afterwards
to her husband.

“Oh, Graham, I thought she was getting a little more truthful, and now
I find she has been deceiving us all this time, and never meant to
confess it! But if she does come from the islands, Petros may be her
uncle after all, and there may not be a word of truth in any of her
stories. What is one to believe?”

“What is one to do, rather?” said Wylie.

“Yes, about Janni. If his poor mother should be looking for him!--and
yet there is nothing in any of the papers about a lost child. And if
she is away on a journey, it is no good putting a notice in a Therma
paper----”

“None whatever. But think, if she gets anxious because of getting no
news, she will put the matter into the hands of the Therma police, and
a reward will be offered for tidings of the little chap. You must
remember that our friend Petros knows where he is, and I think we may
be quite sure he won’t be backward in claiming that reward if it is
offered. So don’t worry yourself.”




 CHAPTER VIII.
 ROOTED IN DISHONOUR.

Yes, Petros knew where she and Janni were, and the recollection
caused grievous anxiety to Danaë. She could not believe that he would
sit down meekly under the defeat she had inflicted on him, and his
continued silence, as time went on, became ominous. How he could have
accounted to Prince Romanos for the complete disappearance of his son
and the nurse-girl was a mystery, and so was the Prince’s acquiescence
in it. Even if Janni was not to be acknowledged as heir, his father
would surely wish to have him brought up under his own eye, and in
this case Petros would presumably be sent to fetch him away without
unnecessary publicity.

“Lady”--desperation drove Danaë at last to appeal to her
mistress--“if the thrice accursed Petros came hither and demanded my
little lord and me, would you give us up to him?”

Zoe looked at her searchingly. “Why should he, Kalliopé? What right
has he over you?”

“None, my lady; none whatever. His fathers were the dirt beneath the
feet of ours.”

Zoe frowned, but the fear of embarking the girl upon a fresh venture
of falsehood kept her from asking further questions. “If he has no
authority over you, Kalliopé, and is not sent by anyone who has, the
Prince would certainly not give you up to him.”

For the present Danaë’s anxiety was relieved. Her brother’s interest
in Janni could not be admitted unless he had decided to acknowledge
him publicly, and her own father was the only other person whose
authority she owned. But Prince Christodoridi was not in the least
likely to leave his island fastnesses for the sake of anything so
unimportant as a daughter, and if Petros should have the hardihood to
produce a letter from him--well, Danaë would deny its authenticity
and everything he alleged, let him assert it as much as he liked. From
which it is evident that her views of truth had not yet reached a very
high standard.

Confiding in the moral support of her hosts, and in the material
protection of the guards who, under Wylie’s orders, patrolled the
approaches to the Konak night and day, Danaë permitted herself to
regard her position as practically a permanency, and to plan how she
might best take advantage of it. She looked back with something like
contempt on the little savage who had left Strio on a barbaric mission
of vengeance, and was inclined to plume herself on having deliberately
made use of her father’s plottings to overthrow his own schemes with
regard to her. How keen had been her insight into human nature when
she sought help from Prince Theophanis and Glafko, how shrewd her
cunning in hiding her identity and taking a humble place on the
outskirts of their circle! For already she was in a fair way to
realise the ambitions which her father had crushed down with such a
heavy hand, and Strio had no place--or at best a very minor one, in
her dreams for the future. She was almost inclined to regret the
promise, in strict accordance with local etiquette, which she had
obtained from Prince Christodoridi, that in no case should Angeliké
be married before her. The regret was not due to any pity for poor
Angeliké, who had none of the consolations of change of scene she
herself was enjoying, but to the conviction that if Angeliké was
permanently sundered, not only from Narkissos Smaragdopoulos but from
all possible suitors, she would make things so unpleasant at home that
her father would be driven in self-defence to recall his elder
daughter and provide both with husbands forthwith. But there would be
considerable difficulty in the way of his finding her, and in the
meantime things might happen that would prevent her returning to Strio
at all--save as a “European” lady with no intention of remaining
there.

In Danaë’s own opinion, she was now well on the way to becoming
“European.” Was she not learning to read, and making valiant efforts
at reproducing _deltas_ and _epsilons_ whenever she could find a blank
wall and a piece of blackened stick? Then in manners she was
conscientiously modelling herself upon Zoe, much assisted by Linton,
who had formed the habit, after hearing of her connection with the
islands, of alluding to her as a “fisher-girl,” and excusing her
lapses from strict propriety for that reason. In Danaë’s former
world, great ladies as well as fisher-girls had stormed when they were
angry, over-eaten themselves on feast-days, and spent long hours of
leisure in gossiping and eating sweets, but things were different
here. Some effort towards self-restraint began to show itself, and was
warmly encouraged by Zoe, without any idea of the motives which were
actuating the girl, and with a disconcerting blindness towards her
“European” aspirations. When Danaë received her first month’s wages,
and her mistress suggested that a little attention to her wardrobe was
advisable, two whole days of sulks followed the prompt thwarting of
her desire to buy European clothes. Zoe’s horror at the suggestion she
could not understand, not realising in the least what a picture she
made in her Greek dress, with her splendid hair hanging down almost to
her knees in the two thick plaits which now replaced the multitude of
tiny braids which had taken hours to do. But Linton, who was a
Philistine of the Philistines, and disapproved of national costumes as
theatrical, used to allow her to put on one of her gowns when her
mistress was out, and Danaë would sweep about in it, admiring the
trailing folds over her shoulder, and bitterly resentful of her own
short skirts. Otherwise she was submissive enough, embroidering
herself an apron in the characteristic Strio pattern, and adding what
coins remained over to the store that decorated her cap.

It was not often that the girl’s self-complacency over the improvement
in herself was disturbed, but however resolutely she might put it
behind her, it was not possible entirely to forget the tragedy in
which she had borne a part. Assure herself as she might that Janni was
perfectly happy, and far healthier than he had been at Therma, she
could not escape occasional rude reminders that his present position
of dependence on his father’s enemies was due to her. On Sunday
afternoons it was Zoe’s habit to come into the nursery and read aloud
to Linton, whose eyes were not as good as they had been, but who did
not like to be reminded of the fact. True to her desire for Danaë’s
moral advancement, the good woman herself suggested that the reading
should be in Greek, and Danaë listened with more or less edification.
One day, however, she rose suddenly from fanning the children as they
slept on the divan, and knelt down beside Zoe.

“Lady, is it true what that book says--that what is done can never be
undone?”

“A thing done can never be as though it had not been, Kalliopé. But
what sort of thing----?”

“But not if one goes on pilgrimage, my lady--to Jerusalem, even? to
bathe in the Jordan? If one gives crowns and jewels to the icons----?”

“Nothing can undo a wrong once committed, Kalliopé. We may repent of
it, and it may be forgiven, but not even God Himself can take away the
consequences.”

“But if it was atoned for, lady mine, and--and forgotten? Can one
never say, ‘That is done with’? May it rise up at any time to torment
one?”

“That is our punishment. But, Kalliopé--” Zoe looked into the girl’s
face and took the hands which were clasping her knees--“you can have
no such terrible thing in your life, my dear child. But if you are
planning anything of the kind, then stop. It is as you say, one can
never get away from it.”

“It is so; it is so.” Danaë rose and wrung her hands. “It returns,
and one cannot escape it. The Furies pursue even those who had
least----” She checked herself hastily, but the tears rolled down her
face as she went slowly out of the room. Before her eyes, as vividly
as though it lay before her feet, she saw the rigid form of Janni’s
mother prone upon the grass in her red gown, with the deeper red
spreading beneath her.

But when Zoe and Linton saw her again, the fit of remorse had gone by.
She was as unconcerned and impenetrable as if she had not a care in
the world--as different as possible from the girl whose mental agony
had impressed them both with the misgiving that there might after all
be a dark shadow in her past. They watched her with lynx-eyes for a
time, jealous lest the faintest contamination should approach Harold,
and the next time Zoe found that Danaë had told her an untruth--now
a less frequent occurrence than at first--she spoke sharply and
without reflection.

“Take care, Kalliopé. I cannot keep you in the nursery unless you
tell the truth.”

“Why, my lady? What will you do with me?” asked Danaë, with much
interest.

“Send you to help in the kitchen, I suppose,” said Zoe reluctantly,
thinking how unsuitable such a fate would be for the brilliant
creature before her. The girl’s face darkened with passion.

“You would send my little lord to the kitchen?” she cried.

“Of course not. He stays here.”

“He stays nowhere without me, my lady. If you try to separate us, I
shall take him in my arms and run away again as I did before. I will
never give him up.”

“This is absurd, Kalliopé. He is no relation of yours, as you have
often told me, and you have no rights over him. Until his own parents
claim him, we are his guardians, and must do our best for him.”

Danaë was trembling with anger. “He is mine,” she controlled her lips
sufficiently to say. “I saved him when his mother was killed----”

“His mother? Oh, Kalliopé, you said she was abroad!”

“I am mad! I know not what I say!” cried Danaë furiously. “If you
take away my little lord, you take away my heart, my soul. But he
shall not be taken away!”

“I don’t want to take him away. I should be miserable if I had to
separate you. But if it was necessary for his good and Harold’s? How
could I leave them in charge of a person who didn’t tell the truth?”

“But I always tell the truth unless I can’t help it.” In her anxiety
Danaë condescended to excuse herself.

“Which means unless it is inconvenient, or dangerous, or humiliating.
But that’s just it, Kalliopé. You must learn to tell the truth
without fear of consequences. You would like to see Janni grow up
brave and truthful, like an English boy--like what I hope Harold will
be?”

“I should not like to see him grow up a fool,” said Danaë smartly.
Then she was frightened by what she had said. “O, my lady, you are
right, and I am very ungrateful. Make my little lord what you please;
it can only be good. And I will try to mould myself as you wish, but
do not talk of separating me from him, for he is my very life.”

The instinctive suppleness of the Greek nature revolted Zoe, but she
said no more, hoping that the girl felt more than she would allow. As
a matter of fact, Danaë was consoling herself with the reflection
that once Janni had received a general education suitable to his
birth--such as he would gain in Harold’s company--it would be quite
easy to add any little extra polish in which he might be deficient.
Nothing could be farther from her wishes than that he should grow up
with the conscientious scruples which beset these extraordinary
English. She felt herself wasted as a spy upon them, and nothing but
the conviction that they could not possibly be so open and sincere as
they seemed kept her from boredom. Sooner or later she would discover
that the Princess Eirene, at any rate, was engaged in some intrigue
against Prince Romanos, involving her husband and his family, and this
would justify her watch. Then would come that magnificent moment, the
goal of her aspirations, when, in gorgeous European clothes provided
by her own exertions, Danaë would appear at her brother’s palace,
leading Janni, a noble stripling, by the hand, and it would burst upon
the astonished Prince Romanos that he possessed not only a promising
heir, but also a sister eminently qualified to preside over his court.
Few people would have considered that very second-rate and rather
Bohemian assemblage as an abode to be desired, but to Danaë the dream
of leading it, intriguing in it, and initiating Janni into its devious
ways, was perfect bliss. As for the English, it might be convenient to
have them for enemies, and she did not object to them as private
friends, but as allies they were emphatically not to be desired.

About this time her acquaintance with the despised race was extended
by the arrival of a visitor at the Konak. As she was helping Linton to
prepare the guest-rooms in the old part of the building on the
ground-floor, she gleaned some interesting information about him
beforehand. He was Lord Armitage, little Harold’s godfather, and--so
she learned with extreme interest--a former suitor of the Lady Zoe’s.

“But why did she not marry him?” she demanded. “You say he was a
Milordo, and rich, with a whole ship of his own, and the Lord Glafko
is poor.”

“Because he wasn’t the man for her,” returned Linton sharply. “She
could turn him round her little finger.”

“Then he has not cruel eyes, that seem to pierce you through, and a
mouth that shuts like a trap?” inquired Danaë curiously.

“That he hasn’t. But”--as Linton realised suddenly what the question
implied--“if you mean that the Colonel has, it strikes me you are
forgetting your place, my girl. The Colonel is a real gentleman, and
it’s not for you to pass remarks on him. Lord Armitage is pleasant and
well-spoken, with a kind word for everybody, but a sort of boy that
will never grow up.”

“Oh, holy Antony!” groaned Danaë despairingly, “these English! They
are all children--all that I have seen. And now here is one coming
whom the English themselves call a child! Does he bring a nurse with
him, to put on his pinafores and feed him as you do the Lord Harold?”

“I suppose you think that’s funny?” demanded the irate Linton. “You
take my advice, Kalliopé, and curb that tongue of yours, or it will
get you into trouble, and serve you right too. His lordship brings his
secretary and his body-servant, as any nobleman would, and very likely
some armed guards, as he comes by land. Though what he wants a
secretary for is beyond me, for I should say he doesn’t write many
more letters in the year than I do.”

“Perhaps he is like me, and can’t write on paper, but only on walls or
the ground,” suggested Danaë, and was much pleased when Linton merely
muttered angrily and would not deign a reply.

Two days later she was playing on the verandah with the children, when
a young man came up the steps with a light springy step. Seeing her,
he took off his hat hastily, and she saw to her surprise that he was
not as young as she had thought. There was even gray in his hair. She
rose politely and faced him.

“Good-day, lady,” he stammered, and Danaë was wickedly delighted to
detect that he blushed.

“Good-day, lord,” she responded, hoping fervently that Linton was not
within earshot, to come forward and point out that she had no right to
be called ‘lady.’

“Colonel Wylie--the Lord Glafko--told me to come up here--that I
should find Princess Zoe----” he said confusedly.

“The Lady Zoe was here just now, but she has been called away,” said
Danaë, with great composure. “I think you will find her downstairs,
lord.”

“Perhaps she will come back,” he said--evidently gaining courage, she
thought. “I must speak to the little chap now I am here. I say, I
didn’t know there were two! How awfully queer not to have let me
know!”

“The little lord here is ward to the Lord Glafko,” explained Danaë.
“This is the Lord Harold.”

The newcomer took Harold into his arms in a dazed kind of way, said he
supposed he had grown, and really his eyes were exactly like Wylie’s.
Then, apparently growing desperate under Danaë’s solemn gaze, he
murmured something about some sweets which were in his luggage, and
went down the steps again.

“Who is the island-princess you have got up there?” he demanded
eagerly when he met Zoe downstairs.

“The nurse-girl, I suppose you mean--Kalliopé?”

“A nurse-girl? Nonsense! But all the islanders are kings and queens,
of course.”

“What makes you say she is an islander? Has she told you anything?”

“Not about herself. Is she given to lavishing confidences on
strangers? She hardly said a word to me.”

“She is particularly gifted in the matter of supplying information,”
said Wylie, who had joined his wife. “Unfortunately it varies with
time and circumstances.”

“No, no; we must not prejudice him against her,” said Zoe. “But do
tell me why you decided that she must come from the islands?” she
asked eagerly of Armitage.

“Her face! What more could one want? That blue-black hair and marble
complexion, and the peculiarly pure profile--it is the very finest
island-type. You get it nowhere else, and it degenerates horribly
easily, even in individuals, under the influence of city life. Think
of our friend Romanos. As a youth he must have been a perfect example
of the type. Now he might stand for a rather battered Athenian of the
rackety sort.”

“Prince Romanos! Why, that is the person Kalliopé is like, and little
Janni too--I see it now!” cried Zoe.

“That is the type, of course. They may even come from the same island.
I noticed a suggestion of dialect in her speech which I have caught
much more faintly in his.”

“You have made good use of your opportunity for studying her, old
man,” said Wylie jokingly.

“Who could help it? Considered purely as a picture, she is the most
beautiful woman I ever saw in my life.”

“Now why do you say ‘purely as a picture’?” asked Zoe quickly.

Armitage rather looked embarrassed. “The soul is not there yet, you
know. But when it comes it must be a beautiful one, to look out
through those glorious eyes.”

“That’s just what I feel about her,” said Zoe--“that she has no soul,
I mean. But she is such a fine creature, I long to see the soul
appear. Perhaps she is really a sea-nymph, not a girl at all.”

“But the nymphs could gain souls,” said Armitage.

“By taking them from other people?” said Wylie meaningly. “Don’t build
up too much of a romance about the girl, old man, for whatever may be
the truth about her soul, it’s absolutely certain that she has no
conscience. We’ll tell you all about her--‘ways that are dark and
tricks that are vain’--after dinner, and how she foisted herself and
the child upon us.”

“I have an old man of the sea too,” said Armitage, “and much less
attractive to look at than yours. It is old Lacroix, as he chooses to
call himself, my secretary. Poor old chap, he has a sad story--at
least, I can’t help fearing it will turn out to be sad--but he shall
tell it to you himself. He wants your advice, and I shall be glad to
know what you think. I’ve taken an awful fancy to the old fellow, and
it really is rough on him----”

 * * * * * * * *

“As much of a boy as ever!” said Zoe to her husband when they were
alone together.

“Every bit as much. I suppose you are prepared for his falling in love
with Kalliopé, Zoe?”

“Do you think it’s very complimentary to me to suggest that he will
fall in love with a nurse-maid--with _my_ nurse-maid?”

“Nonsense! here he is with an empty place in his heart, and you throw
him into the society of ‘the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.’
Ah, the thought has occurred to you, I see! What do you propose to
do--get rid of the girl?”

“How can we cast her adrift? No, what I should like to do, if he
really cared for her, would be to educate her--train her for him.”

“My dear Zoe, isn’t that idea just a little high-flown? Do you
recollect that Armitage is a peer of the realm, with a certain amount
of position to keep up--even in these degenerate days--when you calmly
propose to promote his marriage with a young lady of unknown parentage
and confused views of right and wrong? Do you even think it would be
fair to him?”

“Most unfair, unless he could awaken the soul in her. If he could----”

“If he could, then all the worldly objections might go hang? Well, I
am not the person to object, since Princess Zoe stooped to marry me.”

Zoe put her hand over his mouth. “You were never to say that!” she
cried.

“But it is a fact. Well, then, we are to further this preposterous
affair, are we? I suppose we shall know if Armitage is really smitten,
because he will want to paint her portrait.”




 CHAPTER IX.
 ON THE TRACK.

Danaë was much exercised in her mind by the fact that Prince and
Princess Theophanis dined with the Wylies that evening, and that after
the meal, when they all repaired to the verandah, Maurice and Wylie
made a careful inspection of the surroundings, evidently to see that
there were no eavesdroppers at hand. They were plotting something at
last, she was sure, and she crouched in the corner of the nursery
window, which was as near to them as she could get, and listened
eagerly to the scraps of conversation that reached her ears until
disgust drove her away. She could hardly have expected that they would
speak in Greek for her special benefit, but she felt distinctly
injured when she found they were using, not English, which she had
begun to pick up, but French. This was for the sake of Armitage’s
secretary, M. Lacroix, a soldierly-looking elderly man in a threadbare
dress suit, who had sat almost silent throughout the meal. Now, on the
verandah, Armitage brought him forward, and insisted on his taking a
chair in the midst.

“Before my friend says anything,” he said in his pleasant boyish
voice, “I must tell you that he is really not Lacroix at all--nor my
secretary at all, for that matter. May I present the Cavaliere Onofrio
dei Pazzi?”

“Ah!” said Zoe sharply. Then, as the rest looked at her in surprise,
she laughed with some embarrassment. “I think we must have met a
relative of yours at the Dardanian court three or four years ago,
Cavaliere--Donna Olimpia Pazzi? She was maid of honour to the young
Princess of Dardania.”

“That was my daughter, madame--and it is of her that I am come to
speak.” He rose from his chair and stood before them, as though to
give himself more freedom. “Highnesses, and my kind host, Colonel
Wylie, you will hear the story I have to tell, and give me your
opinion on it? May I be pardoned if I first say something of myself?”

“Whatever the Cavaliere Pazzi has to tell us we shall be delighted to
hear,” said Maurice courteously.

“Highnesses--” the old man spread forth his hands deprecatingly--“it
is not for me to recall to your minds the War of Liberation, nor the
fact that the hero-king, Carlo Salvatore, took from his own breast the
cross of St Eustace and St Martha and pinned it on mine, after a day
in which we had fought side by side. Suffice it that the royal house
of Magnagrecia has been pleased to regard me with continued favour. I
have never been rich, but while my wife lived she made our small
income provide amply for our needs. But she died”--he wrung his
hands--“leaving me with an infant daughter, and the money,
Highnesses--” he threw his arms wide--“it vanished! I am a soldier,
not an economist--I confess it to my shame. My august sovereign and
his gracious consort came to my aid, and provided for my child’s
future. She shared the education of the young Princess Emilia, and was
one of the ladies appointed to her household when she was married to
the Prince of Dardania. It was by no will of mine that my child went
forth into that barbarous country, but I could give her nothing, and
her royal mistress promised to find her a husband of suitable rank,
and provide a dowry. My little Olimpia parted from me with the
tenderest of farewells, and I lived--yes, literally lived upon her
letters. But by degrees there came a change in them. The eyes of
paternal love are sharp. I suspected a love-affair, and not a happy
one. I entreated my child to treat me with frankness, and at length
she revealed the truth. She loved a person whose rank was such that
they could never hope to marry. I saw the danger of her position, and
begged her to return to me. You will ask, Highnesses, why I did not
insist, why I did not rush immediately to Bashi Konak and fetch her
away. Alas! I was ashamed, afraid, to do so. Behold me living upon my
pension--the only portion of my income that could neither be
anticipated nor alienated in my more lavish days. A modest apartment
provides me shelter for the night; in the day there is the restaurant,
the club, the promenade. But what kind of life would that be for a
woman young, beautiful, accustomed to courts, who would, moreover,
forfeit all expectations from her royal patrons if she quitted the
Princess? Without a dowry who would marry her? Therefore I sent her
good advice, but--oh, blame me, Highnesses; you cannot blame me more
than I blame myself--I allowed her to remain. Then I received a letter
overflowing with the innocent joy of a romantic girl who believes that
she has obtained her heart’s desire. She was married. Her royal
mistress wrote also, to assuage any anxiety that I might feel as to
the marriage. It had been solemnised in her own private chapel, she
herself and her mother-in-law had been present, every precaution had
been taken to ensure its legality, but--” here came a tremendous
pause--“it was to be kept secret for the present in view of the
circumstances of the bridegroom. My daughter would remain with her
mistress, and no difference would appear until Olimpia could be
presented to the world as the bride of Prince Romanos of Emathia.”

“Romanos!” cried Princess Theophanis, her voice rising almost to a
shriek. “Maurice, Zoe, do you hear? He is married, and to a Latin!”

“I knew about it,” said Zoe.

“My dear Zoe!” said her brother. “Was it fair to keep a thing like
that from us?”

“I had no choice. She swore me to secrecy. It was on the day of his
election--she was worried and excited--there had been some absurd idea
among the people of his marrying me, you know--” she addressed the
explanation to her husband--“and she could not stand it, poor thing.
So she told me.”

“And you kept it secret--depriving Maurice of his throne, endangering
the rights of your own child!” cried Eirene.

“I tell you there was no choice. She made me promise. And the election
was over. It is not as if this had come out first.”

“What does that signify? They would have swept Romanos from the
throne, sent him back to his beggarly Strio. It would have been the
turning-point. Zoe, I can never, never forgive you. Maurice’s
future--the future of your house--was in your hands, and you
deliberately cast it away.”

“Pardon me, Princess,” said Wylie. “It seems to me that my wife was
not free to act.”

“Most certainly she was not,” said Maurice decisively. “When Prince
Romanos and I submitted our claims to the choice of the Emathians, we
pledged ourselves to abide by the result. When that had once been
announced, we could not have taken advantage of Christodoridi’s
marriage to oust him, even if it had come to our knowledge.”

“Oh, you are mad, all mad!” cried Eirene bitterly. “I, who sacrificed
my child in the cause of the house of Theophanis, I cry shame upon
you.”

Maurice’s face hardened. “We fought in Hagiamavra for the freedom of
Emathia, Eirene, not for our own aggrandisement. And we are
interrupting the Cavaliere Pazzi in his recital. Pray, monsieur,
proceed.”

The Cavaliere bowed. “At your Highness’s gracious command. The news
that the marriage had actually taken place threw me into a great
difficulty, Highnesses. My first impulse was to cross at once to
Dardania, and snatch my daughter from a position likely to prove so
compromising. But cooler reflection assured me that such an action
could only give rise to suspicions in the highest degree injurious to
her. I wrote therefore--with all a father’s authority, but I trust
also with the natural sympathy of one who himself has loved--to desire
her to obtain leave of absence from the Princess. A visit to her
solitary parent would surely be the most natural thing in the world,
and could be prolonged indefinitely until her husband found himself
able to visit Magnagrecia and claim his bride from her paternal home.
But alas! the love and obedience to which I had never appealed in vain
in my child had turned traitor, and were now enlisted against me. My
precaution precipitated the very evil it was designed to prevent.
Olimpia’s letters expressed the strongest reluctance to comply with my
request. The fear of offending the Princess her mistress, of becoming
a burden upon me--ah, well I perceived that these were only excuses;
her true object was to remain as near her husband as possible. At last
I resolved on the strong measures from which I had shrunk at first,
and bade her be ready, for I was coming to fetch her. What evil fate
caused the arrival of that letter of mine to coincide with a visit of
Prince Romanos to the Dardanian court? When I received an answer, it
was to tell me that Olimpia had accompanied her husband on his return
to Emathia, though the time was not yet propitious for him to
acknowledge her. Then, when it was too late, I hesitated no longer,
and went in search of my daughter. I found her in the island of
Thamnos, just outside Emathian waters. Her husband had been obliged to
visit Czarigrad, and durst not leave her behind at Therma. There was
no prospect of his acknowledging her at present, so that she could not
go with him. Highnesses, our interview was a sad one--it tears the
heart to recall it. I besought my daughter on my knees to return with
me--to force the hand of the man who was risking her reputation for
his convenience. She refused, she had cast in her lot with him. Then I
begged her to permit me to remain and confront him, to urge upon him
the absolute necessity of postponing no longer the step which he
constantly assured her it was his firm intention to take in the near
future. If he would call in the servants and the crew of his vessel,
and declare before them that she was his wife--I would be content for
the present with that. The state entry into Therma, the public
recognition, might come later. But she refused to let me stay.
Evidently she feared what might happen if we met. She assured me
solemnly that if I declared my conditions she would take sides with
her husband, and agree with him that the time was not yet ripe. She
and he and her personal attendants knew that she was his lawful wife,
and with that she was content. Highnesses, she was not content. I saw
it in her convulsed face, heard it in her agitated accents, but the
husband now took the first place, and the father must yield.
Sorrowfully I left my child, and since that day I never seen her.”

“You heard from her, surely?” cried Zoe.

“Did she remain in Thamnos, or accompany the Prince to Therma?” asked
Wylie.

“I did receive letters from her, madame. The letters were posted in
Therma, Colonel, and she gave me to understand that she was occupying
a villa on the Prince’s property, not far from the city. To its actual
position she gave me no clue--doubtless fearing that I might again
attempt to see her. The first letter I received after our unhappy
parting begged me very earnestly to make no further allusion to the
question of her recognition, but to think of her as an ordinary wife,
married to a private person whose business obliged him to be a good
deal away from her. She had perfect confidence in her husband, feeling
sure that he would acknowledge her at the earliest possible moment,
and in the meantime she lived a rather lonely but by no means unhappy
life. She amused herself with gardening and the study of the Emathian
languages and her husband spent with her every moment that he could
snatch from the cares of state. At length she referred of her own
accord to the subject she had begged me not to mention. If her child
should be a boy, she was sure the Prince would take that opportunity
of acknowledging her. The child was born. It was a boy, and it was
baptised John, after the last of the Emperors, by the Greek rite.
Olimpia assured me continually of her husband’s delight in his heir,
but there was no word of recognition. At last I lost patience,
Highnesses, for what could happen that could provide a more favourable
moment for the announcement? I wrote to my child then that the
Prince’s perpetual postponement of his promise absolved me from my
engagement of silence, and that I was intending to take steps to
announce the marriage on my own account.”

“That was a dangerous thing to do, monsieur,” said Wylie.

“It was, Colonel. I recognise it now, but it was at the time that
rumours of an alliance between Romanos and a Scythian Princess were
freshly mooted. I desired to cut the ground from under his feet, in
case he should actually be meditating any baseness of the kind. But,
Highnesses, I endeavoured to mitigate any harshness which my proposal
might seem to imply. I was about to visit Therma, I told Olimpia, and
then I would lay before her husband a fact which would go far to
remove any objections his subjects might be expected to entertain to
the marriage.”

“And pray, monsieur, what was that?” demanded Eirene, her pale face
flushed, and her eyes glowing.

“Simply, madame, that in the poverty-stricken veteran before you, you
behold the great-great-grandson of Maxim Psicha.”

“Maxim Ghazi?” cried Wylie. “But why not have used that weapon before,
Cavaliere?” For the name of the great Illyrian hero of the eighteenth
century, who had built up a short-lived Christian state in his native
highlands, and but for his early death by treachery, would probably
have succeeded in driving the Roumis from Illyria, was one to conjure
with among both Greeks and Slavs in Emathia.

“I was not aware of its value, Colonel. It is only the changes of
these later years that have taught the world there is any Illyrian
question at all. The formation of one Balkan state after another, and
finally the emergence of Emathia from Roumi tyranny, have revived in
the Illyrians the national feeling that has slumbered for generations,
and which the Roumis did their best to stamp out by promoting local
and tribal feuds. I have of course always been aware of my descent
from the son of Maxim Psicha, whose mother fled with him to
Magnagrecia on her husband’s murder, and who married an heiress of the
Pazzi and took her name, but it was not until last year, when a
deputation of Illyrian notables visited me in my humble lodging, and
invited me formally to place myself at the head of their struggle for
freedom, that I recognised it had any bearings on present-day
politics.”

Wylie looked across at his brother-in-law with raised eyebrows, and
Maurice spoke.

“You may not be aware, monsieur, that I myself was offered the crown
of Illyria at the beginning of last year, and invited to negociate a
British protectorate over the country when I refused it?”

“I was informed so, Highness, but you will permit me to say that it
was your British birth, to which the Greeks in Emathia object, and not
your Greek descent, which has no interest for the Illyrians, that led
to the offer. When you referred the deputation to Prince Romanos and
the Assembly at Therma, they turned their thoughts from you to the
descendant of Maxim Psicha.”

“Another opportunity lost!” cried Eirene.

“But you would have objected strongly to their adopting me on any
other ground than as the heir of John Theophanis,” said Maurice. “At
any rate, it is satisfactory to know why the offer collapsed so
suddenly. But I cannot imagine, Cavaliere, why Prince Romanos did not
jump at your news. His subjects would not have objected to his
marrying anyone who brought with her as a dowry the future adhesion of
Illyria.”

“Alas, Highness! the news was never told. I received an urgent letter
from Olimpia, entreating me to write what I had to say, but on no
account to come to Therma. The moment was most unpropitious, and my
visit might do irreparable harm by setting people talking. I could
well understand that the moment was unfortunate for my son-in-law, for
the rumours of his impending marriage were becoming more definite. As
you have no doubt seen, his photograph and that of the Grand Duchess
Feodora were published together in the papers, and it was positively,
though not officially, announced that they were engaged. I did not
wish to embarrass Olimpia by insisting on visiting her against her
wishes, but I wrote very strongly pressing my point, and refusing to
commit my news to paper. I have had no reply to that letter,
Highnesses--no further letter of any kind from my daughter.”

His auditors were silent, and looked at one another. The inference was
obvious, but no one liked to put it into words. At last Maurice spoke.

“Pardon me, Cavaliere; do I understand that you have had no news of
Donna Olimpia from that day to this?”

“If they can be called news, I have had one or two brief notes from
her husband--assurances that Olimpia could not write, but sent her
love and implored me not to be anxious, and above all not to come to
Therma. Nothing in her own writing--not even a pencilled signature. I
wrote again urgently, demanding definite tidings of the nature of her
illness, the opinion of her doctors--above all, some word from
herself, failing which, I should start for Therma at once. What did I
receive, Highnesses? A long letter purporting to be written by Prince
Romanos at his wife’s dictation. Why do I say ‘purporting’? Because it
was never dictated by Olimpia. It was not the letter which a loving,
ailing woman would send to the fond father who was breaking his heart
for her at a distance. It was the letter of a poet trying to put
himself in such a woman’s place, full of images that would not occur
to her, of words that she would not dream of using. Highnesses, when I
received that letter, my mind was made up. I also have a soul capable
of stratagem. I left behind me letters to be posted at my usual weekly
intervals, and started for Therma by sea.”

He paused, to deepen the impression, then hurried on, his words
seeming to overflow one another. “I said, Highnesses, that I possessed
a mind capable of stratagem. To that let my proceedings on approaching
Therma be witness. I sent my old soldier-servant on shore with my
passport, and wearing clothes of mine, while I remained on board the
steamer. No sooner was the name on the passport perceived than he was
detained, and refused permission to proceed into the city. At the
police-office he was photographed, his physical measurements taken, as
though he were a criminal, and he was reconducted on board, informed
that he would not be allowed to land. My worst suspicions were
confirmed, but I have one consolation. Neither the photograph nor the
measurements thus obtained will help the Therma police when they have
to deal, not with old Filippi, but with me.”

“I think you are very wise, monsieur,” said Wylie. “I understand also
that Prince Romanos has never seen you? You decided, then, to make
your next attempt to enter Therma by land?”

“No, that was my idea,” said Armitage proudly. “We met at Trieste, and
the Cavaliere heard I was bound for Therma, and asked me to take him
in the yacht, but I thought it would be much safer to get in by the
back door. So I got him a brand-new passport, and they let him pass
the frontier without the slightest suspicion as Lacroix and my
secretary. I thought he might go on to Therma to see about rooms for
me, and make inquiries on his own account, and then when he has found
Donna Olimpia, we can bring the yacht up and get her off in it.”

“But what do you think has happened to her?” asked Maurice.

“Why, that she’s imprisoned somewhere, of course.”

“Not likely,” said Wylie. “Unless she has altogether broken with her
husband, he would have been able to get her to write to her father and
beg him again not to come. No, I’m afraid it’s worse than that----”
Zoe pinched his arm, and he changed the form of his sentence suddenly.
“But after all, it’s quite possible that she has refused to be
bamboozled any longer, and he has shut her up somewhere lest she
should spoil his matrimonial projects.”

“Do you think he can have carried her off to Strio?” said Zoe. “Don’t
you remember that stagey old ruffian of a father of his? He said to me
so evilly that Strio had dungeons as well as palaces, when he thought
I aspired to the honour of being his daughter-in-law.”

“But they are on the worst possible terms,” said Armitage.

“Do you know, I should say that Professor Panagiotis would be the best
person to enlist on your side, Cavaliere,” said Maurice suddenly. “He
is very keen on the Scythian match, but he can have no idea of the
harm he has been doing.”

“No, wait,” said Wylie. “Imagine the Professor’s feelings when he
finds out that he has been tricked all along--that the Scythian match
can’t take place, and never could have done. I don’t think it would be
for Donna Olimpia’s safety for him to make that discovery, and I am
sure it will lose Prince Romanos his throne.”

“That last consideration would have no weight with me, Colonel,” said
the Cavaliere. “Whether my son-in-law retains his position or not is a
matter of indifference. My sole object now is to rescue my daughter
from his clutches, and to carry off her and her child into safety--if
it is not too late. After that forged letter I could believe him
capable of sinking to any depths of baseness. And if it is so, if he
has repaid Olimpia’s confidence with treachery, then I will unveil his
iniquity and hound him from his throne, if I have to tramp barefoot
through Europe.”

Eirene crossed quickly to where he stood. “Be it so!” she said,
holding out her hand. “We are united. We will make it clear what he
really is, and drive him from the throne he has usurped.”




 CHAPTER X.
 THE PORTRAIT.

The Cavaliere Pazzi had gone on to Therma, as what Armitage called
his “advance agent,” to find out the best hotel and take rooms for him
there, and discover which of the public buildings of the new city were
worthy of being immortalised by Milordo’s brush. Happily the people of
Therma were not likely to guess that their lofty stucco palaces were
anathema to the artistic mind, which would have infinitely preferred
the tumble-down Roumi relics they replaced, so that the Cavaliere
would be able to pursue his private inquiries under cover of his
architectural researches. Maurice and Wylie were much occupied with a
vexatious matter which was disturbing the extreme north of their
territory, at the point where it touched the Debatable Land. A
Pannonian scientific expedition, duly authorised by the Therma
Government, which was conducting a geological survey of the district,
had contrived in some way to excite the dislike of the inhabitants,
who declared that the members were looking for hidden treasure.
Natural cupidity combined with race-hatred to make the search as
difficult as possible, and the Emathians put so many obstacles in the
explorers’ way, and dogged their steps with such persistent malignity,
as would have stirred even the mildest of scientists to revolt. These
particular scientists were young and fiery, and demanded effectual
protection for themselves and their pursuits, under the threat of
holding up the North Emathian administration to the execration of
Europe, sending a deputation to Klaustra to argue the case against the
representatives of the peasants. Wylie would fain have hurried at once
to the disputed area, and settled the difficulty on the spot, but this
suggestion did not meet the learned men’s wishes. They wanted, not
police protection, but a definite edict to secure them from
molestation, and deprecated the untoward importance which would be
attached to their mission if Wylie carried out his intention. The
peasants were equally determined that the strangers’ proceedings ought
to be stopped at all costs, and brought up relays of witnesses to
prove that they were impiously and callously interfering with all
manner of time-honoured landmarks.

The game of accusation and contradiction went on merrily, wasting time
day after day, and Armitage was left to his own devices and to the
society of the ladies for entertainment. Thus forsaken, he conceived
the idea of occupying his leisure by painting Danaë’s portrait, and
to Wylie’s intense delight asked Zoe’s leave to do so. True to her
first resolution, Zoe consented, hoping to discover, during the hours
occupied in the task, some clue to the enigma of the girl’s
personality.

As for Danaë herself, she was highly flattered by the request, having
long admired in secret the large painting of Zoe which the artist had
presented to her and her husband as his wedding-gift. Her ideas on the
subject were not exactly in accord with Armitage’s, however, as was
made evident when she presented herself for the first sitting robed in
Linton’s best black gown and a stiffly starched white apron, with her
hair strained back from her face and piled into a kind of helmet on
her head, in distant imitation of Zoe’s coils. Zoe and Armitage gazed
at her in speechless horror as she displayed herself with much pride,
and were devoutly thankful for the sudden irruption of Linton, who had
discovered the unauthorised use made of her Sunday gown, and lost no
time in proceeding to recover it. Zoe herself presided over the
transformation of the European into the everyday Kalliopé, a change
which had to be effected almost by force, for the girl was sulking
furiously. She resented particularly the restoration of her hair to
its usual massive plaits, for the uncouth pile secured with stolen
hairpins had been a special triumph. The Lady Zoe was obliged to do
her hair loosely and fluff it out to make it look at all well, whereas
she, Danaë, had so much that she could hardly get it all up even when
it was twisted as tightly as possible! Her face was like a
thundercloud when Zoe led her back at last, and Armitage, welcoming
the gay dress and long plaits in place of the grotesque array which
had affronted his horrified vision, had no chance of doing more that
first day than obtain an excellent attitude for an embodiment of
disgust.

Things improved afterwards, though it was several days before Danaë
could be induced to appear save with an expression of restrained
protest, and Armitage made one sketch after another, trying to find
the best attitude for bringing out the points of the beautiful face
and form. Danaë was in no wise shy. To her mind the Christodoridi
were the equals of any of the royal houses of Europe, and the
conviction lent a stately assurance to her manner that puzzled Zoe and
roused Armitage to fresh admiration. Pursuing her plan of training her
handmaid for a loftier future, Zoe gave herself some trouble in the
matter of choosing subjects for conversation during these mornings.
She had thrown herself of late so completely into the actual life that
surrounded her that Armitage was rather surprised to find how keen her
interest in literary and artistic matters still remained. But he was
fresh from London and the circles in which she had shone before her
marriage, and he found it quite easy to believe that a brilliant woman
of her achievements might find the society of Emathian country ladies,
and the duty of leading them in the way that they should go, pall at
times. Therefore he talked of books and pictures and historical
events, following her lead, and Zoe watched Danaë’s face to see how
it affected her, and tried to draw her into the discussion by asking
her the right word in Greek for such and such a thing. But the result
was disappointing. The girl had no foundation of general knowledge on
which to build. Names which would have brought a glow of enthusiasm to
the cheek of most of her countrywomen had no meaning for her, and
history was represented to her mind by the rude chronicles of the
sordid and bloodthirsty squabbles of her Christodoridi ancestors with
the other island chiefs. When she could be induced to recite one of
these metrical romances, then, indeed, her eye kindled and her voice
became almost inspired, but to her hearers the matter was hopelessly
inadequate to the emotions it evoked. They could not tell that she
felt she had justified her descent from these rather unheroic heroes,
and that the barbaric crimes and virtues which they supposed her to
admire in her rulers were honoured family characteristics to her.

After the sittings had lasted for a week, Zoe came upon Armitage
turning over his portfolio with a perplexed face. It was full of
sketches of Danaë of all sorts and sizes--whole-length, half-length,
three-quarters, full face, profile, face turned away, some worked up
almost into pictures, others the merest record of a moment’s pose.

“Not satisfied yet?” she asked him, smiling.

“How can I be?” he demanded, viewing with frowning brow a pencil
drawing of Danaë recounting with immense gusto the tale of a
particularly black piece of treachery practised against an enemy by
Prince Christodoridi’s father. “There’s no soul in anyone of them, and
it seems a kind of desecration to paint that face without it.”

“How can there be?” demanded Zoe in return. “She hasn’t got one--at
least, that’s what I am beginning to think.”

“She has, she has!” cried Armitage stoutly. “I have caught glimpses of
it--the merest glimpses--and it was gone again.”

“They must have been the very merest glimpses, for I have been
watching most eagerly, and have never seen a sign,” said Zoe. “Why,
even in this--” she took up a sketch of Danaë looking down on Janni
and Harold playing at her feet--“in which she looks really sweet,
there is not a hint of anything more than a kind of wild affection.
She would go through right and wrong without a qualm to get Janni
anything he cried for.”

“Or Harold either. She has a very real liking for you and Harold both,
I believe, though in your case it is mixed with a good deal of--of
lack of comprehension.”

“Why don’t you say contempt at once? That is what she feels, I know
perfectly well. And no doubt we are all of us miserable failures
according to her savage code--and Maurice, as the best of us, the
worst failure.”

“No, I am the worst failure, I think. Prince Theophanis does at any
rate rule, and with a strong hand when necessary. I potter about the
world in a yacht, ready enough to help my friends, but without
sufficient grit to annex a principality for myself. Oh, I have seen it
in her eyes, I assure you, and it sets me wondering what exactly she
would expect me to do on the lines of the villainous Despots she
admires so much.”

“Oh, murder us all, and Romanos too, and seize Emathia, I
suppose--regardless of the effect on the Powers,” said Zoe. “And yet
you still think the soul is there?”

“I tell you I have seen it. But I can’t say the look is
characteristic. Still, I know exactly how it would change the whole
face. I could paint it now.”

“Then do it,” said Zoe, with a sudden inspiration. “Paint two pictures
of her, one as she is and one as she ought to be--as you and I would
like to see her. That one I will put away, and when we are old and
gray-headed we will look at it and see whether she has developed in
accordance with it or not.”

“But you would not let her see it?”

“Certainly not. One doesn’t want to add hypocrisy to the poor child’s
obvious faults, and that would be a kind of temptation to it. No, she
knows she must not look at the picture until it is finished, and you
can keep the second one out of sight. When she sees herself in all her
glory, she will be quite satisfied, and in no danger of finding fault
with the expression.”

Armitage took the advice thus tendered him, and to Zoe there was
something very pathetic about the smaller picture which grew under his
hand in the neighbourhood of the large one. The splendidly handsome
face, with its firm lips and scornful eyes, seemed to look down with
contempt on its neighbour, into which, Zoe thought pitifully, the
artist had painted the reflection of his own kindly soul rather than
that of his sitter. If Kalliopé had a soul, it seemed to be buried
deep beyond all means of reaching it; there was no way of getting at
the girl herself. These thoughts were in Zoe’s mind when she came to
the sitting one morning, to be met on the way by Armitage, who was
carrying his large picture with some difficulty owing to a letter in
one hand.

“Wait one moment, Princess,” he said. “Kalliopé is not there yet, and
I have just had a letter from the Cavaliere. You will like to hear
what he says?”

“Oh yes!” cried Zoe. “Has he discovered anything?”

“He thinks so. He says he had little difficulty in finding the villa
where his daughter used to live. The people all knew that Prince
Romanos had prepared it for a lady, who lived there in great
retirement, and never went out. He used to visit her frequently, but
of late his visits had entirely ceased, and the old woman who once did
the marketing had also disappeared suddenly. Also the sentries who
used to guard the house on the outside had been removed--and all these
things happened at the same time, five or six months ago. Of course it
might mean merely that Donna Olimpia had gone to live somewhere else,
but the Cavaliere made up his mind that she had been murdered--and
really you can’t wonder, after what he told us about her letters. He
managed to get into the grounds one night with the help of a
rope-ladder, and explored the whole place thoroughly. The house was
clean and tidy, and there were no stains of blood, which was what he
had feared to find, nor was there any grave in the garden. But
everything indoors looked as though the inhabitants had gone away
suddenly, without having time to pack properly. The furniture was all
awry, and Donna Olimpia’s gowns were hanging up in her wardrobe. In
the nursery the little boy’s toys and things were all left, and as far
as he could tell the servants’ clothes were all in their rooms too.
What should you think it pointed to?”

“It looks as though they had been seized and carried off somewhere
without being allowed to take anything with them,” said Zoe. “Can it
be Strio after all? But it seems such needless cruelty on the Prince’s
part not to let them take their things.”

“Well, I should almost have thought they must have been abducted by
some one else who objected to the way in which the Prince spent his
time; but why they should take all the servants I don’t know,” said
Armitage. “It seems unnecessary trouble, for if it was merely to
ensure secrecy, I don’t suppose they would have stuck at killing them.
But the Cavaliere seems to have agreed with you. He was remarkably
lucky, for just as he was coming out of the house, he saw some one in
the garden. It was a tall man, wandering up and down on the lawn in
front, throwing his arms about and groaning. He guessed
immediately--which is more than I should have done--that it was Prince
Romanos, tormented by remorse, and he went for him at once, and
demanded what he had done with his wife and child. It really was
Romanos, and he seems to have behaved rather well, all things
considered. He didn’t appear to mind Pazzi’s dropping in upon him, and
explained, with suitable expressions of grief, that all the
inhabitants of the house, Donna Olimpia, the baby, and three servants,
had been carried off by diphtheria in the space of two days. How does
that strike you?”

“As remarkable, to say the least.”

“So the Cavaliere thinks. He tried to corner Romanos in every possible
way--about the letters especially. But he stuck to it that the first
few were really written during his wife’s illness, and contained her
messages. The long one, which was supposed to have been dictated, he
gave up at once, confessing that he had made it up in terror lest the
Cavaliere should insist on coming to Therma, and add a public scandal
to his private grief. Well, it seemed so impossible to shake his
story, and he displayed such a friendly wish to keep his father-in-law
in sight while he remained in the city, that the Cavaliere smothered
his suspicions and accepted the story. They even visited Donna
Olimpia’s grave together the next day, and Pazzi might have come away
satisfied if Prince Romanos had not made a bad slip. Something he let
drop suggested to the Cavaliere that there was some uncertainty about
the child’s death, and he nailed him there and then. Bit by bit it
came out that the little boy had not died with his mother. His nurse
had snatched him up in a fit of delirium and carried him off, and was
believed to have thrown herself and him into the harbour from the quay
that same night. Their bodies had not been recovered, but a woman with
a child in her arms was known to have drowned herself, and if those
were not they, where are they?”

“You know,” said Zoe inconsequently, “that I see a likeness in little
Janni to Prince Romanos. What if he and Kalliopé were the missing
child and nurse?”

Armitage started. “If it could be!” he said. “But no. You remember,
Princess, that you thought Kalliopé also was like the Prince. But
there is nothing to account for that. And the Cavaliere says somewhere
that the nurse was an elderly woman--a Roumi, by the description he
has of her.”

“It is a most curious coincidence,” said Zoe.

“But nothing more, I imagine. Well, do you wonder it made old Pazzi
suspicious? However, he didn’t show it, but the moment he could shake
off his affectionate son-in-law he went straight to Professor
Panagiotis, who has promised to get at the rights of the matter by
hook or by crook. So now the fat’s in the fire.”

“This may be very dreadful,” said Zoe, after a pause of dismay. “I
don’t think the Cavaliere ought to have spoken to the Professor before
consulting us. Maurice and Graham would have gone to Therma and helped
him to bring Prince Romanos to book. He would probably tell the truth
when he found they knew so much, and were only anxious to help him.
But now--oh, do warn the Cavaliere to take no open steps, whatever he
may discover, before letting Maurice know. One can never tell what
Professor Panagiotis will do. I suppose he has an ideal in his mind,
and goes straight for it, he cuts off so many corners that anyone else
would have to go round. I only hope the Cavaliere’s letter has not
been read on the way. We never consider the post here safe, you know.”

“Pazzi waited until your brother’s own messenger was coming out, and
sent the letter by him. That accounts for our not having heard from
him before, I suppose. Oh, I will warn him till all is blue, but I
should doubt if Prince Romanos will come through this time.”

“Personally, one could hardly wish him to escape,” said Zoe, “for
however much poor Donna Olimpia was to blame, he must have treated her
shamefully. You can’t wonder at her coming to Therma, for she knew
only too well that she could not trust him out of her sight. Do you
remember how lovely she was when we were at Bashi Konak? That must
have been when they first met, of course, but she had changed very
much when she told me about her marriage. And she was really devoted
to him, poor thing!”

“The man ought to be flayed alive!” muttered Armitage, in a tone so
ferociously at variance with his usual sunny kindliness that Zoe was
betrayed into a laugh. He looked ashamed, and took up his picture
again. “Well, Princess, we have kept poor Kalliopé waiting a long
time, but I thought you ought to know how matters stood.”

“Oh dear, I hope she won’t have looked at the other picture!” cried
Zoe, hurrying up the steps, but she was too late. Danaë was standing
beside the easel, contemplating her idealised portrait with a pleased
smile.

“Am I really as beautiful as that?” she asked them as they came up,
with a naïve frankness which betrayed no doubt of its answer. For the
moment, in this softened mood, her expression was really not unlike
that of the picture, Zoe thought. But as Armitage reached the top of
the steps, she saw the second canvas in his hands.

“Ah, I thought this one was too small!” she cried. “Have you made two
pictures of me, lord? But you might have let me wear the European
clothes for one of them! Are they both exactly alike?”

In his perplexity, Armitage was still holding the larger picture,
instead of placing it on the easel, and she came behind him and looked
at it over his shoulder. Neither he nor Zoe ventured to say a word.
Perhaps the girl would not notice the difference! But even as Zoe
watched, a change came over the smiling face, and an angry sob broke
from the beautiful lips. Danaë was at the easel again, her little
dagger in her hand. Fiercely she drove it into the canvas, slitting it
across and across and round the edge, then stood confronting them for
a moment with stormy brow and heaving breast.

“You shall not mock me!” she gasped. More she would have said, but her
fury would not let her speak. She snatched off her coin-decked cap and
trampled upon it, caught up her apron and tore it into ribbons. Then
the dagger which she had hurled from her caught her eye again, and
Armitage sprang forward to seize it, fearing she would do herself an
injury. His hand was actually on it, but she tore it away and struck
at him as he tried to wrest it from her. Then, still in the same
passion of silent rage, she hacked and hewed at one of her heavy
plaits of hair, unheeding Zoe’s entreaties, until it was severed in
her hand, and flung it at their feet. Then the tension relaxed, and
she pressed her hands to her eyes and fled sobbing.

“I ought not to have done it. How could she understand unless it was
explained to her? Of course she thought I was trying to make fun of
her,” said Armitage, holding his wounded wrist.

“She had no business to look at the easel when she was told not,” said
Zoe practically. “You must let me tell Linton to bring some hot water,
and we will tie up your arm. I am afraid she must have hurt you a good
deal.”

“Oh, I shall bear her mark!” he said, laughing, but Zoe thought that
there was more in the words than a joke. Twisting his handkerchief
round his wrist while she called to Linton, he stooped and picked up
the severed plait from the floor. “What a pity!” he said.

“Yes, the naughty girl has effectually spoilt her appearance for some
time,” said Zoe. Armitage was smoothing the thick blue-black strands,
and she took them from him with gentle firmness. “I shall keep this to
make Miss Kalliopé a wig when she needs it,” she said. “If she should
take it into her head to cut off the other plait the next time she has
a fit of temper, there will be nothing to fasten her cap to.”

“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” agreed Linton. “Anything more like a pig with
one ear than that poor ill-tempered girl as she rushed past me just
now I never did see. And to show such a wicked spirit, when his
lordship was taking her picture so beautiful! I do hope, my lord, if I
may make so bold, you’ll paint her with the short hair showing, as a
lesson to her to keep her temper in hand for the future.”

“But that would spoil my picture,” objected Armitage, who was an old
friend of Linton’s.

“And if it did, my lord, what’s that to curing a fine handsome girl
like that--and good with children too, as I must confess, though I
wouldn’t say as much to her--of her wicked ways?”




 CHAPTER XI.
 THE RETURN OF PETROS.

Whatever course Armitage might take with regard to his picture,
Danaë was conscious that her outbreak of passion had set a barrier
between her and the rest of the household. Even the children shrank
from her in her black moods, and now Linton gathered them
ostentatiously under her wing, requesting Danaë not to come near them
until there was no danger of her doing them a mischief. This was the
nearest approach to scolding that she received, for Zoe, without even
alluding to the cause of the disfigurement, helped her to rearrange
her hair in two smaller plaits so that it was as far as possible
disguised. Armitage’s bandaged wrist was a perpetual reproach to her,
but she met with no reproof in words, though when she plucked up
courage to apply to Wylie, who had found and confiscated her dagger,
for its restoration, he refused without vouchsafing a reason. But
though no word was said, and no punishment inflicted, she was
surprised, and even irritated, to find that she felt her guilt much
more keenly than on a memorable occasion when she had pushed
Angeliké, then a child of four, off the fortress wall. Angeliké
happily fell into a rubbish heap, and beyond being half-choked with
dust, suffered no harm; but the incident roused Princess Christodoridi
from her usual placidity, and she insisted that her husband should
inflict a suitable punishment on his elder daughter, towards whom she
suspected him of undue partiality. Struggling and screaming, Danaë
was held fast by the women-servants while her hair was cut off by her
father’s dagger, and thereafter, a miserable little shorn object, she
had been held up to every visitor as a model of juvenile depravity
until her mother grew tired of the subject--the injured Angeliké
meanwhile basking on the softest cushions, and enjoying the first
taste of every dainty dish. The girl could recall even now the fierce
thrill of resentment of the injustice that seized her when, just as
her hair had almost grown again, her mother had rehearsed the whole
story to a stray cousin from another island, though perhaps it was her
father’s injudicious sympathy that brought her at last to feel as if
she was the injured party and Angeliké the aggressor. But now, assure
herself as she would that Zoe and Armitage had mocked her cruelly and
intentionally humiliated her, she could not bring herself to believe
it, and the unaccustomed sense of guilt made her increasingly
miserable. To use Linton’s phrase, she “moped,” and the household
seemed to have lost sensibly in light and colour while she hung about
in secluded corners. It was a relief when, after three days of morose
inactivity, she asked sullenly for stuff and needles and thread,
though she still sat solitary, making herself a new apron in place of
the one she had torn up.

The end of the verandah, whither she betook herself, was quite remote
from the usual living rooms, and she worked as if for a wager,
undisturbed by either Zoe or Linton, who thought that a period of
reflection would do her no harm. Hearing steps in the court below her,
she set them down to one of the servants passing on an errand, until a
low hiss and the word “Kalliopé!” reached her ears. Looking over the
railing, she saw the guard Logofet, who had never forgiven her for the
reprimand he had received on the occasion of their first meeting,
standing below.

“Your uncle’s here, Kalliopé,” he said with a grin.

“I have no uncle,” she cried angrily.

“Oh, that’s all very fine. He told me to tell you that your uncle
Petros was here, waiting to speak to you, and that it would be the
worse for you if you didn’t go.”

“It’s a lie. I have nothing to do with him.”

“Oh, come now!” Logofet assumed an air of virtuous reproof. “Didn’t I
hear him myself ask the Prince to find you a place, and the Prince
wouldn’t have you without his leave? You take my advice, and don’t
tell any more lies, which no one believes, but just go and speak to
him, for he won’t go away without seeing you.”

“But how can I speak to him? They won’t let me pass through the gate
at this hour.”

Logofet winked. Danaë had already suspected the source of his
excessive geniality, and now she was certain of it. “_They_ may not,
my dear, but I will,” he said, “and I go on guard at the small door in
a few minutes. Just cough three times when you come round the corner,
and I’ll turn my back. If the Lord Glafko expects me to see in the
dusk like a cat, why, he’ll be disappointed! So be a sensible girl,
and do as you’re told.”

He stalked away with exaggerated steadiness, and Danaë wondered for a
moment whether she durst claim the protection her employers had
promised her against Petros. But after what had happened, her pride
rebelled. And after all, he might only have come to assure himself
that she and Janni were in safe keeping, and not to take them away.
When the dusk had quite fallen, therefore, she slipped down the
nearest staircase, which led into a smaller courtyard at the back of
the main block, and seeing Logofet’s figure dimly as he stood on
guard, gave the signal coughs. The bulky form at the gate became
intensely interested in a gleam of light from an upper window, and she
turned the well-oiled key and slipped out. Under the wall was waiting
a man wrapped in a thick dark overcoat or _kapota_, and as Danaë
approached him he struck a match, revealing the face which had been
the terror of her dreams for months. When he saw her, he chuckled
irrepressibly.

“So it’s true that you cut off half your hair!” he said. “I wondered
whether I should find you tamed, my lady, with the Lady Zoe making
such a pet of you, and the English lord putting you into a picture,
but I see you’re the Despot’s true daughter still.”

“I suppose you have been drinking with your friend Logofet,” said
Danaë icily. “Say what you have to say, and go.”

“That’s easily done, my lady. I want the little lord.”

“What do you mean to do with him?”

“To restore him to his anxious father, of course,” with a chuckle.

“I don’t believe it. You want to kill him, as you did his mother. I
won’t give him up.”

“Oh yes, you will, my lady, and without making any fuss about it,
because if you don’t, I shall simply go to Prince Theophanis and tell
him the truth about both of you. Then the Lord Janni will go back to
his father, and you to yours. Of course, if you are longing to get
back to Strio, I have no objection, but it’s for you to say.”

Danaë shivered. Strio was bad enough to look forward to, but what she
shrank from more was the prospect of her story becoming known. That
the nature of all the lies and evasions and subterfuges she had
employed should be publicly exposed, that she should stand forth as an
impostor, the accomplice in a murder, the deceiver of her own brother
and her kindest friends! She pressed her hands together in agony, and
Petros spoke again, insinuatingly this time.

“It’s not my business, lady, I know, and the Despot would kill me if
he guessed what I am saying, but there’s no need to go back to Strio
if you don’t wish it. The Lady Zoe will surely find you a husband if
she has taken such a fancy to you, and you won’t catch me letting out
anything. I’m only asking you to do what will benefit us all. The Lord
Romanos is mad to get his son back, I see my way to something handsome
for myself if I take him back, and you will be able to stay on here.
Isn’t that fair?”

“My brother wants Janni back?” Danaë spoke in a dazed tone. “But then
how is it you have not come for him before?”

Petros laughed with some little confusion. “Must I keep you here in
the cold while I explain everything, my lady? Isn’t it enough for you
to know that the little lord is badly wanted, and to hand him over?”

“I will do nothing unless I know why you want him, and why you have
waited so long.”

“Holy Nicholas, lady! you are your father over again. Well, then, the
first thing the Lord Romanos thought of on the Lady’s death was to
keep everything quite secret. If he had lost his love, he need not
lose his people’s good opinion as well; you see?”

“You are insolent!” flashed out Danaë. “The Lord Romanos acts as a
wise man acts.”

“Then surely, my lady, there can be no harm in his servant following
in his footsteps? At any rate, that is what he has tried to do. For
when the Lord Romanos remembered the little lord, and found that he
had disappeared, he was torn between his paternal affection and his
fear of discovery. He longed to trace his son, but he durst not bring
the police into the matter, lest they should find out too much, and
therefore he entrusted the matter to me. Now, lady, knowing that you
and the little lord were safe where I could put my finger upon you at
any moment, could I really be expected to bring the search to an end
before it had begun? That is not a wise man’s way.”

“You allowed the Lord Romanos to believe that his son was dead?”

“Lady, although I am not a father, I can enter into a father’s
feelings. I watched my lord carefully, and brought him the news of a
wretched woman--a Roumi whose husband had taken another wife--who had
drowned herself and her child in the harbour. If the Lord Romanos had
accepted the tale as a convenient ending to the matter, it should have
ended there, but he displayed so much grief in thus losing the child
as well as the mother that I gave him a little hope. The bodies had
not been found, and there was no proof that they were yours and the
little lord’s. And that hope, my lady, I have cherished cunningly ever
since, bringing my lord news of clue after clue, and investigating
them at his command until they have turned out false. I must have
sampled the _mastika_ of every wineshop in Therma since I saw
you--‘gathering information,’ the police call it.”

“And I suppose my brother is tired of false clues, or you would have
visited the wineshops all over again?”

“You don’t think so poorly of me, lady, as to imagine I would let his
Highness learn that he had been deceived? No, I could have gone on as
long again, as you say. I had even satisfied my lord your father by
sending him word that after everything had fallen out exactly
according to his wishes, it had been necessary for you to take a
situation in the country, to avert suspicion, and I had several new
and very fine clues ready to go on with. But we were interrupted. The
Lady’s father came to Therma.”

“What! had he heard what had happened?” cried Danaë.

“I know not, my lady, but I think he had made up his mind that the
Lord Romanos had had her removed because her presence was become
dangerous. I know only that my lord called me, and said, ‘Friend
Petraki, I am ruined for ever unless we can find the little lord at
once. If I have been a good master to you all these years, stand by me
now.’ Could I think any longer of my own advantage then, lady? No, I
did not hesitate to renounce my pleasant task of investigation, and
naming only the reward I desired, I set forth to follow up the clue
that led hither.”

“And what was the reward?” asked Danaë, unmoved by the devotion so
pathetically displayed. Again Petros appeared a little confused.

“Why, lady, you must see that I have felt myself in considerable
danger these last few months. A man can never be quite certain that he
has covered all his tracks. At any moment my lord might discover that
I had some connection with the Lady’s removal, and I know him well
enough to be sure that, without any chance of telling tales, I should
pay the forfeit, though I followed him when he left Strio twenty years
ago. My price is a full pardon, therefore, and so I told my lord,
confessing that I had killed an old woman in a quarrel. He swore by
the All-Holy Mother that if I brought him back his son I might kill
every old woman in Therma--provided I did it in decent seclusion--and
I started at once.”

Danaë laughed in the darkness. “Every old woman in Therma, do you
say, friend Petraki? There is pardon for that, but not for killing one
Kyria Olimpia.”

“Lady, it is you who mistake.” Petros spoke slowly and meaningly. “In
that deed I had no part, and can invoke without fear the most awful of
all curses upon the villains who took part in it. You yourself heard
the orders the Despot gave me, that the Lady who was leading his son
astray was to be brought alive to Strio, there to be imprisoned where
she could do no more harm. Those orders I did my best to fulfil, and
I laid no hand on her. It was those with me--strangers whom I hired to
help me carry out the Despot’s behest, and who I now think must have
been also in the pay of some one whose interest it was to get rid of
the Lady--who slew her. That I struck down old Mariora I have
confessed--she had often given me the rough side of her tongue, and
she was going to raise the alarm, and I was afraid she would call me
by name.”

“I see,” said Danaë. “Far be it from me to destroy your confidence in
the Lord Romanos.”

“Lady, I am not one to tempt my lord to break his promise. When I quit
this place with the little lord, you will not find me going straight
to Therma. I shall leave the Lord Janni in a safe place, while I go
forward and acquaint my lord of his recovery. I know a wise man--a
lawyer whose father was a priest--and he has drawn me up a paper for
the Lord Romanos to sign, calling down upon himself if he breaks his
promise such curses as no man living would dare to face.”

Danaë’s attention had wandered. “Friend Petros” she said quickly,
“how can the little lord save his father from ruin?”

“I cannot tell, my lady. It seemed to me that perhaps the old man, the
Lady’s father, desired to have the child and bring him up. Then he
would promise to leave my lord undisturbed, and keep the story secret,
taking the Lord Janni away with him, so that it might never be known
whose son he was.”

“If that is it----” she paused a moment. “You must have him, Petros,
if it is to save his father, but I shall come too.”

The reply was not flattering. “Holy George! you will ruin everything,
my lady. Why should you come?”

“Because I cannot stay here without him. The grandfather will only
know that I am his nurse, and I shall beg him on my knees to take me
with him. Then I can bring up the little lord in the right ways, as
befits the son of John Theophanis. If he will not take me, perhaps I
can manage to follow them somehow, and if not, I can but go back to
Strio. That would be better than staying here and telling fresh
lies----”

“It is for you to command, my lady, but I knew not you loved the
island-life so much.”

“It is not for you to judge my doings. See, friend Petros,”
desperation made her conciliatory, “you will be glad to have me to
take care of the little lord on the journey and when you leave him.
And I can support you, as you said, if it is necessary to swear that
you had no part in the Lady’s death.”

“That’s true,” said Petros doubtfully; “but I meant to take the child
under my arm and ride the first stage to-night. Now I shall have to
see about another pony or a mule, and it’s too late to do anything. I
shall have to waste another bottle of good _raki_ on that beauty
Logofet, too, to get him to let you pass to-morrow evening. But it’s
quite likely I shall bring in the Lord Janni in better condition with
you than without you, so I’ll make the arrangements, and send you word
by Logofet where to meet me. But mind, my lady, no playing me false,
or you will be sorry you tried it.”

“I wish you had said that in Strio!” burst from Danaë. “The Despot
would have sent you to feed the fishes.”

Petros caught her wrist. “You may be as high and mighty as you please,
my lady, but I warn you once more not to trifle with me. I have too
much at stake, and I swear by the All-Holy Mother and all the
saints----”

She tore her hand away. “You forget yourself, dog! If I choose to make
use of your escort on my journey, it should not lead you to presume. I
shall be ready when you send me word.”

She coughed three times outside the door, and it opened with a
suddenness which suggested that Logofet must have been straining his
ear at the keyhole. He tried to kiss her as she slipped in, and only
his unsteady condition enabled her to escape. She hurried up the
staircase quivering with rage and shame--not even able to account for
the feeling which bade her choose an ignominious return to Strio
rather than a fresh campaign of falsehood to enable her to remain at
Klaustra. Everything was gone now, the new friends whom she had liked
in her own curious way, the European culture she had been acquiring at
such pains, the hope of a wider and freer life than Strio and a future
Striote husband could offer, the half-acknowledged pleasure she had
begun to take in Armitage’s gentle manner and frank boyish face. With
a return of her old vehemence, she ran frantically along the verandah
and burst into the nursery, where Linton was much embarrassed by the
difficulty of giving both the children their supper at once. The spoon
which was approaching Harold’s open mouth landed a dose of bread and
milk on his pinafore instead, as Danaë rushed in and threw herself on
the floor, burying her face in the folds of Linton’s gown.

“Oh, Sofia, I am the most wicked and miserable girl that ever lived. I
am worse than a beast!”

“There, there!” said Linton with creditable sympathy, “don’t take it
to heart so much as all that, Kalliopé. It’s well that you should see
it for yourself, but there’s no use making a fuss about it. Show your
repentance by doing, not by talking, is my motto. And you may as well
help me with these precious lambs, for I can’t so much as hear myself
speak with Master Johnny screeching fit to take your head off.”

Janni was loudly demanding food of Nono, and Harold was dissolved in
tears over the untoward fate of Nin-nin’s last spoonful, so that the
needs of the moment were pressing, and when the meal was over Danaë
helped to put the children to bed as usual. She seemed to have slipped
back into her ordinary place after her three days’ exile, and Linton
was too much relieved by her docility to do more than lecture her in
general terms as she put on her spectacles to hem the sides of the new
apron. Zoe glanced at them with delight as she stole in for a look at
the babies after dinner, and laid a kind hand on Danaë’s shoulder in
token of renewed confidence. To her surprise, there were depths of
tragedy in the eyes the girl lifted to her face. Danaë saw, not the
cheerful nursery, with its red curtains and its brazier and lamp, but
the chill autumn evening and rough roads for which Janni and she must
to-morrow exchange all this comfort and safety. But as no words
followed, Zoe interpreted the glance as one of penitence, and felt
nothing but pleasure in recalling it.

The next day everything seemed to conspire to make it easy for Danaë
to fulfil her compact with Petros. Linton trusted her with the
children as though she had never expressed a doubt as to her treatment
of them, and Harold and Janni found their dear Nono at their service
for uproarious games all day long. The games kept Danaë from
thinking, and they made the children tired, so that Linton swept them
off to bed half an hour before the usual time. They both went to sleep
“like angels,” as she observed, and then, leaving Danaë to watch over
them, she hurried off to help Zoe in dressing for dinner. She never
forgot that her real and original status in the household was that of
ladies’-maid, but it was not often that her nursery labours allowed
her to return to its duties. As soon as her mistress’s door had closed
behind Linton, Danaë knew that the moment was come. She took Janni
out of bed, and dressed him without his even waking, then put on her
own outdoor coat, twisted a shawl round her head, and went out on the
verandah. The tipsy voice of Logofet greeted her immediately.

“Kalliopé, pretty little Kalliopé, I thought you were never coming.
Your dear uncle is waiting for you and your brat round the third
turning on the left--no, the right--no, it was the left, I’m sure of
it--opposite the small door. You won’t find me there, because I’m just
going to sit down quietly and rest a bit, but you can let yourself out
and in--no, you won’t want to get in again this time, ha, ha! Take
care not to run across the Princess. She hasn’t come in from the
hospital yet.”

Hugging affectionately a large bottle, Logofet lurched away, and
Danaë, with a sick feeling at her heart, went back into the room and
fetched Janni and the bundle of clothes she had put ready. She felt as
if she did not care whom she met, but she instinctively shrank into
the corner of the staircase as the back-door opened and Princess
Theophanis came in, attended by a servant with a lantern. Danaë could
not tell whether she had been seen or not. It seemed to her for a
moment that she caught the glance of cold dislike with which Princess
Eirene always regarded her, but there were other things to think of.

“Where is the sentry?” asked the Princess sharply. “He must have left
his post. Light me to the door, and then go and report his absence to
the Lord Glafko.”

She passed in at the house-door, and Danaë seized the opportunity to
slip out. Once outside, she hurried in the direction of the third
turning on the left, expecting to find Petros there, fuming and
swearing. But he was not there, and though she waited some time, in
deadly terror of passers-by, he did not come. Then there occurred to
her, with a fearful shock, Logofet’s maudlin uncertainty as to the
turning, and she ran back into the main street, panting over the cruel
cobbles until she had passed the Konak and reached the third turning
on the right. There was no one there either. For a moment she waited,
hardly able to believe in her good fortune. Petros had repented, or
changed his mind, and was not waiting for her at all. Then with swift
reaction came the thought that the summons might be a trick of
Logofet’s to get her shut out, and she ran back to the door in fresh
terror. But the handle turned easily, and she burst in, to the intense
astonishment of the man now on guard, who seemed disposed to detain
her for explanations. But she was the Lady Zoe’s favourite, and
therefore not to be roughly handled, and muttering something about an
errand, she brushed hastily past him while he was locking the door.
She was almost at the end of her strength, but she staggered up the
stairs with Janni and the bundle, along the verandah, and into the
nursery. Could it be possible she had been gone so short a time that
Linton had not yet returned from her chat with her mistress? Quickly,
in the dim light of the shaded lamp, she took off Janni’s wraps and
laid him in his cot, careful not to wake Harold, sleeping close by.
Something strange about his crib attracted her attention as she turned
from tucking Janni up, and she lifted the clothes. The bed was empty.
Harold was not there.




 CHAPTER XII.
 MISSING.

Danaë sank upon the floor by the empty cot, literally unable to
stand. Wildly she sought for an explanation of Harold’s disappearance.
Had Petros carried him off in revenge, believing she had deceived him,
or had Harold, and not Janni, been his real object all along? But what
good could the possession of Harold do him, unless he meant to take
him to Therma and pass him off as Janni? Prince Romanos was not likely
to jeopardise his own safety by proclaiming the substitution, even if
he realised it, and to his father-in-law one child was as good as the
other. That must be it. Somehow or other she had missed Petros in the
darkness, and he had made his way in and seized Harold, possibly
believing him to be Janni. But here was Janni, sleeping peacefully,
and Harold would be carried off to Magnagrecia, where his parents
would never find him. For--and Danaë saw it clearly--if she gave the
alarm and accused Petros, matters could not stop there. The whole
story must come out, for Petros in his anger would unmask her as he
had threatened to do. And in the few moments of relief she had enjoyed
after the blissful discovery that he was not waiting for her, her
present home and all its ease and comfort and safety had become doubly
dear. No, she could not now renounce it by her own act. She would do
all she could to help in recovering Harold, short of telling what had
actually happened, and if the worst came to the worst she could always
confess Janni’s true parentage, and leave her employers to take what
steps they thought best.

“Why, Kalliopé, whatever in the world are you doing on the floor?”
demanded Linton’s hushed voice. “My lady couldn’t keep me with her
to-night, because of letters just come from Therma, so I just popped
down to the kitchen to see what Artemisia was going to send us up for
supper, and to ask about her son that was ill. But get up, girl, do!
What’s the matter?”

Danaë’s eyes met hers in the dimness like those of a hunted creature.
“The Lord Harold is not here,” she murmured.

“Not here? Who’s taken him?”

“I don’t know. I--I found him gone.”

“You found him gone? Why, you bad girl, you don’t mean to say you left
those blessed children alone, and me just turning my back for a
minute?”

“Some one called out to me that my uncle was here and wanted to speak
to me, and I ran down to see, but there was no one there. I was not
gone long.”

“Not long--I know what that means! And that precious child screaming
his little heart out, no doubt. Of course his papa heard him--the
darling!--and came and carried him away to the drawing-room, giving
him his death of cold, as likely as not. I’ll fetch him back at once;
but you mark my words, Kalliopé, I don’t trust you with the nursery
again in a hurry.”

In the Wylies’ drawing-room an informal council was being held over
the letter Armitage had just received from the Cavaliere Pazzi. Prince
and Princess Theophanis had come in, for the news it brought was
startling. Armitage translated roughly as he referred to the paper in
his hand.

“After all, there’s no doubt that the poor old chap acted wisely, from
his own point of view, in going to Professor Panagiotis,” he said.
“The Professor seems to have found out more in three days than he did
by himself in a month, and things certainly look very black against
Prince Romanos. According to the Cavaliere, these are his principal
points:--There was no notification of the existence of an infectious
disease at the villa, at a time when the Prince declares all its
inmates were mortally ill with diphtheria; no doctor was summoned
there until the day registered as that of the death of Donna Olimpia
and two of her servants; no nurses were seen coming or going, and no
medicines or disinfectants appear to have been purchased.”

“But look here,” said Wylie; “let us give the devil his due. This
absence of doctors and nurses and so on doesn’t necessarily imply that
there was no diphtheria, but it does account for its being so fatal.
According to the story in the last letter, there must have been five
people ill of it, and no one to nurse them.”

“Except Prince Romanos himself on his daily visits, when he went in
and out without apparently taking any precaution against infection.
That seems to be proved by the evidence of the sentries,” said
Armitage. “The Professor certainly doesn’t do things by halves.
Imagine his convicting the Prince out of the mouths of his own
soldiers! But, Wylie, don’t you see the Cavaliere’s point? Even if the
deaths were really due to diphtheria, and not to violence, the poor
creatures were practically murdered by being left without care and
medical attendance. They couldn’t get out to ask for help, I suppose
they couldn’t even cook for themselves--why, they must have starved to
death. It’s worse even than if he had had them killed. Can you
conceive the callousness of a man who could see five people--his own
wife and child among them--dying by inches day after day, and do
nothing to help them?”

“No,” said Zoe decisively, “it is inconceivable. I have no particular
kindness for Prince Romanos, but cruelty of that sort would be
impossible to him. He is a poet, you must remember. If he had
contemplated a crime of the kind, he would never have gone near the
place, either then or afterwards.”

“Then we are thrown back on the hypothesis that he had them murdered,”
said Armitage, “and what makes it look very likely is that on the very
day the deaths took place a number of men in the uniform of the
Prince’s guard were seen by the sentry to enter the grounds of the
villa. He had been informed that an additional guard was to be placed
round the house itself at night, owing to the Prince’s absence from
Therma, and seeing these men enter, apparently by means of a key of
their own, without knocking for admittance, he thought it was the
detachment detailed for that duty. They were there some time, in fact,
until after the old woman-servant--mark this; she died of diphtheria
that very day, you will remember--had come in from her marketing, and
then they marched out again, just before the sentry went off guard.
Most unfortunately, the man who relieved him cannot be found. He took
his discharge from the army shortly afterwards, and all trace of him
has been lost. But it is known that the Prince visited the villa that
afternoon, and sent off in hot haste for a doctor. The doctor has also
disappeared. He was a foreigner, and having signed the certificate
that Donna Olimpia and the two servants died of diphtheria, which was
required by the municipal regulations before the bodies could be
buried, he returned presumably to his own country--but no one knows.”

Maurice rose from his chair in uncontrollable emotion. “Don’t go any
further, Armitage. We have no right to push this inquiry without
giving Romanos a chance to defend himself. Certainly it looks like a
dastardly murder, but there may possibly be some explanation. We know
that the man is a brave soldier, and I can’t believe it of him.”

“Just let me finish,” pleaded Armitage. “If he is innocent, it is most
unfortunate that he has made away with another witness whose evidence
might have helped to clear him--or at least acquiesced in her
disappearance. Don’t you remember the nurse who, according to his
revised story, ran away in a fit of delirium and drowned herself in
the harbour with the child in her arms? Well, in Pazzi’s last letter,
which I read to you, Princess--” to Zoe--“he said that the missing
nurse was a Roumi, and rather elderly than not. That description,
according to the evidence of eye-witnesses, exactly fits the woman who
threw herself into the water--some of them knew her. But now the
Cavaliere has unearthed a letter of Donna Olimpia’s in which she
speaks of the nurse as a rough handsome girl from Strio.”

The rest looked at each other, and Armitage went on hurriedly--

“Her name was Eurynomé Andropoulos, and she was the niece of the
Prince’s servant Petros. Donna Olimpia wrote that she had always
disliked Petros, and would not have had a relation of his in the
house, but her husband had a fancy for the child to be brought up on
the Striote nursery tales and songs.”

“How long ago exactly did Donna Olimpia die?” asked Maurice.

“Janni calls Kalliopé Nono,” murmured Zoe.

“She told us that Petros would say he was her uncle, but he denied it
as earnestly as she did,” said Wylie.

“Then that child is a descendant of John Theophanis, after all!” said
Eirene. “But his mother--his mother was a schismatic! There is no need
to fear him.”

“Fear him--a baby like that!” said Maurice, with a mingling of scorn
and affection in his tone. “My dear Eirene, would you propose to turn
the poor little chap out in the cold, if we had reason to fear him, as
you call it?”

“We ought to be thankful that we have been able to save anyone from
such a wholesale murder,” said Zoe.

“Wait!” said Wylie suddenly. “Please remember, all of you, that we
know nothing yet for certain. We do know enough of this
girl--Kalliopé or Eurynomé or whatever else she may call herself--to
be sure that if we have her in and cross-question her she will deny
everything without a qualm, and probably seize the first opportunity
of taking the baby and running away somewhere else. She may be in the
pay of Romanos--paid to keep out of the way until the story of Donna
Olimpia has died down--or she may have been merely mad with fright
when she told us her rigmarole of contradictory stories at first.
Or--she may even not be the girl we are thinking of at all. At any
rate, we have her here safe, and the child too. I should advise very
strongly that we say nothing whatever to her at present, but that we
get old Pazzi up from Therma, and spring the thing upon her in his
presence. I doubt if we shall get the truth from her even then, but
there’s just a chance of it.”

“Then I think Romanos should be asked to come as well,” said Maurice,
“and perhaps Panagiotis too. There is so much at stake that we
ought----”

“Please, ma’am, may I have Master Harold?” Linton’s voice, reproving
at first, became insensibly frightened as she looked round the room
and failed to see her charge anywhere.

“Master Harold, Linton? Why, you told me yourself he was in bed an
hour ago!” cried Zoe.

“And so he was, ma’am, but I made sure Master had heard him crying and
brought him down here. If I’ve said so to myself once as I come down
from the nursery, I’ve said it on every stair. And where is the
precious lamb if he isn’t here, may I ask, ma’am?”

“Why, in bed, of course,” said Wylie, while Zoe, with a scared face,
ran out of the room.

“No, sir, that he isn’t, begging your pardon, and if any of you
gentlemen are playing a joke on me, I take the liberty to say it’s not
what I should have expected of you. Oh, do tell me where my little
lamb is, anybody that knows!”

“We don’t know, Linton, any more than you do,” said Maurice kindly,
“but we will come upstairs and help you look for him. I suppose the
little rascal might have crept out of bed and be hiding somewhere, or
even have walked in his sleep?”

“How could he, sir, and me fastening him safe into his crib before I
left him? But if you can find him I’ll take him back thankful, and no
questions asked.”

It was clear that Linton still believed herself and Harold to be the
victims of a practical joke, as she toiled up after the rest to the
nursery, where Zoe had Danaë in a corner, and was questioning her
fiercely.

“You think some one must have come up while you were away? Graham!
Maurice! she says she went down into the courtyard to speak to her
uncle, and when she came back Harold was gone.”

“How long ago was this?” asked Maurice.

“Excuse me one moment,” said Wylie. “Armitage, will you go to the
sergeant in the gatehouse--he speaks Greek--and tell him to go the
round of the Konak and see that no one, man, woman, or child, is
allowed to leave? After that he is to parade his men ready for duty.
Linton, go into all the rooms on this floor, and see whether the child
is hidden anywhere, and call out to Parisi and Markos to do the same
downstairs. Now, Kalliopé!”

“Lord, I know nothing,” moaned the girl.

“That we shall see. You were left in charge of the nursery. What made
you leave it?”

“Some one called to me from the courtyard that my uncle was there,
lord.”

“Who was it? Who called?”

“Lord, I cannot tell. One of the men, I think.” She durst not mention
Logofet, lest he should be questioned, for he knew too much.

“Who did he say was there--your uncle Petros?”

“I--I suppose so, lord.”

“Why? Had you any reason to think he was in the neighbourhood?”

“I thought I saw him one day, lord--in the street.”

“Did you speak to him then?”

“No, lord. I was frightened.” Falsehood came as easily as ever to
Danaë now that she had deliberately returned to it.

“Why were you frightened?”

“Lest he should have come to fetch us away, lord.”

“Did you think he had come to steal the Lord Harold?”

“No, lord, there was no reason why he should. That is what I cannot
understand. If it had been my own little lord----”

“Then you do think Petros has taken him? Why?”

“Lord, I do not know, except that he is an evil man.”

“Well, you went down to look for your uncle. Did you find him?”

“No, lord; there was no one there.”

“Where did you look for him?”

“In the great courtyard, lord.” Princess Theophanis was looking at
her, and Danaë knew at once that she had been seen as she crouched in
the darkness on the stairs. She held her breath and waited for the
words of denunciation, but they did not come. Wylie was speaking
again.

“Did you come up again at once when you did not find him?”

“I stayed and sought him a little while, lord; then I came up. The
nursery looked just as it had done when I left it, and the children
seemed to be sleeping. But when I straightened the clothes, the Lord
Harold was not there.”

“And did you give the alarm at once?”

“Alas, lord! I fell to the floor in my terror, and lay there.”

“That is so, sir,” put in Linton, who had returned unsuccessful from
her search. “I found her laying on the ground like a dead thing,
crying out that Master Harold was gone.”

“Think,” said Wylie sharply. “Can you imagine no reason why Petros
should have carried off the child?”

“None, lord. Except,” as a bright idea occurred to her, “that there
was a reward offered for a little boy who was lost at Therma, and he
may be hoping to gain it.”

“Ah, and how did you hear that, if you have not seen him?”

Danaë realised her danger. “I--I heard it, lord,” she murmured.

“And you have no idea why he should come so far to fetch a child who
had nothing to do with it?”

“None, lord.” She looked up with such evident innocence that Wylie was
puzzled. Maurice’s old theory that she had come among them as a spy,
with possible designs upon Harold in the interests of some unknown
enemy, had naturally been revived by the event, and the girl had
undoubtedly blundered badly in her last answer. But it seemed hopeless
to go on cross-questioning her in the hope of eliciting further
admissions which led to nothing, and it was something to have gained
the suggestion that Petros was presumably on his way to Therma. No
more time must be lost, and he turned quickly to his wife.

“Well, Zoe, this gives us some sort of clue. Maurice and Armitage and
I will search the town at once, and send parties out on all the roads.
If the fellow has passed, we can catch him by the telegraph at a dozen
points on the way to Therma. You and Linton had better make a thorough
search of the Konak, upstairs and down. Here are the keys of all the
storehouses. Perhaps the Princess will kindly let you look in all her
rooms, for no one can tell where the child may have been hidden. Take
Parisi and Gavril with you when you go across to the stores. And don’t
be frightened. Between us we ought to be able to get the little chap
back all right.”

Wylie spoke more hopefully than he felt, for the apparent
purposelessness of the abduction made it difficult to deduce any
conclusions from it. He had left Zoe plenty to do, and she and Eirene,
tucking up their evening gowns under thick cloaks, began a systematic
search of the whole rambling assemblage of buildings which constituted
the Konak. Attended by the guard Gavril, armed to the teeth, and the
stout Greek butler, carrying a lantern, they hunted again through all
the Wylies’ rooms, then through those of the Prince’s house and the
range of storehouses on the left of the courtyard, and even the
barracks of the guard on either side of the gateway. The small
courtyard at the back, and the garden, damp and dismal in the cold
autumn night, were not forgotten, but when they came back with haggard
faces, utterly exhausted, they were still unsuccessful. Most of the
servants were weeping helplessly in the passages, but Linton had
stirred up her friend Artemisia the cook to subdue her grief
sufficiently to prepare some soup, which she coaxed her mistress to
take. Zoe refused to go to bed, and Linton remained with her, leaving
Danaë on guard in the nursery; and so that dreadful night passed,
first one and then the other dozing off for a minute or two, then
springing up in terror, and running to search in some place which
might have been forgotten. It was not until morning that Wylie came
stumbling uncertainly up the stairs. One glance at his worn face told
his wife that his quest had been as vain as her own, but she forbore
to put the fact into words.

“Dearest, you are tired out,” she said, with a tenderness that rarely
found verbal expression from her lips. “Come and sit down here, and
have something to eat. Linton, you kept some soup hot on the nursery
stove as I told you? No, Graham, don’t talk till you have had
something. You had no dinner last night, you know.” Her mouth quivered
involuntarily as she remembered how Linton had broken in upon the
party in the drawing-room with her terrible news. “Now here is the
soup. Take it to please me.”

Utterly spent, Wylie obeyed, and not until he had finished would she
let him tell his tale.

“We have sent the police through the whole town, Zoe, and searched all
the inns. No one at all resembling the description of Petros has
passed on any of the roads. We have telegraphed to all the places on
the line, and sent out messengers where there is no wire. The people
are awfully sympathetic, and they are all enlisted in the search.”

“And anyone who found him would know who he was, because of his blue
eyes,” said Zoe, trying to speak cheerfully. “And no one could have
the heart to hurt him, could they, Graham? when they saw his dear
little face.”

“No, of course not,” said Wylie hoarsely. “Maurice and I have made
plenty of enemies, no doubt, but I don’t think any of them are such
curs as that.”

“Oh no, they couldn’t,” agreed Zoe. “Some one is sure to bring him
back to us soon, looking so naughty and happy and smiling--Oh,
Graham!” she broke down and hid her face, sobbing, on his
shoulder--“Graham, if they don’t!”

“My dear, my dear!” said Wylie brokenly, and as he put his arms round
her Danaë, who had been watching through the half-open door, fled
away in tears. The words she could not understand, but she knew the
meaning of the tones, and no amount of arguing with her conscience
could assure her that she had nothing to do with the scene. She had at
first entertained wild hopes that Petros might be intercepted and
killed, without being able to compromise her by anything he said, but
then she remembered that unless he was able to return to Therma and
produce Janni, or a child representing him, her brother had declared
that he would be irretrievably ruined. He must be allowed to reach the
city, then, but as soon as sufficient time had elapsed for Prince
Romanos to be secured from whatever danger was threatening him, Danaë
would declare her charge’s true parentage to her mistress. Then
everything would be set right, but in the meantime the sorrow around
cut her to the heart, and she and Linton mingled their tears over
Janni’s solitary breakfast and his irrepressible inquiries for
“Aa-aa.”




 CHAPTER XIII.
 THE CULPRIT.

Neither his personal sorrow nor his sleepless night could be allowed
to relieve Wylie from the pressure of his daily duties, and after less
than an hour’s rest he was presiding at an inquiry into the conduct of
one of his military police, who had quitted his post without leave on
the preceding evening. This was Logofet, who had awakened from deep
dreams of peace to find himself in durance, and could not imagine how
he had got there. The report of the man who had escorted Princess
Theophanis to the hospital made it clear that he and his mistress had
entered at the small door of the Konak by merely turning the handle,
and had found no one on guard within, and this rendered it probable
that Logofet’s remissness had permitted the entrance of the kidnapper
to whom the night’s misery was due. Nothing was said of this, however,
though as many of his comrades as could find any excuse to be present
crowded the room where the prisoner, alternately defiant and
lachrymose, confronted his Colonel.

“Drunk, lord! I have not been drunk for ten years,” he blustered,
happily unconscious that he had been found fast asleep, with the empty
bottle by his side.

“The witnesses will prove that you were drunk last night. Where did
you get the spirit from?”

Into Logofet’s bemuddled brain darted an idea and an impulse of
revenge. Witnesses? Then the girl Kalliopé had betrayed him. Very
well, then he would betray her.

“Do you really wish to know where the _raki_ came from, lord?” he
whined.

“Certainly.” Wylie expected to hear as usual the name of one of the
wretched Jewish spirit-sellers, duly licensed by the Therma
authorities, who were a thorn in the side of the rulers at Klaustra,
and seemed to have a special predilection for corrupting the police.

“Then don’t ask me, lord; ask little Kalliopé. Ask her who gave me a
bottle of _raki_ two evenings running, so that I should turn my back
while she slipped out at the little door.”

Ignorant as he was of the night’s excitement, Logofet was astonished
at the sensation produced by his words. Wylie pushed his chair back
abruptly, his face perfectly white, and the spectators exchanged
glances and whispers and exclamations of surprise. After his first
stunned silence, Wylie rose.

“I cannot inquire into this case; it must go before the Prince,” he
said. He was too much shaken to give the necessary orders, but an
eager messenger ran to bear the news to Maurice, and the scene of the
inquiry was quickly changed to the broad verandah before the Prince’s
house. Eirene sat beside her husband, with a curious watchful look on
her face, and Zoe, whom they had wished not to disturb, seemed to
divine in her restless sleep that there was news, and woke and came as
well. With an instinctive sense of drama, messengers and servants
alike had combined to prevent the news from reaching Danaë, and when
she was sent for she came unsuspiciously, expecting, indeed, further
cross-examination, but nothing worse. It was not the lowering
countenance of Logofet that first warned her of the crisis, but the
look on Armitage’s face as he leaned against the side of the doorway.
One glance he gave her--a quick inquiring glance, as though to assure
himself that she was unjustly accused--then he deliberately turned his
eyes away.

“I have sent for you, Kalliopé, because what Logofet has to tell
concerns you,” said Prince Theophanis. “Sit down beside your mistress,
and when he has spoken we will see what you have to say.”

Danaë sat down on the doorstep, conscious as she did so that Zoe, as
if mechanically, moved her chair a little farther away, and Maurice
signed to Logofet to speak. The prisoner had managed to learn the
state of affairs by this time from the conversation going on around
him, and was correspondingly elated. He spoke with a certain soldierly
bluffness, which left entirely out of sight the fact that he himself
was anything more than a witness.

“I am a plain man, lord, and cannot tell a long story. Two days ago I
met Kalliopé’s uncle in the town----”

“Wait; how did you know he was her uncle?” asked Maurice.

“Why, lord, he said so; besides, I saw him outside Therma the day that
this ill-omened girl first thrust herself into your house. He said he
wanted to speak to his niece, and asked me to let her pass out and
come in again. He had some good _raki_ with him, and I consented. That
evening she went in and out quite properly, though rather in a hurry,
so I thought little of it when he asked me to do the same for him
again the next night. She was an obstinate piece of goods, he said,
and wouldn’t do what she was told, but I was to tell her to bring the
brat this time, or it would be the worse for her----”

“You said ‘your brat.’ You know you did!” burst from Danaë.

“To bring _the_ brat, or it would be the worse for her,” corrected
Logofet, with the air of an honest man unjustly aspersed; “and
thinking that she was about to relieve you, lord, and the gracious
lady your sister, from the maintenance of herself and that foundling
she brought with her, I thought it an excellent deed. So he gave me
another glass of spirits--which I swear to you, lord, must have been
drugged, for after giving the message to the girl I fell down
insensible, and knew no more.”

“Now, Kalliopé, what have you to say?” asked Maurice. “You told the
Lord Glafko last night that you had not seen your uncle at all, except
at a distance, that the message you received merely told you he was
here, and that you went down into the great courtyard to look for him,
but could not find him.”

“And it is all true, lord,” cried Danaë desperately. “This man is
lying, having hated me since the day your kindness brought me to this
house. I have spoken no word to the man Petros, who calls himself my
uncle, and I went nowhere last night to look for him, save into the
great courtyard.”

“Lord,” said a voice from among the police on the steps, “I admitted
this girl Kalliopé by the small door last evening from the street.”
Maurice looked at Danaë.

“Lord, he also is lying,” she cried. “These Slavs of yours all hate
me, who am a Greek.”

Princess Theophanis leaned forward in her chair, and spoke slowly and
distinctly. “I saw Kalliopé hiding on the stairs near the small door
when I came in from the hospital,” she said. “She had a great bundle
in her arms, which might have been a child. I remember thinking at the
time that it looked like one.”

“Oh, Eirene, why didn’t you say this before?” cried Zoe, in agony. Her
brother raised his hand for silence.

“Kalliopé, you will do better to tell the truth. Two witnesses have
proved your story to be false. You were in the back courtyard, you
went out and in at the small door, you took out with you a bundle
resembling a child. Had she the bundle in her arms when she returned?”
he asked suddenly of the guard who had spoken.

“I could not see, lord; there was no light. She was very much wrapped
up, and she may have been carrying something.”

Before anything more could be said, Zoe tore her hand from her
husband’s, and flung herself on her knees before Danaë.

“Oh, Kalliopé,” she sobbed, “give him back to me! He was so sweet,
and he never did you any harm. I have tried to be kind to you--if I
was ever unkind, I ask you now for forgiveness. Only tell us what you
have done with him. You shall not be punished in any way--you shall
have anything you can ask, if you will only give him back.”

“Lady mine, I have done nothing with him,” sobbed the girl. “I call
the All-Holy Mother of God to witness that I had no hand in stealing
the Lord Harold. If I could tell you where he is at this moment, I
would do it gladly.”

Wylie raised his wife gently. “My dear Zoe, the girl is hardened. It
is no use appealing to her. Wouldn’t it be as well to continue this
inquiry in private?” he asked of Maurice, who replied by remanding
Logofet to the cells, and dismissing the police spectators. The hunted
look was in Danaë’s eyes again as she faced her judges, but Maurice
spoke with studious gentleness.

“Kalliopé, you have been in this house for some months. Don’t you
understand yet that your mistress has always meant kindly towards you,
and done everything in her power for your good? She can’t believe, and
I can’t believe, that you could repay her kindness in such a way. Tell
us the truth now, and I will pledge myself that as soon as the child
is recovered you shall be sent safely back to your own home, and no
punishment inflicted on you.”

“You will not believe me, lord, if I do tell you the exact truth,”
cried Danaë defiantly.

“If it is indeed the truth, we will,” he replied.

“Then hear the truth, lord. I did go out and speak to the man Petros
two nights ago, and I did pass through the back courtyard to speak to
him again last night, carrying a child in my arms. But he was not at
the place he had appointed, and the child was my own little lord, and
not the Lord Harold. When I did not find Petros, I carried my little
lord back into the house. I knew you would not believe me!” she cried
angrily, looking round at the faces of the rest.

“How can we believe you, Kalliopé?” asked Maurice. “You would have us
believe that you took little Janni out and brought him back again, and
that this had nothing to do with the Lord Harold’s disappearance. Now,
be honest. Did you hand over the Lord Harold to Petros by mistake for
Janni?”

He realised the futility of the question even before the dark cloud
gathered on Danaë’s brow. “I mistake another for my little lord!” she
cried, in supreme disdain.

“Then did you try to deceive Petros by giving him the wrong child,
hoping to keep Janni here?”

“No. I was going with him myself. But of course you will not believe
me. Do you believe me, lady?” she demanded suddenly of Zoe. For the
moment the impulse to tell the truth from the very beginning was upon
her.

“Oh, Kalliopé, how can I? You have told us so many falsehoods!”
moaned Zoe. Danaë cast upon the rest a look of mingled scorn and
reproach, and turned to go in at the door. But as she did so, Armitage
stepped forward and took her hand.

“Lady Kalliopé, I believe what you have told us to be true. Now be
brave, and you shall prove your truth to all. The Lady Zoe will
joyfully acknowledge that she was wrong when she receives her child
back. There must be more that you can tell us which would throw light
upon his loss and help us to find him. Don’t let your pride make our
grief deeper.”

Again Danaë wavered, with confession on her tongue, but a scandalised
whisper from Eirene, “Lady Kalliopé, indeed!” turned aside her
intention. She drew her hand away from Armitage. “I have told the
truth, lord, and it is not believed. Now therefore I will take my
little lord and depart from this place.”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Wylie sharply. “You have shown
pretty plainly that you are not fit to have the charge of a child, and
Janni will remain in your mistress’s care. Remember that you are under
the very gravest suspicion. Go back to the nursery and try to redeem
your character.”

Danaë shot a furious glance at him, and swung through the doorway
with a swagger that would not have disgraced her father. This
unfortunate experiment in telling at any rate part of the truth had
left her absolutely convinced that she was an injured victim, and her
employers cruel oppressors, but she was not going to allow them to see
that their injustice could make her unhappy. When she was gone Wylie
turned to his brother-in-law.

“I am sorry to have taken the words out of your mouth,” he said, “but
that girl’s effrontery simply sickens me. You don’t think I was too
severe?”

“Not if she was really telling lies,” said Maurice, “and if she
wasn’t, she has only herself to thank for our not believing her. And
most certainly she must not be allowed to take the other child away.
In fact, I don’t know that it wouldn’t be wise to restrict her
movements a little--forbid her to leave the upper floor of your house,
for instance.”

“No, that wouldn’t do. Don’t you see, if there was any truth in the
story that Petros really wanted Janni, he will come back and try to
get him? He can’t very well do it without communicating with her, and
if she is regularly watched while she imagines herself to be going
about freely, we shall catch them both. Zoe, you had better come back
and lie down.”

Zoe obeyed submissively, and Armitage went with them, trying to imbue
Wylie with his own belief that Kalliopé had really told the truth at
last, and they had missed a great opportunity by not recognising the
fact and encouraging her to go further. When their voices had died
away, Maurice turned to his wife, who was gazing straight before her.

“Eirene, I cannot imagine why you said nothing last night of seeing
Kalliopé on the stairs. You can’t really mean that you thought at the
time she had a child in her arms.”

“Why not? I thought, as the man Logofet did, that she was going to
relieve us of her presence and that child’s, and I was not sorry.”

“But when you heard Harold was lost, it must have struck you----”

“Oh, my dear Maurice, don’t cross-examine me as you did that wretched
girl! It did strike me, of course.”

“Then why didn’t you tell us? I can’t understand why you should have
kept back a fact like that.”

“No, I suppose you could not understand. The reason is not one that
would enter a man’s mind, very likely. Oh, Maurice, does it really
want explaining? Zoe has her child, and I have lost mine; isn’t that
enough?”

“But she has not got hers--that’s just the trouble.”

“No, but she has had him, and I--I thought, ‘Why should she not know
for a little what I have to bear always?’”

“But, Eirene--Zoe has never done you any harm, has always been the
kindest of sisters to you.”

“I told you you would not understand. You can go and play with Harold,
and talk of adopting Janni. I can’t forget my own child.”

“Forget him--do you imagine I ever forget him? Eirene, why will you
always behave as if the loss was yours alone? God knows it was bad
enough for you, and I have tried never to make it worse by any word of
mine. But you can’t think anything will ever make up to me for Con.”

“It is different with you. You only think of him as the child you
played with, but to me he was the hope of the future, the heir of the
Empire, before whom that upstart Romanos would fall headlong. I should
have been content for your life and mine to be uneventful, even
unsuccessful, if it had meant that he would one day wear the diadem in
Hagion Pneuma. But now--what do you think it means to me to go through
this farce of empire-building in a country town, visiting hospitals
and schools and being gracious to a set of schismatics, with the
knowledge that even when Romanos is expelled, no child of yours and
mine will take his place? But you don’t see it. I tell you, that girl
Kalliopé would understand what I feel better than you do!”

“Ah, poor wretched girl!” said Maurice thoughtfully. “We must see that
the letter we were discussing last night is sent to Romanos, to say
that his son is probably here.”

Eirene sprang up from her chair, her eyes blazing. “That is you all
over, Maurice! You can think of the usurper even when you are blaming
your wife for not showing sufficient consideration for your sister.
You may be a saint, as Zoe thinks, but you are not the man for
Emathia. Do you imagine that if Romanos had been in your place,
Kalliopé would have left his presence without being made to tell what
she knows?”

“If I am not the man for Emathia, at least it was not my own choice
that took me there,” said Maurice. “But if you are right, Kalliopé at
any rate has reason to be thankful I am here.”

It was without any realisation of her good fortune in this respect
that Danaë repaired to the nursery on her dismissal from the inquiry.
She entered the room with a certain hesitation, which was immediately
justified, for Linton rose in defence of Janni like a ruffled hen.

“You dare to come back here, you wicked girl?” she cried. “Not a step
do you set in my nursery, or my name isn’t Sophia Linton. And as for
letting you lay a finger on the blessed lamb that’s left--why, I would
sooner trust one of the girls out of the kitchen! You be off, and
don’t show your face again this side of the door, or I’ll teach you
something!”

Danaë might have pleaded Wylie’s order as a reason for remaining, but
her fiery spirit was roused. She went straight to her own room, and
took up the bundle she had prepared the night before. She would go and
search for Harold herself, and when she brought him back, they would
be forced to acknowledge how unjustly they had judged her. She went
down the stairs, crossed the great courtyard, and would have passed
out at the gate, but the man on guard there barred her way with his
rifle.

“Not this way just yet, my dear,” he said with a grin. “The back-door
is more your style, isn’t it?”

“Let me pass!” said Danaë. He laughed in her face.

“Got another baby in that bundle, Lady Stealer-of-Children?”

“Will you let me pass?” she cried, furious.

He became serious. “No, my girl, I won’t. You’re not to be allowed to
leave the Konak. We are too fond of you to let you slip away like
this,” with a return to jocularity. “When we can exchange you for our
little lord, then you may go, and welcome. Back with you!”

She looked at him for a moment as though gauging the possibilities of
a struggle, and he bore the scrutiny with a display of white teeth and
a pleasing consciousness of the armoury of weapons in his belt. Then
she turned without a word, and marched in her stateliest manner across
the courtyard. Once back in her own room, she took off the good
clothes which she had bought out of her wages during her sojourn at
Klaustra and her coin-decorated cap, and put on the worn and dirty
garments in which she had come from Therma. Unfastening her hair, she
deliberately rearranged it in one long thick plait and one
ridiculously short one, and twisted a handkerchief round her head.
Then she walked down the stairs again and into the kitchen, and
presented herself before the astonished eyes of Artemisia and her
underlings.

“I am come to work here,” she said.

Amazement checked Artemisia’s utterance for a moment, but she made a
gallant attempt to rise to the occasion. “Well, this is an honour, and
an unexpected one!” she remarked slowly. “The gracious Lady Zoe did
not tell me she was going to give me more help, or I should have asked
her to send anyone rather than a child-stealer from the islands. Oh,
don’t eat me, please, Lady Kalliopé! I am not a baby, you know.” A
snigger from the underlings. “I suppose the Lady Zoe thought there
were no children to steal down here. And you have come to work, have
you? How sweetly kind of you, lady mine! But they don’t do any work in
the islands, do they--except robbing guests and murdering them?”

“Let the islands alone,” said Danaë gruffly. “If you were a guest
there, you would be safe even after saying that.”

“Until I had crossed the threshold, I suppose? Once I was outside I
might expect a knife in my back. What are you girls laughing at?” with
a change of subject disconcerting to the group of gigglers. “Don’t you
see that the Lady Kalliopé has come to show us all how to work? Give
her that bowl of onions, Sonya, and let us see how they peel them in
the islands.”

After that, Danaë would have suffered tortures rather than resign the
bowl of onions to anyone else. The tears ran down her cheeks, but she
persisted in the task, and when it was over received an ironical
compliment from Artemisia, and was set to clean saucepans. While this
was being done, Linton appeared at the kitchen door, with rather a
scared face.

“So that’s where you’ve got to, you naughty girl, giving me such a
turn, thinking you’d made away with yourself, as you well might!” she
cried, catching sight of Danaë. “What’s taken you down here I don’t
know, but you come straight away upstairs again. My Lady says you can
sit in your own room and have your meals there, and I’m to find you
some needlework.”

Danaë raised her black eyes, sombre enough now, and looked straight
at her. “I stay here,” she said.

“Oh, very well!” cried Linton, with suspicious readiness, “I’m sure
I’ve got no objection. If Kalliopé prefers your company to mine,
Artemisia, I hope you’re more flattered than I should be. You keep an
eye on her, that’s all. Don’t let her give you the slip.”

“Not I, my most beloved Sofia,” responded Artemisia. “She’ll get a
crack on the head with a rolling-pin if she tries it.”

“Ah, if only we had sent her straight down here when she first came,
what a lot of trouble it would have saved!” lamented Linton. “You know
how to manage her, you do.”

And she retired from the kitchen in a frame of mind that was almost
cheerful, to assure her mistress that that bad girl Kalliopé was now
where she belonged, and that it would do her a lot of good to be put
back in her place after having so much notice taken of her. Zoe,
discovering that the change was a voluntary one on Danaë’s part, was
puzzled. Was it a kind of penance the girl was imposing on herself for
her share in Harold’s disappearance, or was it more in the nature of
an act of moral suicide? Danaë herself afforded her no help in
deciding, for when they came across one another she met Zoe’s eager,
entreating look with one of blank stolidity. From whatever motive she
had chosen her present position, she was making full acquaintance with
its disadvantages, for all the heaviest and most unpleasant tasks were
by unanimous consent awarded to her. They were many, for the kitchen
arrangements at the Konak were patriarchal, dinner being provided
every day for the guards as well as for their superiors, and Artemisia
had a sarcastic tongue and a heavy hand if everything was not done to
her satisfaction. Danaë made no complaint, spoke to no one unless she
was asked a question, and went through her work with a silent contempt
for her surroundings which her associates found extremely galling. But
in her own room at night she was preparing a suit of boy’s clothes,
clad in which she might elude the vigilance of the guards and fulfil
her purpose of escape. For the shirt, loose jacket, and heavy outer
coat, her own clothes would do well enough, and the cap and long
leggings were easy of manufacture. To make the linen kilt she had
recourse to one of the sheets from her bed, cutting the other in two
so that Linton’s eagle eye might not see that anything was wrong, and
for a night or two she practised wearing the new garments, so as to
accustom herself to walking in them.




 CHAPTER XIV.
 A RESCUE EXPEDITION.

Danaë had been three or four days at her new work, conscientiously
returning scorn with scorn, when one afternoon the sound of music drew
the servants out into the courtyard. A band of gipsies with a dancing
bear had obtained admittance, affording a welcome distraction to the
suitors waiting their turn to be heard by Prince Theophanis, and
Artemisia and her subordinates hastened to take part in the fun.
Danaë alone remained in the kitchen, morosely determined to accept no
lightening of the penalty she had imposed on herself, though the
many-stringed fiddles of the gipsies sounded very pleasant in her
ears, and she had a great curiosity to see what a bear was like. She
stood with her back to the door, pounding corn, and trying to keep the
great pestle from beating time to the music, which made her feet long
to dance, and the soft tread of moccasined footsteps failed to reach
her ears until, looking up suddenly, she found one of the gipsies
close beside her. Before she could scream, he threw back his hooded
cloak and revealed the features of Petros. She stared at him aghast.

“So you have come down in the world, my lady!” he observed genially.
“But so much the better for me, for I might have found it difficult to
speak to you upstairs.”

“What are you doing here? You should have been at Therma before this,”
cried Danaë, finding her tongue.

“Without what I came for, my lady? Besides, the roads were not safe. I
had to wait here for a day or two, and it has given me this second
chance.”

“But what do you want?” she asked, bewildered.

“Why, the little lord, of course. Yourself too, lady, if you insist
upon it, but the Lord Janni at any rate.”

“But you took the Lord Harold. You can’t want both!”

“Oh, can’t I?” Petros grinned. “The Lord Harold has a value of his
own, my lady. I own that I meant at first to make him serve both
purposes, but now you might sooner carry a pet dog through the streets
of Czarigrad than a blue-eyed child through the ranks of Glafko’s
police. He must stay where he is for the present, but you and I and
the other can get through all right with the help of the gipsies. They
know something about disguises.”

“So I see,” said Danaë absently, glancing at the skilful alterations
made in his appearance by the dark dye on his face and the ferocious
horns of his moustache. “Bring the Lord Harold back, and I will come
at once.”

“Not so, lady. I have said I want both.”

“And I have said I will do nothing to help you until he is here.”

“Will you ruin your brother, my lady?”

“No, it is you who are ruining him, wasting your time here, and
raising the country against you for no good.”

“That is for the Lord Romanos to say,” muttered Petros mysteriously.
“But if I have to go to him at Therma without either child, who will
bear the blame then, lady mine?”

“You!” cried Danaë. “As you will when the Lord Glafko has you up
before him in a minute or two.”

She had been edging gradually sideways, so as to bring the large
kitchen table between herself and him, and now she made a dash for the
door. But before she reached it, his voice arrested her.

“Betray me if you like, my lady, but that will not restore the Lord
Harold. He is where no one can find him, though the police have been
closer to him than I am to you, and the gipsies will no more give him
up than I would. If necessary they will kill him rather than that he
should be discovered in their hands.”

“But you have confessed to me that the gipsies are hiding him!” cried
Danaë triumphantly.

“True, lady, and you may tell it to the Lord Glafko. But when the
gipsies swear that they have no knowledge of him, and the strictest
search fails to discover him, is your word of such power that it will
be believed in opposition to theirs?”

The hit was a shrewd one, and it told. All the misery of the loss of
confidence of the last few days returned upon Danaë. No, her word
would not be taken.

“Kalliopé!” Artemisia’s voice broke into her indecision from the
courtyard. “Where are you, girl? Bring out that plate of honey cakes.
The Tzigany says the bear likes them.”

She caught up the cakes from the table, but paused at the door. “Go to
Therma, then, without the Lord Janni, for you shall not have him. And
if any harm comes to the Lord Romanos by this delay, be sure he shall
know who is to blame for it.”

She was out in the courtyard in a moment, and making for the stalwart
form of Artemisia, whose presence would be an effectual protection
against any further argument on the part of Petros. The performance
having come to an end, and the gipsies reaped their reward of small
coins, somebody had suggested that the bear also deserved something.

“Are you sure he likes them?” asked Artemisia doubtfully, with the
plate in her hand. “I thought bears ate people and sheep.”

“Try him, lady; he would do anything for a honey cake,” said the
leading gipsy. “If you knew how to hold it, he would dance for it.”

“It’s all very well to say ‘try him,’ but what if he prefers me to the
cake?” The question was received with a chorus of dutiful laughter by
Artemisia’s satellites.

“Ladies,” said the gipsy, “you seem to think this is an ordinary wild
savage bear. I assure you that he is most civilised and polite. Far
from eating human beings, he prefers honey cakes to any meat you could
offer him. Now if the chief lady will throw one when I say the
word----”

The bear opened his mouth at the word of command, and caught the cake
which Artemisia threw. After that, amid screams and giggles, the
kitchen-girls took their turn, until the cakes were gone. The gipsy
smiled superior.

“Now, ladies, I hope you are satisfied. You should see this old fellow
playing with the children--never a scratch nor a bite! And his
kindness to a little cub we have got----”

“Why, where did you get a bear-cub at this time of the year?” asked a
forester standing by.

“Found him in the woods, of course--eight or nine months old now, I
suppose. Anyhow he’s there, and anyone who likes can come and see him.
Does any lady or gentleman want a nice handsome young bear for a pet?
We are open to an offer, for he scratches and bites like a little
fiend--has to have a muzzle on whenever he sees company. Would the
gracious Prince like to buy him, do you think? He would make a fine
ornament to this courtyard, chained to a good strong pole in the
middle.” Fresh screams, and vehement exclamations of dissent from the
feminine part of the audience. “Well, you are not very encouraging, I
must say, but if anyone can get me into the Prince’s presence, and he
buys him, I can promise a handsome commission.”

The women-servants called down loud maledictions on anyone who might
venture to influence the Prince in the desired direction, but Danaë
was silent. When the gipsies and the bear moved towards the gateway,
to give another performance for the benefit of the guards in their
quarters, she followed in the crowd, and observed minutely the various
words of command. Princess Theophanis, standing on the verandah of the
Prince’s house, pointed her out to Armitage.

“That girl is absolutely heartless,” she said. “Look at her enjoying
that wretched creature’s antics!”

“I should be inclined to believe that she hoped to slip outside with
the gipsies, and so escape,” he said. “But I don’t think any of us
really understand her yet.”

“At any rate, there will be no harm in warning the guard at the gate
to be on the alert,” said Eirene, “since the Prince seems to think it
is important to keep her here.”

A servant was summoned and took the message, and her safe custody
assured, Danaë passed out of Armitage’s thoughts for an hour or two.
Then, as he was passing the unused ground-floor rooms on the way to
his own room in the dusk, a voice spoke to him out of a doorway.
“Lord!” it said, and looking round, he saw a figure crouching against
the door.

“Lord,” it said again, “were the caves where the gipsies live searched
when the Lord Harold was lost?”

“Yes, that was one of the first places where the police went. We all
thought of the gipsies, and the caves were searched most thoroughly.
I’m afraid there’s not much hope in that direction, Kalliopé.”

“Lord, would you like to find the Lord Harold?”

“Like to find him? What are you thinking about? Of course I should!”
cried Armitage indignantly.

“Well, lord, if you would like to discover him yourself, and with your
own hands restore him to the Lady Zoe, will you go out shooting
to-morrow, taking my cousin Sotīri as guide, and saying that you will
be away all night?”

“Your cousin? I didn’t know you had one here. Who is he?”

“He is a very good boy, lord, who can walk far over the mountains. He
will carry your gun and food, and show you good sport. Also he will
guide you to where the Lord Harold is hidden.”

“Kalliopé!” said Armitage, grievously disappointed, “is it possible
that you have known where he is all this time? If so, come with me at
once to the Lady Zoe, and restore him to her yourself. You can’t think
that I want the credit instead of you--especially at the price of two
more days’ unhappiness for her. But no, I can’t believe you lied to me
the other day.”

“No, lord, I spoke the truth, though you alone believed me. And I have
known nothing till to-day, nor do I indeed know now. But I guess. If a
great force of police went to the place, the people might kill the
child or carry him farther away, but seeing only a Milordo and a boy,
they will feel no fear. I will tell my cousin Sotīri all that I
think, so that he may lead you. And if the child is not there, then
the blame is mine and I am deceived. But if he is there----”

“If there’s a chance of his being there, it’s worth trying. When are
we to start, and what is there to shoot?”

“You must start about mid-day, lord. Holy Vasili! I know not what
there is to shoot. Wolves? bears?”

“I hope your cousin will be a better guide than you are,” said
Armitage drily. “How am I to know what gun to take?”

“Lord, your wisdom is great, you know what it will be best to say.
Only tell me, that Sotīri may say the same. Shall it be wolves?”

“Bears, I think. They haven’t begun their winter sleep yet, and their
skins are better. On the whole, I think it will be enough if you say
one particular bear.”

“Oh no, lord!” she cried in a panic for which Armitage could not
account. “I will tell him bears. Then when you are ready, and waiting
at the gate, will you call out loudly and angrily for Sotīri, and he
will come?”

“Certainly I shall be very angry if he keeps me waiting,” said
Armitage, with great gravity, and bidding her good-day, went on. His
evening was a cheerless one, with Zoe and Wylie, both haggard with
hope deferred, each trying to keep up for the sake of the other. As he
had said, if there was the slightest chance of relieving their
anxiety, it was worthwhile following up the slenderest clue. That
Kalliopé believed she had hold of one was evident, but to him,
remembering the close search that had been made already, the
probability of success seemed but faint. And Danaë herself, now that
she had taken the desperate step of enlisting Armitage’s support was
little more hopeful. Petros was at present among the gipsies, and
might be expected, since she had declined to help him in securing
Janni, to have left them to-morrow on his way to Therma; Harold was
also concealed among them, and in a hiding-place so cunningly
contrived that the police had passed quite close to it without
suspecting his presence. That was all she had to go upon--that, and
the idea which had darted into her mind that afternoon, as she
listened to the talk in the courtyard; an idea monstrous, incredible,
but just possible.

Armitage was conscious of a disconcerting suspicion that he was a fool
when he found himself at the gate the next day, laden with his gun, a
thick coat, and a basket of provisions. He was quite certain that the
man on guard thought him one.

“I am looking for a Greek boy who was coming with me, Gavril. Sotīri
is his name. Have you seen him?”

“There are plenty of the young rascals about, lord, but I don’t know
all their silly names. What should a Greek know of our mountains?
Better take an honest Slav. I myself, if you would ask leave for me
from the Lord Glafko----”

“That must be another day. The boy shall have his chance. He has
promised to show me a bear. Sotīri!”

“Take care that he isn’t a brigand spy, lord, hired to lead you into
an ambush. The ransom of a Milordo----”

“Well, if I am not back by this time to-morrow, you must come and look
for me. Sotīri! I shall not wait any longer.”

“Here, lord, here!” cried a panting voice, and a handsome boy in Greek
dress dashed across the courtyard. His _kapota_ was rolled up over one
shoulder, but he seized the basket and Armitage’s gun. “My cousin kept
me so long talking. Let me carry your coat too, lord. It can go over
my other shoulder.”

“I will carry the basket, then. Be careful with the gun,” and Armitage
passed out, followed by his henchman. They went through the streets of
the town, exchanging greetings with the people they met, but Armitage
noticed that Sotīri did not seem to be known personally to the Greeks
who saluted him, for though his dress was a passport to their
sympathies they looked curiously at his face. On the other side of the
town the mountains frowned close above the houses, divided by a gorge
down which flowed the torrent which provided the water-supply, and in
a series of caves, natural or artificial, in the sides of this gorge
the gipsies had sojourned from time immemorial. When they reached the
foot of the path which led to the caves, Armitage stopped and called
up the boy, who had managed to make himself almost invisible under his
load of coats.

“Now, Sotīri, tell me what your cousin’s plan is. We are not to march
up to the first cave we come to, and demand the Lord Harold, I
suppose?”

“No, lord, we cannot hope to recover him till night. But we can find
out where he is. Will you graciously ask to see the bear-cub that the
gipsies offered for sale at the Konak yesterday, and offer to buy him?
My cousin does not think they will be willing to sell him, but it is
important we should see the cave in which the bears live.”

“Very well. Your voice is curiously like your cousin’s, Sotīri. You
had better give me the gun while we are going up hill. It is too heavy
for you.”

“Nay, lord, rather do you give me the basket. You must not judge my
strength by Kalliopé’s,” cried the boy, with a gay laugh. “I have
carried far heavier loads up worse hills than these. And it is unkind
to compare my voice to a girl’s.”

“So it is, Sotīri. I beg your pardon. Well, in a year or two you will
be able to laugh at the idea. Meanwhile I will stick to the basket.
And be sure to stand where I can see you when I am talking to the
gipsies, in case you want to make any sign to me.”

“As you will, lord.” Sotīri dropped behind again respectfully, and
presently Armitage received confirmation of certain suspicions that
had occurred to him. Missing the sound of the labouring breath behind
him, he turned suddenly, to discover coats and gun on the ground,
while with frantic haste Sotīri was twisting up a long plait of hair
which had escaped from beneath his cap. Not having been seen, Armitage
allowed himself a smile, and went on a step or two.

“Do you find it too heavy, Sotīri?” he called out, without turning
round.

“No, lord,” replied a hasty voice. “I dropped my cap, and had to go
back for it.”

“Better keep close to me here,” said Armitage, as they turned the
corner of a rock, and came out on a narrow platform of stone which
appeared to form the centre of the social life of the gipsy community.
The moment they showed themselves, every hole and cranny in the cliff
seemed to disgorge humanity, and they were quickly surrounded by a
crowd--old women offering to tell their fortunes, young women rolling
bold eyes at them, children pawing their clothes with dirty hands, and
all begging shrilly in a dozen different languages. With great wisdom
Armitage addressed himself to the oldest, ugliest, most withered and
most generally witch-like of the women, and presenting her with a
handful of small coin for general distribution, asked if he could
speak to the head of the tribe about the bear-cub he had to sell. The
old woman looked doubtful. She was not sure whether the tribe would
sell the cub after all. It had brought them good luck, and they
thought of keeping it and training it to perform with the other bear.
Armitage expressed so much disappointment, however, and hinted at such
a good price, that the old woman hobbled off at last to the cave where
the chief, who turned out to be her son, was sleeping, and woke him.
With him a dozen swarthy, cunning-eyed rapscallions were added to the
group, and listened greedily while Armitage made his offer. But the
chief was adamant, though for a different reason from that given by
his mother. The cub had been sold that very morning--a murmur of
resentment rose from the women--to a rich Pannonian gentleman who was
going to present it to the Zoological Gardens at Vindobona.

“This is most disappointing,” said Armitage. “I wanted to make a
sketch of him, and then to present him to Prince Romanos, who is
establishing a natural history collection at Therma. Would you mind
showing him to me, that I may see whether he is larger than another I
have heard of?”

“There’s no objection to that, if the gracious gentleman quite
understands that the creature is not to be bought,” said the chief.
“The bears are kept here.”

They moved towards another cave, and two men went in. One led out the
dancing bear, which shambled blinking into the light, the other,
standing just inside the entrance, showed a brown furry body in his
arms.

“We dare not bring him out, lord, lest seeing a stranger he should
begin to scratch and fight,” explained the chief. “He is muzzled
already, as you see.”

Armitage looked critically at the little bear, while Sotīri, at his
side, gazed with awestruck eyes into the gloomy recesses of the cave.
“A fine little beast! Do you think you could get him quiet if I came
here to sketch him another day? I would pay, of course.”

The chief seemed doubtful. The creature had a very uncertain temper,
but if the gracious gentleman cared to take the trouble of coming
again, and run the risk of disappointment---- Armitage reassured him,
and arranged to come again the next morning, in case the purchaser of
the cub should wish to take him away soon. Then, guided by a gipsy who
was to lead them to the top of the gorge, and show them the way into
the woods, he and Sotīri went on. When they had parted with their
guide, he turned eagerly to the boy.

“Well, Sotīri, is it all right? Did you find out what you wanted to
know?”

“Yes, lord, I found what I expected to find.”

A light broke upon Armitage. “You mean that they have the child hidden
in the bear’s den?” he cried.

“Yes, lord, he is hidden in the bear’s den. And now, with your
gracious permission, we must go a long way into the woods, in case the
gipsies send after us, and then we must come back to this same place.”

Armitage took out his compass and made the necessary observations, and
then he and Sotīri plunged into the forest and walked on till they
were tired. Dusk was beginning to fall, and retracing their steps was
a long and painful process. It was quite dark when at length they
arrived again at the edge of the wood, at a point where, by going a
few steps further, they could look down the gorge, and see the
twinkling lights which showed where the gipsies were cooking their
supper in the mouths of their caves. Sotīri helped Armitage into his
coat, unfastened the straps of the provision-basket, and retired to a
respectful distance. It was a mild night, and the withered
beech-leaves made a comfortable couch. Armitage ate and drank, and
then reflected that if Sotīri were as hungry as he was, the share of
food which he had given him on his horrified refusal to sit down and
eat with his employer must be quite insufficient. He called to the
boy, in a low voice at first, then louder, but no answer came.
Following the direction he had taken, he came upon him, wrapped in his
_kapota_, fast asleep, with the untasted food by his side. Armitage
stole back to his place without waking him.

“They may say what they like, but that is a fine creature!” he said to
himself.




 CHAPTER XV.
 THE ACME.

After smoking a cigar or two, Armitage fell into a doze, from which
he tried at first to rouse himself by spasmodic efforts, but
reflecting that in any case it must be hours before they could safely
approach the gipsy settlement, he allowed himself after a time to
yield to the drowsiness that was overpowering him. From this he was
roused at last by an anxious voice.

“Lord, where are you? Lord, lord!” and almost simultaneously some one
stumbled and fell over him.

Armitage sat up. “Gently, Sotīri, gently! What’s the matter, lad?”

An embarrassed laugh answered him out of the darkness, where Sotīri
was presumably picking himself up. “I don’t know, lord; I think I must
have been dreaming. I woke up and was frightened to find myself in the
forest in the dark, and then I went the wrong way to look for you and
could not find you, and I thought you had gone away and left me----”

“To storm the gipsy caves by myself? Hardly. Stand in front of me,
boy, while I see what the time is.”

Sotīri obeyed, and Armitage struck a match and looked at his watch.
“A quarter past twelve. Better not start for a hour or so, for no one
will be awake in the town, and we don’t want to have to wait about
when once we have got the child. We will have something more to eat,
Sotīri--lighten the basket a little.”

Sotīri laughed again. “I have not eaten nearly all you gave me, lord.
I think I must have gone to sleep in the middle. I will go back and
finish it.”

“Get another nap, and I will tell you when it is time to start,”
Armitage called after him in a low voice, and then moved nearer the
edge of the cleft, whence he could look down the gorge, and see the
few remaining fires dying out one by one. Here, away from the shadow
of the trees, he could just distinguish the time without striking a
light, and he sat and shivered, restraining his impatience manfully,
until two o’clock. Then he went back to the wood and called Sotīri,
who appeared shamefacedly.

“I did not think I could have gone to sleep again, lord, but if it had
not been for your voice I believe I should not have waked till
morning. Then we may really start now? I have everything ready here.”

From the recesses of his coat he produced two parcels, at which
Armitage glanced in surprise. He unfastened one.

“Honey cakes for the bear, lord. They are what he likes better than
anything. Holy Nicholas! how Artemisia must have cursed when she found
half her batch gone! That was really what made me late in
starting--Kalliopé was getting them, you see. And this--” indicating
the other parcel--“is meat for the dogs.”

“To keep them quiet, of course--I never thought of that. But then you
and Kalliopé have kept me so entirely in the dark as to what we were
going to do that I had not much chance. It is a pity she didn’t tell
me about the dogs, for we might have sprinkled something on the meat
that would send them to sleep.”

“Oh, is there something that will do that?” asked Sotīri in dismay.
“I am sorry, lord; I--we did not know.”

“Well, we must hope the meat alone will be enough. Now, before we
start, tell me exactly what we are going to do.”

“This is my plan, lord. I will go on first, if you please, my
moccasins making little noise on the path, and give the meat to the
dogs. You will follow, and when we reach the ledge of rock you will
graciously take from me the gun and the coats, so as to leave me quite
free. Then I will go into the bear’s den, and fetch the child out.”

“You go into the den alone? Nonsense, I won’t hear of it!”

“Lord, the bear will not mind me. I have the honey cakes for him, and
I know the words the gipsies use to bid him be quiet. Kalliopé has
told me them all. He may not even wake when I go in, but the noise of
your boots would rouse him at once.”

“I don’t like it,” said Armitage reluctantly. “However, I shall be
there with the gun, if he turns nasty. Look here, give me the things
to carry now, boy; I insist upon it. You must have your hands free to
cope with the dogs.”

“As you will, lord,” and they started, Armitage keeping his eyes on
Sotīri’s white kilt as a guide. When they had nearly reached the
ledge, they heard the uneasy bark of a dog in front, which was
answered by a chorus of others, dying down gradually as no further
suspicious sound was heard. The boy held up his hand, and crept on
alone, Armitage following very slowly and with great caution. Looking
along the ledge, he could discern Sotīri surrounded by a horde of
curs, which he was feeding with discrimination on choice morsels from
his pockets. When the dogs were all occupied, Armitage judged it safe
to advance, and they merely favoured him with a snarl as he approached
them. Sotīri had left them to their feast, and crept into the dark
mouth of the nearest cave. Armitage, waiting in intensest anxiety with
his gun cocked, heard a menacing growl, which made him step forward,
but a peremptory low voice uttered a word of command, and the clatter
of a chain followed as the bear retreated. Then Sotīri hurried out,
with something in his arms, and without a word led the way along the
ledge, past the other caves, Armitage following.

“You have got him all right?” he ventured to ask, when they were on
the descending path once more, and he had uncocked his gun.

“Yes, lord, all right,” with something like a giggle. “I think he is
asleep.”

A feeble cry from the burden contradicted this, and Sotīri clasped it
closely to his breast, and crooned over it in tender accents, which
drew another smile from Armitage. At the foot of the hill the boy
turned to skirt the town, instead of passing through it, and Armitage
in his mind applauded the wisdom of the course. If the gipsies should
discover what had happened, and pursue them in force, they would
certainly expect them to take a straight line for the Konak. They
plodded on wearily when the expectation of immediate pursuit had
passed, and in the faint lightening of the darkness which preceded
dawn, Armitage received a shock.

“Sotīri!” he cried, running forward regardless of his load, and
grasping the boy’s shoulder, “you have brought away the bear-cub, not
the Lord Harold at all!”

Sotīri laughed--a weary little laugh, but one full of amusement. “And
yet it is the Lord Harold, lord. Here is a thick bush; you can strike
a match safely.”

Standing in the shelter of the thicket, Armitage obeyed. There before
his horrified gaze was the furry form of the little bear. But as he
looked, Sotīri tilted the upper jaw back like a cap, and exposed
Harold’s dark head and blinking blue eyes.

“You don’t mean to say they had the cheek to keep him dressed up like
that?” cried Armitage.

“Yes, lord; that was the secret,” said Sotīri demurely.

“Good heavens--Princess Zoe’s child! It’s too disgusting. Now mind,
boy, his mother mustn’t see him like this. It would give her an awful
shock. We must get hold of Linton somehow, to dress him properly.”

“Why, lord, will she care what he wears, so long as she has him back?”
asked the boy. Armitage frowned.

“Of course not, really, but one has a feeling---- You don’t
understand, but it’s a horrible idea.”

“Very well, lord, I do not understand. I will see whether I can find
Sofia.” The boy spoke so meekly, but with such an undertone of pain,
that Armitage had the unreasonable feeling that in some way he had
been a brute. He said no more until they came in sight of the Konak,
and then he called Sotīri back.

“See here, lad; I have been thinking it’s not necessary to bring
Linton into this. Call your cousin instead. The whole credit of
getting the child back is due to her, isn’t it? Very well, then; she
ought to have the pleasure of giving him back to his mother, and she
shall.”

“Thank you, lord,” said Sotīri joyfully. Then his face fell. “You say
the whole credit is hers, lord. Don’t you think I helped at all--even
when I went into the bear’s den? I was really frightened.”

“I think you are an impudent young rascal, boy,” was the reply, given
with much severity. “Even if you were frightened, you ought to be
swaggering about now, and pretending you weren’t. You’ll never make a
man at this rate--a Greek man, anyhow. And as for trying to do your
cousin out of the credit which belongs to her, I tell you it’s a
shabby trick. Why, you know what trouble she is in at present, and if
you and I, by sinking our share in the business, can help her to get
back to her former position, doesn’t she deserve it?”

“You are right, lord. I am a beast,” was the subdued reply, and as
Sotīri walked mournfully on ahead, Armitage suffered agonies from
suppressed laughter. “I don’t know whether I’m standing on my head or
my heels,” he said to himself.

Arrived at the gateway of the Konak, Armitage knocked authoritatively,
and though the guard on duty refused vehemently at first even to
entertain the idea of admitting them before sunrise, he yielded when
he heard who was outside. Harold in his furry disguise was wrapped in
Sotīri’s _kapota_, and completely hidden, which excited wild
curiosity on the guard’s part as to the results of the expedition.
Armitage imposed silence on him by means of a gift, and they hurried
across the courtyard to the colonnade outside the unused rooms, where
he had spoken to Kalliopé two nights before. Harold was suddenly
thrust into his arms, as Sotīri said hastily, “One moment, lord!”
then turned back to say with great emphasis, “Since we started, lord,
my cousin has been hiding in one of these rooms. So anxious was she
for the child’s recovery that she could not bring herself to remain
among the servants, but sought refuge here, that I might bring her the
news as soon as we returned.”

“Poor thing! she must indeed have been anxious,” said Armitage
gravely, and the boy disappeared. When a step was next heard on the
stone pavement, it was Kalliopé who approached. She lifted her eyes
silently to Armitage’s face, and he saw that there were black circles
of fatigue surrounding them which stood out clearly in comparison with
the whiteness of her cheeks, but inconsistently enough, he found her
more beautiful than even the first day he had seen her. She took his
hand and kissed it, lifted Harold from his arms, and was gone.
Armitage felt a sudden sense of flatness, an uncertainty as to what
ought to be done next, which was disconcerting after the crowding
events of the last eighteen hours. Then he surprised himself in a
tremendous yawn, and very wisely found his way to his room and went to
bed.

He was awakened after what seemed about a minute’s sleep by a vigorous
knocking, followed by the unceremonious entrance of Wylie, who burst
in, and seizing his hand, shook it with such energy that Armitage
cried for mercy.

“My dear good man,” he nursed the released hand ostentatiously, “what
in the world is it?”

“Oh, nonsense, don’t try to shirk! We know it’s all owing to you, old
man. Kalliopé has been telling us all about it, though we can’t make
head or tail of her story. Who is this cousin who went with you? We
never heard of him. But what does it signify, when you’ve brought the
boy back? I tell you I thought I was dreaming, when I felt a tug at my
moustache--something like a tug, too--and heard a little voice saying
‘Da! da!’ but when I opened my eyes there was Zoe with the child in
her arms. Old man, you can’t conceive what it is to get him back.
Hurry up and dress. Zoe wants to thank you herself. She and Linton and
Kalliopé are all on their knees at this moment baby-worshipping, with
a shifting audience of women from other parts of the place. I’m going
on now to tell Maurice. We can never thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me at all,” said Armitage. “The whole idea was
Kalliopé’s, and she provided in her cousin a highly efficient
instrument for carrying it out. I only obeyed orders. By the bye, I
hear she was in hiding all day yesterday. Did you find it out?”

“We thought she had slipped through our fingers, of course, and there
was a good deal of mutual recrimination among the servants. Where she
hid I can’t imagine, for we thought we had hunted everywhere. Well,
poor girl, she has heaped coals of fire upon our heads--in a sort of
way, for there are a lot of suspicious things about her still. But be
quick and get dressed.”

When he was gone, Armitage obeyed, and in due course found his way to
the verandah, where Harold, fresh from a most necessary bath, and
dressed by the rejoicing Linton in his Sunday frock, was the centre of
attraction on his mother’s knee. Zoe looked up with eyes full of
tears.

“Oh, we can never, never thank you enough!” she cried. “Harold, give
Uncle a kiss and say ‘Ta’ to him for bringing you back.” Harold obeyed
solemnly. “I don’t think he looks any worse, except perhaps a little
thinner--do you?” she went on anxiously. “Isn’t it horrid that he can
never tell us how they treated him, because he will have forgotten all
about it when he is able to talk? But I really believe he hasn’t had
his face washed all the time he has been gone. Still, if there’s
nothing worse than that, we may be most thankful. What is it, Parisi?
Breakfast? How can one think of breakfast now? If you really had the
fine feelings you expect me to credit you with, you would have put
some food unobtrusively on the table over there, and left us to
discover it when we remembered we were hungry.”

Parisi smiled respectfully. He was a highly cultured person, having
once edited an Athenian newspaper, but he could never see a joke when
it was against himself. Having duly acknowledged Zoe’s attempt at wit,
he repeated in a soft murmur, “The gracious lady is served,” and stood
aside to allow her to pass downstairs.

“Oh dear, I suppose we must go!” groaned Zoe. “But Harold must come,
and sit in his high chair beside me. And Janni had better come too,
poor little fellow! for he feels himself quite eclipsed. Do you know,
he is really most frightfully jealous--after having Linton all to
himself, of course. We must all take particular notice of him
to-day----”

“If we can, in the presence of this conquering hero,” said Armitage,
holding out his arms for Harold. “Let me carry my god-son downstairs,
Princess. I see Prince Theophanis is coming across with Wylie to pay
his respects, so this youngster is highly honoured.”

“Now do tell me,” began Zoe, when they were seated at breakfast, and
Maurice had presented his own and Eirene’s most hearty
congratulations, “how you managed it. Oh, and where is this wonderful
boy Sotīri? He seems to have turned up just when he was wanted, and
disappeared without waiting to be thanked. But I must thank him. I
can’t be happy until I have done it. Surely you must know where he
is?”

“I’m afraid I am partly to blame for his disappearance,” said
Armitage. “It struck me that he was a little inclined to insist on his
share in the exploit and belittle his cousin’s, and I let him know
that I didn’t think it quite fair. I’m sorry if I hurt his feelings,
though, for he did well. What do you think about your cousin,
Kalliopé?” he turned to Danaë, whose face was a study as she stood
behind Janni’s chair, and spoke in Greek. “Has he run off because I
scolded him?”

She responded with eager haste. “Oh no, lord, it is nothing of that
kind. He has done what he came for, and is gone. You will never see
him again. He would wish you to forget him. To be thanked and praised
is a thing he would detest.”

“Then Kalliopé must act as his representative, and take his thanks
and praise as well as her own,” said Wylie.

“Yes,” said Zoe. “Kalliopé, what is there that you would really like?
You understand that nothing the Lord Glafko and I could do for you
would be in the slightest degree the measure of our gratitude, but we
should like to give you something tangible at once, which would show
the servants what we thought of you.”

The girl’s eyes glowed, then gloomed. “Something that I should really
like, lady mine?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes, whatever you like best,” Zoe assured her. “Don’t be afraid,
Kalliopé. Tell me what it is, and if we have not got it here we will
send for it at once.” She expected to be asked for a watch and chain,
of the showy kind that Artemisia and her like loved to display upon
the velvets and satins of their feast-day attire, but Danaë fell upon
her knees, and breathed out the desire of her heart in scarcely
audible accents.

“Lady--oh, lady mine, if I may indeed have what I should prize most in
all the world, let me for this one evening wear European clothes, and
eat at your table as if I were a European like yourselves!”

The grotesque nature of the request, and the passion with which it was
urged, took Zoe aback. “But, Kalliopé, that is rather a foolish wish,
isn’t it?” she asked kindly. “Wouldn’t you rather have something real,
that you could keep and show, and take away with you, when you go?”

The girl rose to her feet, her eyes heavy with tears. “I knew it was
too much. I have no other wish, lady. Give me what you will.”

“Oh, let her do it, Zoe!” cried Wylie sharply.

“I will bring Eirene to dinner to meet her,” said Maurice.

“Let her do it, Princess,” said Armitage. “She deserves it.”

“Of course you shall do it, Kalliopé, if you really wish it,” said
Zoe, her momentary hesitation overborne. “I will lend you one of my
gowns--you shall choose whichever you like--and I will do your hair
for you myself. I won’t trust even Linton. There! will that please
you?”

“Oh, lady mine, you give as a king gives--with both hands full,” cried
Danaë, with a half-sob, as she knelt again and laid Zoe’s hand on her
head. “Never, never will I forget your goodness to me!” and she burst
into tears.

“She is tired out,” said Armitage--rather to Zoe’s surprise when she
thought about it afterwards. “Better let her have a good rest,
Princess. Must have been pretty wearing--hiding away all yesterday and
not knowing whether we should come back successful or not,” he
observed to the others, when Zoe had led the sobbing girl out of the
room.

No one saw anything more of Kalliopé until the evening, when Linton,
divided between gratitude for her achievement and acute disapproval of
the method of its reward, woke her that she might choose her gown. To
the maid’s indignation and Zoe’s amusement, she picked out
unhesitatingly the most magnificent thing in the wardrobe, a Parisian
creation of glittering golden tissue which Zoe had worn at the court
ball that formed the culminating point of the series of splendid
festivities before the departure of the allied fleets from Therma, by
which Prince Romanos had signalised his own election and the wedding
of his rival’s sister. Linton almost wept when she was bidden to alter
the hooks a little to allow for the Greek girl’s classic development
of figure, and Zoe was glad she should be spared the further pang of
seeing her mistress acting hairdresser to this upstart. But when the
thick blue-black locks, still disconcertingly short on one side, were
ready for manipulation, Danaë turned suddenly, and took the comb out
of Zoe’s hand.

“Lady, I must tell you--perhaps you will not think me worthy of all
this honour when you have heard--I have no cousin. It was I who put on
boy’s clothes and went with Milordo yesterday to find the Lord
Harold.”

“Kalliopé!” Zoe exclaimed in dismay, but the anxiety in the girl’s
eyes moved her. “It was very brave of you, and I can only thank you
all the more,” she added hastily.

“Then you don’t mind, lady?” with incredulous joy.

“No-o, not for this once. Not that you are to think that I want you to
go about in boy’s clothes at other times,” firmly. “You are never to
do it again.”

“Not unless it is necessary. I have done it once before--in Strio,”
she added quickly. “Lady, did Milordo guess?”

“I really don’t know,” said Zoe. Then, reviewing what had been said at
breakfast, she decided in her own mind that he very certainly had
guessed. “But if he did, you may be quite sure that no human being
will ever hear a word of it from him,” she added.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Danaë soberly, and they turned again to
the hairdressing. Presently Linton brought back the gown, and Zoe and
she refused to let the girl see herself until the transformation was
complete. Then, as Linton wheeled forward the large cheval-glass,
there was a simultaneous gasp from the three women. Kalliopé in this
guise was superb--there was no other word for it. The masses of dark
hair, the alabaster complexion thrown up by the gold of the gown, the
splendidly moulded arms and shoulders, made her a matchless picture.
Danaë herself was the first to speak.

“Lady, you will let me wear that?” pointing to a great boa of fluffy
white ostrich feathers. “I--I am not accustomed----” Zoe threw it
round her shoulders, and sighed.

“I shall never dare to wear that gown again, now I have seen how
splendid she looks in it,” she said in English, and Linton replied--

“Well, ma’am, I don’t deny I was against it, but this I will say: it
would have been a sin and a shame for the girl not to be dressed
properly once in her life.”

“It suits you magnificently, Kalliopé,” said Zoe in Greek, as she
caught the anxious glance the girl was directing from one to the
other. “Now walk about a little, while Linton dresses me, and learn to
manage your train.”

“Lady--” Danaë paused to enjoy the effect of her dark head rising out
of the creamy feathers--“don’t you think Milordo will want to make a
picture of me now?”

“I don’t know,” said Zoe, rather taken aback. “We will ask him, if you
like.”

Danaë assented joyfully, and Zoe found her eyes on her continually
during the evening, which really went off very well. The difficulty
Maurice had found in fulfilling his promise to bring his wife was
known only to himself, but since he had argued her from her first flat
refusal, through the assertion that the mere request was an insult, to
the position that the whole thing was a mad joke, and never to be
presumed upon afterwards, he felt he had reason to be satisfied.
Having submitted, Eirene made up her mind to do so with a good grace,
and if she had known Danaë to be a young princess she could not have
treated her more graciously. The girl showed by her behaviour that she
had used her eyes to good purpose since her arrival at Klaustra. Her
mistakes were wonderfully few, and she repaired or ignored them, as
seemed most advisable at the moment, with a natural dignity that left
nothing to be desired. Small-talk she was not an adept in, but
Armitage found her a promising pupil, and after all, it was not
necessary for her to talk--merely to sit and allow herself to be
looked at. Nevertheless, he was curiously disconcerted when Zoe came
up to him in the drawing-room afterwards, with the stately beauty
following her like a shadow.

“Lady Kalliopé wants to know whether you will paint her portrait in
this dress?” she said lightly, but the girl’s eyes were tragic with
entreaty. Armitage frowned.

“Certainly not. Think of the incongruity!”

“It would please her very much,” Zoe urged.

“You do not like me this evening, lord?” asked Danaë mournfully.

“I like you better in your own dress,” was the stout reply.

“Oh no, lord--not in those common clothes!”

“Just to please her--she has deserved it,” said Zoe.

“Well, look here,” said Armitage in desperation. “May I take this
sheet of paper, Princess?” He went to the writing-table, and using the
blotter as a sketching-block, drew rapidly for two or three minutes,
with swift glances at Danaë. When he handed the paper to Zoe, there
were two figures on it, each expressed with the utmost economy of
strokes--Danaë in her present dress, all train and long gloves, with
a coronet of hair emerging above a fluffy mass of ostrich feathers,
and Danaë in her native costume, standing on a cliff looking out to
sea, one hand shading her eager eyes, vitality in every line of her
form. “Now which of those do you like best?” he asked triumphantly.

“Oh, this one, lord!” was the fervent reply, as Danaë laid her hand
affectionately on the one representing her at the moment. Armitage
laughed, but not very heartily.

“I am beaten,” he said. “Well, as the Lady Kalliopé pleases.”

“It is really a caricature,” said Zoe, in a vexed tone. “You can
hardly see anything of her.”

“No. After all, it is a picture of the gown that is wanted, isn’t it?
Why, think; I shall be able to paint the whole thing without the
sitter’s being in the room--or even in the neighbourhood.” Armitage
did not guess how prophetic the words would seem to him later.

Danaë was satisfied. When she came to Zoe’s room that night to
restore her borrowed plumes, she smiled happily as she pulled off her
gloves.

“Oh, if only every day were like this evening, lady mine, how good I
could be!” she sighed.




 CHAPTER XVI.
 _J’ACCUSE._

The glow of that wonderful evening had faded into the light of
common day, and the conquering beauty in gold tissue was Cinderella
again in her despised national dress. But for the present the memory
was enough, and Linton’s caustic comments were forgotten in the
glorious fact that Kalliopé, the underling, had for once associated
on equal terms with Linton’s employers. These employers were too much
occupied this morning with their own affairs to have much thought to
spare for their guest of the night before. The post, which was not by
any means a daily, or even a regular occurrence, came in before
breakfast was over, and Armitage tore open one of his letters with
considerable excitement.

“Old Pazzi!” he said. “He’s on his way here--ought to get in to-day.
Says he had just had my letter telling him we thought we might be able
to give him news of his grandson, and was starting at once.”

“Poor old man! How nice it will be if Janni really is his grandson,”
said Zoe.

“Will it?” asked her husband. “In that case Janni would also be the
son of Prince Romanos, you must remember, and we should find ourselves
in a dilemma between them.”

“Why, Maurice!” cried Zoe, rising to greet her brother. “Have you come
to breakfast? Do sit here.”

“No, thanks; I have breakfasted. Is there any news from Pazzi? Here is
Romanos writing to declare himself the most unfortunate and worst
treated man in the world, and casting himself upon us for advice and
help. He is coming here privately, and is due to arrive to-day. The
queer thing is that he is bringing Panagiotis with him.”

“Had he got your letter about Janni?” asked Wylie quickly.

“Evidently not. I didn’t mention Janni, you know--put it very
carefully, that circumstances had come to our knowledge intimately
connected with his private affairs, and it was possible we might be
able to throw some light on them--but he makes no allusion to it.
Besides, he must have started before it could have arrived.”

“Well, Pazzi is on his way here, and is also due to-day.”

“You don’t think they are travelling together? No, one of them would
surely have mentioned it. And where does the Professor come in?”

“I should say he is at his favourite game--acting as friend of both
parties. He and Romanos have discovered that Pazzi is on his way here,
and they are afraid of revelations. So they are coming too.”

“Which party will get here first?--or will they arrive together? Well,
I suppose we shall get some light now on many things. Zoe, I think it
would be well not to tell Kalliopé who is coming.”

“I shouldn’t dream of it. There will be nothing startling in the
Cavaliere’s returning to his duties, of course, and as Prince Romanos
is travelling incog., there is no reason to mention his name at all.”

As it happened, the Cavaliere Pazzi was the first of the travellers to
arrive. Armitage was out sketching, and Maurice and Wylie were busy
administering justice when he reached the Konak, so that he was
ushered at once to the verandah where Zoe was sitting with the
children and Danaë. The old man’s face looked pinched and worn, but
his eyes gleamed with youthful fire.

“You have news for me, madame?” he said eagerly. “It cannot be, as I
have once or twice in my hurried journey been tempted to fear, that
you have held out a false hope to allure me back from Therma?”

Zoe spoke in Greek to Danaë. “Bring me the Lord Janni, Kalliopé.”
The girl obeyed, and Zoe took the child and set him on the old man’s
knee. “So far as we can tell, that is your grandchild, Cavaliere.”

“This, madame? Ah, I think I can trace in him something of my lost
Olimpia, though more of her treacherous husband. Is it not a
misfortune, that I cannot behold even this relic of my child without
recalling her murderer?”

“Can you not be satisfied to rejoice that he is alive, without blaming
him for what he can’t help?”

“His nurse snatched him from destruction, I suppose?”

“So we believe, but she told so many contradictory stories at
first--owing to terror, perhaps--that we have really left off
questioning her about it. Now look at him, Cavaliere; isn’t he a dear
little fellow? Kiss your grandfather, Janni; he loves you very much.”

Janni had maintained his position only by dint of being forcibly held
there, for the Cavaliere’s piercing eyes and beaklike nose made him a
formidable person, but now he looked up into his face, and apparently
reading there some encouragement, put his arms shyly round his neck.
The old man was much moved.

“Blessings on thee, my Giannino!” he cried. “And it was this little
angel, madame, that his unnatural father tried to murder!”

“Ah, that we cannot be sure of,” said Zoe earnestly. “The Prince is
coming here, and must tell his own story.”

“Coming here--that villain? Madame, I entreat you, let me take this
child, and the faithful woman to whose devotion I owe it that he is
spared to me, and seek safety before he is exposed to fresh dangers.”

He stood up, with Janni in his arms, and seemed ready to start at
once. Zoe was at her wits’ end.

“But after all, Cavaliere, he is the Prince’s son as well as your
grandson,” she pleaded. “We cannot let him go away till his father has
seen him.”

“And succeeded in killing him?” with a grim smile.

“But we don’t know that he did try to kill him. And it’s quite certain
that he won’t try to do it here. Besides, don’t you see what a good
thing it will be for you and the Prince to thresh matters out together
on neutral ground, so to speak? You don’t want to go on believing such
a dreadful thing as that poor Donna Olimpia was murdered by her own
husband if it isn’t true?”

“I think, madame, that it will take a cleverer tongue than even my
son-in-law’s to persuade me of his innocence.”

“Well, then,” urged Zoe desperately, “if he did do it, perhaps he will
let you keep Janni rather than have the scandal made public. And if he
did try to kill him, surely he won’t want him now?”

“Will you pledge yourself that your brother and husband will not give
up the child to him, madame?”

“How can I? If he can clear himself, I suppose it is natural he should
have him back. But if not, then I think I can promise that at any rate
we shall keep Janni in our own charge for the present.”

She saw with much relief that this suggestion was acceptable, for the
old man’s mien had been so determined as to make her fear it would be
necessary to send for Wylie to prevent his carrying off Janni bodily
forthwith. Now he replaced him gently on her knee.

“You have given me fresh life, madame, in restoring to me this little
child. I see myself returning to my modest dwelling with a new
interest in place of that of which I have been so cruelly deprived,
concealing from the lad the sad story of his parentage, and bringing
him up as a worthy descendant of Maxim Psicha. Even in the
materialistic and impoverished Magnagrecia of to-day, there will be a
place in the army for the grandson of a veteran of the War of
Independence, and in the meantime my pension will suffice for us. The
girl there is the deserving young woman to whom I owe the preservation
of this precious life?”

“Yes; but, Cavaliere, you have asked her no questions--merely taken
for granted that Janni is your grandson. Would you like me to
interpret for you?”

“No, madame, I will ask her no questions now, lest it should be
charged against me that I have put words into her mouth. I will
question her in the presence of her late master--and I entreat you to
bring it about that I may do so as soon as possible. I am an old man,
and I have travelled fast, but I cannot rest until I have unmasked the
villain.”

“I hear sounds as if some one was arriving,” said Zoe, rising. “If it
is the Prince, and he is willing, we might talk about things after
lunch. But will you not put it off till to-night, and rest a little
first?”

“I cannot, madame. I am my daughter’s avenger.”

They went down the stairs together, leaving Danaë a prey to intense
curiosity and apprehension. The Cavaliere’s treatment of Janni had at
once recalled to her mind the words of Petros respecting the arrival
of the Lady’s father at Therma. But if this was the man, how much did
he know, and how much did her employers know? She was racked with
anxiety, for the lies which had once come so glibly to her lips were
now harder to frame, and moreover, they had landed her in such a
tangle that she did not know how to extricate herself. Even if she
gave the lie to everything she had said already, she and Janni and
their relations with Petros must still be accounted for--and she had
no means of discovering how much or how little of the truth it would
be expedient to make known. She walked restlessly about, trying to
decide what to do, and as her gaze fell casually into the courtyard,
she was electrified to see her brother crossing it in company with
Prince Theophanis. Next to Petros, Prince Romanos was the last person
she desired to see at the moment, and she dropped down behind the
parapet, but not before he had caught a glimpse of her. The moment
before, he had been walking wearily, like one tired and depressed, his
shoulders bowed, his very moustache drooping. But the merest sight of
a handsome girl acted as a challenge, and he drew himself up, squared
his shoulders and twisted his moustache. Then, to the intense
amusement of his sister, watching him from between the railings, he
pretended to have dropped something and induced his host to go back
with him a dozen yards or so to look for it, that he might swagger
past again, casting furtive glances up at the verandah in search of
the face he had seen.

“You should wear a kilt, lord--not European riding-clothes--if you
want to show off properly,” Danaë addressed him mentally, veering
unconsciously towards Armitage’s views on costume. “But what are you
doing here? and what is Friend Secretary going to do? What has been
discovered? How much does anyone know?”

Questions very similar to these were in the minds of all those who met
at the luncheon-table of Prince and Princess Theophanis. Wylie and his
wife and Armitage were there to meet Prince Romanos and Professor
Panagiotis, and in the presence of the servants nothing important
could be discussed. It struck most of the English party as quaint that
Prince Romanos, whose whole future, so far as could be judged, hung
upon the result of the forthcoming conference, was very much at his
ease--almost as if he had transferred his burden to the shoulders of
his friends, and it was no further concern of his. He even remarked to
Zoe that she had a remarkably pretty girl in her household, but
unfortunately very shy, and she reflected that years did not seem to
have wrought much change in him. When they moved into the
drawing-room, however, there was a general feeling that something was
going to happen, and the almost instant appearance of the Cavaliere
Pazzi showed that it was not to be long delayed. He and his son-in-law
bowed to one another coldly.

“I heard that you were ahead of me, monsieur,” said the Prince.

“I thought it probable that you might follow me,” was the reply, given
with studious lack of formality. The Prince’s sallow face flushed
darkly, and Maurice interfered in haste.

“You may be surprised by our claiming acquaintance with your private
affairs, Prince, but as a matter of fact, your wife confided the news
of your marriage to my sister very soon after it occurred.”

“She could not have found a better confidant,” said Prince Romanos
politely, but Zoe found his eyes fixed gloomily upon her. He was
clearly asking himself whether it was possible that she could have
kept this damaging secret--known, no doubt, to her husband also--so
long without making use of it to injure him?

“It did not occur to her to connect the two events,” Maurice went on,
“when, five or six months ago, a girl from the islands, in charge of a
little child, sought refuge with us. But perhaps you see a
connection?”

“How long ago?” asked Prince Romanos excitedly. “A girl from the
islands, you say? Was the child a boy?”

“The exact day was that on which Wylie and I left Therma--when you
were to have joined us, but were prevented by--by severe personal
bereavement.”

“Exactly. But what should have taken the girl to you?”

“We found her running away in terror from your servant Petros and she
implored our help. Her first story was that her sister had been
murdered by her husband----” Maurice paused involuntarily, struck by
the ominous coincidence of the words, then hurried on--“and she was
escaping with the child. Petros was anxious to claim control over her,
but she denied frantically that he had any right to it, and we did not
think he was quite the person to take charge of a young girl. We
agreed to produce her if she was wanted in any legal proceedings, and
meanwhile promised to find a place for her here. My sister has
employed her in the nursery, and brought up the little boy with her
own child.”

“Princess, accept the thanks of a father who thought himself bereaved
of wife and son in one day,” said Prince Romanos, kissing Zoe’s hand.
“Then the discerning eye of Zeto detected the son of John Theophanis
under the mean disguise?”

“Don’t flatter me too much,” said Zoe, laughing with an effort. “Janni
was just the age of my own Harold, and made a delightful companion for
him. Besides, the girl very soon informed us that he was not her
sister’s child, but some one immensely superior. But can you be quite
sure that he is your lost child?”

“My heart tells me so, Princess. Janni? his very name! The day of his
adoption, that on which I lost him. The anxiety of my faithful Petros
to recover him--by the bye, the rascal has been leading me a pretty
dance since. All-Holy Mother of God! he must have known where the
child was the whole time! The nurse-girl is his niece; they must have
made up the plot together.”

“Surely it would be better to have the girl here at once, and let her
bring the child for you to see?” said Maurice, and Wylie called to one
of the servants outside and gave him the order. Prince Romanos looked
slightly disconcerted.

“I could wish to have embraced my recovered treasure first in
private,” he said to Zoe, with the faintest hint of reproach in his
tone.

“And to have given instructions to the nurse in private also?”
inquired the Cavaliere sarcastically.

Meanwhile, the receipt of Wylie’s order caused commotion in the
nursery. Danaë declared that she would not go down; she was tired,
she was ill, she was terrified; Linton must take Janni. They wrangled
over the whole process of getting him into his best frock, and were
still fixed in their respective determinations when Parisi himself
puffed upstairs to inquire what was the reason of this delay? Was the
Lady Kalliopé waiting for the Lord Glafko to come and fetch her, or
did she insist upon the escort of the gracious Prince himself?
Danaë’s elevation of the previous night had not met with approval
among the servants, and she realised in time that they would like
nothing better than to drag her by force, struggling and shrieking,
into the presence of Princess Theophanis and her guests. Therefore she
merely tossed her head in answer to Parisi’s ponderous raillery, and
seizing Janni, marched defiantly down the stairs and across the
courtyard.

“Why, Eurynomé!” said Prince Romanos stiffly.

“I am she, lord,” she responded. “You wished to see the little lord?”

The Prince’s ill-humour melted as he held out his arms, and the
watching grandfather noted jealously that the child went to him at
once, and nestled confidingly against his shoulder. Danaë watched
them with pride.

“What made you take the little lord away, Eurynomé?” demanded the
Prince abruptly.

“You told me to, lord,” was the answer, which produced a sensation.
Was the Cavaliere justified in insinuating that Prince Romanos had
suborned Petros and the nurse to remove the child and keep him out of
sight?

“Nonsense, girl! Tell the truth.”

“I am telling it, lord. Did I not bring you the little lord, to
comfort you, when you were mourning over the body of the Lady, and did
you not command me many times over to take him away?”

“I told you to take him to the nursery, of course.”

“Yes, lord; and was he to remain there forgotten, until the murderers
came back to kill him as they had killed his mother?” There was
another sensation.

“Who were these murderers, Kalliopé?” asked Maurice.

She looked round desperately. All her instincts of loyalty bade her
lie through thick and thin, if necessary, to support her brother, but
she had no means of knowing whether truth or falsehood would profit
him better. “If I could tell my lord about it alone first?” she
faltered.

“No, no--no teaching the girl what to say!” cried the Cavaliere Pazzi
furiously, and Professor Panagiotis turned a warning glance on Prince
Romanos. He responded gloomily.

“No. Say what you know at once.”

“It was a very hot day,” began Danaë hesitatingly. “My lord had
visited the Lady to bid her farewell, and old Despina had gone out
marketing. The Lady was writing a letter in the shade of the wood, and
I was playing with the little lord on the ground near her. We were
just going to take him indoors for his sleep when we heard noises at
the gate. Old Mariora came running to bid the Lady hide, because there
were murderers there, and went to try to stop them. But the Lady bade
me take the little lord and hide him, and she would speak to the
murderers and give me time. Then I carried the little lord very
quickly through the house and hid myself with him, and remained there
a long while, and when I came out the Lady lay dead on the grass, and
Mariora on the pathway, and Despina near the gate.” She paused with
something of pride. If she had said nothing that was false, she had at
any rate exercised a judicious economy of the truth.

“Where did you hide yourself, Kalliopé?” asked Zoe.

“It was--up a tree, my lady.” Formerly this would have been mentioned
with pride, but now Danaë blushed.

“Could you see the murderers?” asked Wylie quickly.

Her eyes sought her brother’s face anxiously, but in vain. “Yes,
lord,” she admitted with reluctance.

“What were they like?” asked Professor Panagiotis.

“They wore the clothes of the guard, lord,” after another wild glance
at Prince Romanos. Danaë knew by the demeanour of her audience that
she must be establishing some very serious charge against her brother,
but its nature she could not define.

“Was there anyone among them that you knew?” asked Maurice. Her lips
moved, but no answer came.

“Was Petros one of them?” asked Wylie, with a sudden inspiration, and
Danaë threw Petros to the wolves without a qualm. He was a good way
off, and if he was discredited beforehand his recrimination might be
robbed of its power.

“Yes, lord; Petros was there.”

“Was that why you were running away from him afterwards?”

“Surely, lord. I feared that he would take the little lord and slay
him.”

“But why did you tell us so many lies about yourself and the child?”

“How could I do otherwise, lord? I did not know then the goodness of
your hearts, and I desired to save the little lord until I could
restore him to his father.”

“Knowing that his father desired nothing of the kind?” demanded the
Cavaliere. Happily he spoke in French, and Danaë did not understand
him. Maurice interposed hastily.

“The girl had better go now, I think. We can send for her again if
anyone wants to question her. Take the little lord back to the
nursery, Kalliopé.”

She vanished, with Janni in her arms, and delivered him duly into
Linton’s care. But having exactly fulfilled the order she had
received, she returned noiselessly, and sat crouched on the verandah
close to the window, with so little parade of secrecy that the guards
below thought she had been told to return, and did not molest her. The
conversation within was continued in French or English, as before she
was sent for, and of course she could not understand it.

“I went through the roll of my guard that evening,” said Prince
Romanos wearily, “to satisfy myself; and with the exception of Petros,
who was on the sick-list, they were all able to account for
themselves.”

“Naturally. They were on duty,” snapped the Cavaliere.

“I suppose there is now no objection on your part, Prince, after what
we have heard, to admitting that Donna Olimpia was murdered?”
interposed Maurice.

“Yes, she was foully murdered,” he groaned.

“Then why invent the diphtheria lie?” demanded Wylie.

Prince Romanos spread forth his hands helplessly. “I can see as well
as you do to what suspicions I exposed myself,” he said; “but I was
simply not in a position to take up the matter properly. I could not
afford to alienate my people by allowing my marriage to come to light
at the moment, and as mother and child were both dead, so far as I
knew, it seemed the wisest course to hush things up for a time, and
inquire into them fully afterwards.”

“It was undoubtedly the most convenient course for yourself at the
time,” said the Cavaliere, with deadly meaning.

“What do you insinuate, monsieur?” the Prince asked him sharply.

“I insinuate nothing, I accuse. At that time you were negociating for
the hand of the Grand Duchess Feodora. Unfortunately there was an
obstacle; you had a wife already. Your wife refused to be pensioned
off or to allow herself to be repudiated. Therefore you sent a
detachment of your guards to murder her, under the ruffian Petros,
your confidential servant. To order the death of the child was too
much even for you, but you drove him from you with his nurse, and
Petros knew what he was intended to do. But for the meeting with
Prince Theophanis and Colonel Wylie, neither nurse nor child would
have been seen again. In intention you murdered them as truly as in
fact you murdered your unhappy wife and her servants.”




 CHAPTER XVII.
 THE USE OF FRIENDS.

There was a moment’s hush of expectation when the Cavaliere had
hurled his charges at his son-in-law. Prince Romanos met them
characteristically.

“Princess,” he said, turning to Zoe, “do you believe that I murdered
my wife?”

“No, I don’t,” said Zoe.

“Then I am content. If one so skilled in the knowledge of the human
heart--a woman, too--can acquit me, what more can I ask?”

“This is all very pretty and poetical,” said Wylie impatiently, “but
merely as a matter of curiosity, Prince, we should like to know what
defence you propose to offer if your father-in-law publishes
throughout Europe the accusation he has just made.”

“Ah, there I am helpless. I put myself wholly into the hands of my
friends. I did not murder my wife, but malicious circumstances have
forced me into such a position that I realise it must appear that I
did. The Cavaliere Pazzi has provided me with a motive, with
instruments, with a deep-laid plan. How can I prove that I am innocent
of this crime, which I abhor from my very soul?”

“You can hardly expect us to prove it for you, Prince,” said Maurice,
with unusual sharpness.

“Your Highness will pardon me.” It was Professor Panagiotis who spoke,
rising and coming forward impressively into the midst of the group. “I
am here, at my own request, to represent the interests of Emathia,
which would be gravely jeopardised if the Cavaliere Pazzi made his
accusation public. I beg that it may not be supposed I have been in
the Prince’s confidence all along. I could wish it had been the case,
but his Highness was otherwise advised.”

“In other words,” drawled Prince Romanos, “I was considerate enough to
keep my marriage concealed from the Professor as well as from the
public, knowing that it would disturb his tranquillity, and might lead
him to disturb mine.”

“From the Cavaliere’s words,” the Professor went on, “it would not be
guessed that the proposal of an alliance with the Grand Duchess
Feodora came, not from the Prince at all, but from the Scythian side.
I welcomed it, I own, for it promised to guarantee the continuance of
Emathian independence, and the establishment of a hereditary dynasty.
Unfortunately, my master and I were working against one another, since
he had the validation of the actual marriage in view, and I an
entirely new one.”

“But,” cried Zoe, “the Scythian Government must have known all about
the marriage. I know Donna Olimpia told me that the Dowager Princess
of Dardania was present at it.”

“That is undoubtedly the case, madame. The proposal of a more august
alliance was merely a bait to entrap my master and his servants into
complete subservience to Scythia. But it is only since the death of
the lady concerned that the Scythian negociator has mentioned certain
unpleasant rumours that had reached his ears, and asked for a definite
contradiction of them.”

“Aha, Mr Professor!” burst from the Cavaliere. “So you would transfer
the crime from your master’s shoulders to those of the Scythian
Government, would you? Well, they are broad enough; but you forget
that the murder was committed by members of the Prince’s own guard.”

“By men in the uniform of members of the Prince’s guard,” corrected
the Professor. “No, monsieur, I should not be so foolish as to
insinuate that the Scythians, any more than my master, were clearing
the way for him to a marriage with the Grand Duchess. You have not the
happiness of being Orthodox, but I appeal to those present who know
something of our tenets. They will support me in assuring you that
second marriages are looked upon with extreme disfavour by our Church,
and in no case would one be contemplated for a member of the Imperial
family.”

“That’s true. I had not thought of it,” cried Maurice, while the
Cavaliere sat stupefied.

“Then now you have merely to show who did commit the murder,
Professor,” said Wylie, in his driest tone.

Professor Panagiotis seemed unwontedly embarrassed. He wiped his brow,
as though his forensic effort was proving exhausting, and played with
a button of his coat. Then he spread forth his hands with a liberal
gesture implying that now he was making a clean breast of everything.

“Your Highnesses, I approach this point with hesitation, since it must
appear to you that you have been treated with insufficient confidence.
But I ask you to consider my master’s eagerness to see his marriage
acknowledged and his dynasty established. In view of this, you will
not be surprised to hear that the question of the construction of the
Emathian railways became involved with the other negociation.”

“Surprised? Not a bit!” said Wylie. “We all knew that there must be a
_quid pro quo_. But I imagine that the Prince was not satisfied with
only one bid. There is another Power interested in Emathian railways
as well as Scythia.”

“Exactly, Colonel,” said the Professor, in a tone of relief; “and the
present complications arise from my master’s anxiety to obtain the
best terms he could--the utmost in the way of recognition against the
smallest possible concession. In this endeavour I am proud to
acknowledge that I supported him--but unfortunately I was ignorant of
the fact of his marriage, which was known to the Pannonian agents. He
informs me that even before the unhappy event which we all deplore,
attempts had been made to bring pressure upon him by threatening the
safety of his wife.”

The Cavaliere raised his haggard face with supreme disdain. “Bah! you
are trying to lead us astray. Pannonia had no candidate in whose
favour my daughter’s removal was desirable.”

“No, the plot was more subtle than that. According to my information,
obtained by careful inquiry, the group of discreditable persons who
were managing the affair in the interests--though without the
ostensible support--of Pannonia plotted deliberately to murder the
lady concerned and her child, and to cast the blame upon her husband.
If he allowed himself to be intimidated, they would obtain all they
could desire in the way of concessions; if he refused, they would
denounce him publicly--not so much for the murder as for the heterodox
marriage, and stir up the populace to revolt. Pannonian property would
be damaged, Pannonian interests endangered, and Pannonia would demand
from Europe a mandate to restore peace. Once in Therma, you may guess
how soon she would quit it.”

“Then Prince Romanos accepted the first condition, and granted the
concessions?” said Maurice coldly. “You are surprised that I should
know this?” as the Professor’s eye wandered to his master’s. “Colonel
Wylie and I guessed that something of the kind was on foot when we
discovered a few days ago that a Pannonian geological expedition,
which had been giving us a good deal of trouble, was really surveying
for a railway.”

“The Prince temporised--nothing more,” replied the Professor
breathlessly. “With your Highness’s assistance, we hope so to arrange
matters that Pannonia gains only a very small portion of what she
expected. I am about to speak frankly, for you will understand that my
concern is for Emathia, and that if you, sir, had been elected High
Commissioner instead of Prince Romanos, my endeavours would have been
equally engaged on your behalf. It is quite open to you, I acknowledge
it freely, to take your stand on the charges brought by the Cavaliere
Pazzi, and claim that my master has shown himself unworthy of the
confidence of Europe. It is extremely probable that if another
election were held you would take his place. But I have received a
friendly warning from Czarigrad, from a Greek occupying a very high
official position there, that the present Liberal Roumi Government
regards the semi-independent status of Emathia with keen dislike. A
contested election, either now or at the end of my master’s five years
of office, would be the signal for a determined attempt to bring the
country again under Roumi rule. There would be representative
institutions, of course, such as they are, but Emathia, for which we
have fought and laboured, to see her emerge triumphantly as a
self-existent state, would once more be merged in the dominions of
Roum. All the work of the last twenty years--of my lifetime--would be
lost.”

“This is very serious,” said Maurice. “Do you think that if the
election is not contested at the end of the five years things will be
allowed to go on?”

“There would at least be no excuse for interrupting them, sir. If we
could point to five years of peace and advance, and a contented
people--but it demands sacrifices. And first of all, the Prince will
make every amends in his power to the memory of the lady whom he so
truly loved and so deeply mourns.” The Cavaliere, who had been sitting
sunk in his chair, looked up sharply. “The marriage, so unfortunately
concealed, will be made public, and insisted upon in every possible
way. The child whose life has been so wonderfully preserved will be
brought forward as heir of the Christodoridi and his father’s natural
successor on the throne, and the body of his mother, whom I may now
without offence style the Princess of Emathia, taken from its present
resting-place and deposited with all honour in the vaults of the
metropolitan church. Do you ask how we propose to face the public
opposition? There will be none. Once it is known that Prince Romanos
married the heiress of Maxim Psicha, and that their son unites in his
own person the princely crowns of Emathia and Illyria, the match will
be received with enthusiasm.”

“And the murderers of my daughter?” asked the Cavaliere in a hollow
voice.

Embarrassment returned upon Professor Panagiotis. “For the sake of
Emathia, it is suggested that we all consent to certain sacrifices,
monsieur,” he said, after some hesitation. “It will be impossible, I
fear, to extricate ourselves from the late negociations without
conceding to Scythia and Pannonia an influence in our domestic affairs
which we shall find very irksome. We look confidently to Prince
Theophanis and his family for pecuniary help in making that influence
as small as possible. My master resigns his natural desire for
vengeance, since you will see that to accuse Pannonia of plotting the
murder of his wife would precipitate instantly the crisis we hope to
avert. Is it too much to ask you to exercise a like self-restraint?”

“In order that Romanos Christodoridi may be left in peaceable
possession of the throne he has disgraced? I tell you, Mr Professor, I
will tear him from it!”

“Will you ruin your grandson’s future, monsieur?”

“Shall I buy a throne for my grandson at the price of his mother’s
blood? I would rather bring him up in a garret! No, I refuse your
bribe!” he turned upon Prince Romanos. “Your plan is clear to me now.
I will do you justice; you did not want to have to kill your wife. Her
acknowledgment that your marriage was invalid would have been
sufficient to clear the way to your Grand Duchess. But she refused to
become a party to the dishonour you wished to bring upon her----”

“Pardon me, monsieur. The lady’s honour is vindicated in the fullest
possible way by my proposal,” said the Professor.

“Yes, because she is the heiress of Maxim Psicha. But she was also my
daughter, and she was foully murdered by her own husband’s order. I
can see it all--that last interview, the demand for her acquiescence
in her own disgrace, her staunch refusal, the angry departure of the
dastardly husband, the arrival of his bloodthirsty instruments! I see
it, and as I see it Europe shall see it also.”

“Europe will ask for proof,” said Prince Romanos. “I may tell you that
my wife and I parted the best of friends.”

“Europe will ask for proof of that. Where is the letter that the nurse
says she was writing when the murderers came?”

“I do not know. I saw no letter.”

“No, and no letter will ever be seen. Shall I tell you what that
letter contained? It was an appeal to me, her father, to come to her
help, as I had offered to do, and take her away from Therma, where her
life was not safe unless she consented to your repudiation of her. If
that was not the letter, what was it?”

“Lady, what is the secretary man saying to the Lord Romanos?” Danaë
had sat inert and uninterested while the Professor talked, but her
instincts told her who was the man to be feared, and since the
Cavaliere burst again into the fray she had been kneeling with her
face pressed to the window watching his fiery gestures. Now, as his
eager hands approached the Prince’s throat, as though he would have
torn a confession from him, she opened the window and stepped in. Her
entrance broke the tension which held the listeners, and Prince
Romanos smiled, not very naturally.

“Here is an unbiassed witness, at any rate,” he said. “Why not ask her
about the terms my wife and I were on?”

Professor Panagiotis responded eagerly. “Girl, what can you tell us
about the Prince and his wife? Did he appear to be fond of her?”

“By no means, lord,” was the prompt reply.

The Cavaliere laughed harshly. The rest gasped, and Prince Romanos
sprang up and gripped Danaë roughly by the shoulder.

“Speak the truth, girl! Was I unkind to her?”

“Not unkind, lord, but you kept her in awe of you, as a wife should be
kept. She trembled at the sound of your step.”

He laughed as his father-in-law had done, and dropped back into his
chair. “Go on. Perhaps I beat her?”

An affirmative was trembling upon Danaë’s lips, but Zoe, out of pure
sympathy and nervousness, threw herself into the breach, remembering
the girl’s earlier exploits.

“Think, Kalliopé, and tell us exactly how it was. Not just when they
had a quarrel now and then, perhaps, but as it was generally. To us,”
with a gallant attempt to bring the matter home to her handmaid’s
mind, “what you have said is horrible, and makes us think the Lord
Romanos one of the worst of men.”

“Does it, lady?” in intense astonishment. “I said it for his glory. I
could not bear any one to know how he was in thrall to her. But she
bewitched him, one knows that.”

“This seems a new view of affairs,” observed Wylie. “He was not cruel
to her, then?”

“Cruel, lord? If you had seen them as I so often saw them, he so mild
and anxious to please her, and she frowning and ill-tempered! But that
is always the way with witches. Only the unfortunate who is bewitched
can see any beauty in them, but he pines away for love.”

Danaë had carried the inquiry into such new regions that Maurice
returned with difficulty to a previous question. “The Princess was
writing a letter on the morning she was murdered, you say, Kalliopé;
but it can’t be found. Have you any idea what became of it?”

“I have it in my room, lord--hidden in my mattress.” Again she had the
pleasing consciousness of having caused a sensation.

“Go and fetch it at once,” said Maurice, in a tone which sent her
flying. Once in her own room, the letter was easily found, but as she
pulled it out of its hiding-place, her fingers came in contact with
one of the golden plaques of the Girdle of Isidora. A moment’s pause,
and she took it out also, fastening it round her waist under her
apron, as she had done before. Things seemed so strange to-day that it
might possibly be needed. Then, parrying Linton’s questions, she went
sedately back to the Prince’s house, and handed the letter to Maurice.

“I kept it, lord, because I thought my little lord might grow up and
none know who he was, nor believe me when I told them. But if I said,
‘Here is writing in the hand of his mother,’ they could doubt no
more.”

The proof seemed less obvious to her hearers than to herself, but
Maurice took the paper gravely. “This is addressed to you, Cavaliere,”
he said, handing it to him. Seizing it eagerly, the Cavaliere read it
through, arriving at the abrupt ending with obvious disappointment.

“I was wrong in one point, I confess it. It is clear that there was no
open quarrel. My daughter was not offered the choice between death and
disgrace. She writes to me that she is convinced her husband will soon
acknowledge her openly. He had pledged himself afresh that very
morning, accompanying the pledge with a gift of so much significance
that she durst not describe it on paper, but hoped to show it me
before long at the Palace.”

“It was a piece of jewellery,” said Prince Romanos hastily. “You will
be at no loss to imagine what it was--since she received it as an
earnest of her hopes? The crown which she was never to wear--alas! I
had pleased myself with having it made for her to my own design.”

“Did Petros know of it?” asked Zoe. “Because if he did, it might
supply a motive for the murder.”

“I have no reason to think he did. But stay--the drawer in which she
placed it was broken open and the jewel stolen by the murderers. It
certainly looks----”

“Kalliopé,” interrupted Zoe, “do you think Petros can have murdered
your mistress for the sake of the jewellery the Prince had just given
her?”

“Oh no, my lady; he had no part in her death. And as for the
jewel----” she hesitated, and looked at Prince Romanos for guidance.
“Am I to tell all, lord?”

“Most certainly. Always tell the truth,” he said bluffly. To his utter
stupefaction, Danaë unclasped the Girdle of Isidora from her waist,
and laid it on the table.

“I would fain have spared you this shame, lord,” she said sadly.
“Lady,” she turned to Zoe, “my lord gave this holy thing to the
schismatic woman, and hailed her as Orthodox Empress. When she was
dead, I took it from where I had seen her put it, and hid it, that it
might be safe for my little lord’s wife when he grows up.”

“My girdle!” Danaë’s voice was drowned by Eirene’s shriek of joy as
she sprang forward and seized the jewel. “At last, at last! Now we may
hope for success!” she murmured, fondling the girdle and kissing it as
if it were a living thing. Danaë’s eyes blazed, and she threw herself
forward to tear it from her. Prince Romanos pushed her back, not too
gently.

“Be still, girl! That belongs to Princess Theophanis.” Then to the
rest, “There is some mistake. This girdle came to light in the course
of the destruction of the old Scythian Consulate, after the visit
which Prince Theophanis and Colonel Wylie and I paid to the
operations. You will remember,” he turned to Maurice, “that I was
about to join you when this terrible event occurred. The girdle was
handed to me just before I started, and I promised myself the pleasure
of restoring it to Princess Theophanis with my own hands. My wife
teased me to show it to her, and I allowed her to put it on, and left
it in her charge till the afternoon. I thought it had disappeared with
the crown, but now I see it was not so.”

There was a moment’s awkward silence, which Wylie broke abruptly.
“Kalliopé,” he said to the girl, who had stood looking with angry
eyes from one to another while Prince Romanos spoke hastily in French,
“why do you say now that Petros took no part in the murder? You told
us before that you were afraid he would kill the child as he had
killed the mother.”

These were not Danaë’s exact words, but she was too eager to answer
to resent them. “I misjudged him, lord,” she replied quickly, glad to
put herself right as far as possible with regard to Petros. “He laid
no hand upon the Lady. He has told me so himself since, and I ought to
have known that he would not overstep his orders.”

“His orders!” Everyone in the room seemed to echo the words, and
Danaë stood aghast at what she had done.

“The orders of Prince Romanos?” asked Maurice.

“No, lord,” very low.

“Whose orders, then?” There was silence.

“Kalliopé, you must tell us,” cried Zoe impulsively. “Who gave these
orders, and what were they? You can’t mean that you knew of a plot
against your mistress, and never warned her?”

“A plot, lady mine? There was no plot. My lord and----” she broke off
hurriedly. “My lord’s father heard of the schismatic woman who had
bewitched my lord and was holding him in her snares, and he commanded
Petros to bring her to Strio, where she would be kept safe, and do no
more harm.”

“And you knew of this?” cried Zoe.

“I came to Therma from Strio on purpose to help in the doing of it,
lady.”

“Kalliopé, you had a hand in this horrible murder!”

“No murder was intended, lady. The Despot desired only to put the
woman where the Lord Romanos would not find her. But there was some
mistake. Petros told me that among his helpers there were those who
would willingly see her slain, and I warned him to do no more than he
was commanded. He assured me all was well, and I helped to open the
gate, not knowing that the evil men of whom he had spoken would be
with him after all.”

“Kalliopé!” There was such disappointment and misery in Zoe’s cry
that Prince Romanos sprang forward.

“Don’t waste your pity on this wretched girl, Princess. She is trying
to take us all in. Can you conceive a person of my father’s standing
initiating such a plot? It is preposterous, and she shall confess her
falsehood on her knees.”

In his excitement he had spoken in Greek, and now he tried to seize
Danaë. She shook herself free from him with flashing eyes. “You know
little of your father, lord, if you refuse to believe me.”

“I know more of him than Eurynomé the nurse-maid. On your knees,
girl! and confess that you have lied.”

“But not more of him than his daughter. Yes, lord, I am your sister.
Not Eurynomé the nurse-girl, but Danaë, daughter of the Despot
Agesilaos Christodoridi and of the Lady Xantippe his wife.”




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 EXPELLED FROM PARADISE.

There was a moment’s astonished silence as the listeners gazed at
the two handsome faces confronting one another, so much alike in their
rage. Then Prince Romanos sprang at his sister like a tiger.

“You killed her? You and my father killed my wife?”

Wylie stepped between them just in time. “In Europe we do not strike
women, Prince,” he said.

Held back by the strong hand, Prince Romanos stood panting, his hands
twitching and his face working convulsively. With an effort, he
regained the mask of civilisation, which had fallen from him for a
moment and revealed the fierce islander under the cosmopolitan
exterior. With a gesture of the deepest contrition he turned to his
father-in-law.

“Cavaliere, I can say no more. Do what you will; say what you will.
Denounce me throughout Europe as the murderer of the woman I would
have given my life to save. I will offer no defence; none is possible.
I am her murderer--by the hands of my merciless father and of this
fury who calls herself my sister.”

“But is she your sister really?” gasped Zoe.

“I suppose so,” he replied indifferently. “I know nothing of my
father’s present family, except that he has two daughters. Second
marriages are held in low esteem among us, as you know. But from what
I know of my father I imagine the story must be true.”

Professor Panagiotis, unmoved by the storm raging around him, had been
making notes on his papers. Now he looked up and spoke calmly.

“Your Highnesses, it seems to me that this revelation has come at a
most opportune moment. I can hardly believe that either the Cavaliere
Pazzi or Prince Theophanis will wish to take advantage of this
surrender on the part of my master. His natural horror on finding
himself betrayed by his nearest relations has made him forgetful of
the interests alike of his son and of Emathia. Monsieur,” he turned to
the Cavaliere, “I imagine you are now convinced of the Prince’s
innocence?”

“I see a possibility of it,” was the reluctant reply, “but his defence
is very nearly incredible.”

“Not if you were better acquainted with our people, monsieur. If the
Lady Danaë will be so good as to tell us her story in detail, I think
you will be forced to believe it.”

He turned deferentially to Danaë, who looked at Zoe.

“My lady, shall I speak?” she asked.

“Certainly. The best thing you can possibly do now is to tell the
whole truth,” said Zoe bitterly. The girl ignored the bitterness, and
addressed herself exclusively to her.

“Lady mine, I have deceived you in calling myself Kalliopé, as I
deceived the Lady in calling myself Eurynomé. That I deceived you, I
am sorry, but as for deceiving her, it was a good deed, and I do not
regret it. I am the elder daughter of my father, who is called the
Despot of Strio, and I dwelt there in his house until the early part
of this year. Then there came to the island the man Petros, who had
been summoned by my father on account of certain things he had heard,
on which he desired Petros to assure him. But Petros could only
confirm to him the truth of the rumours that had reached him
concerning my brother, namely, that he was held in the toils of an
evil woman, a schismatic by race, who had bewitched him so deeply that
he scorned the daughters of all the kings of Europe for her sake. In
the old days, my father would have commanded his son to repair to
Strio, and would have taken from him this woman who called herself his
wife, and put her to death before his eyes, after forcing her to
release him from her spells, not permitting him to depart until an
Orthodox marriage had been made for him--but those days are no longer
with us. So my father gave Petros orders to bring the woman to Strio,
where she should be safely kept, and made to set my brother free. Once
she herself had released him, there would be no more danger. But it
was necessary, since my brother guarded her so carefully, for one to
be inside her house who should help Petros to enter, and I offered to
be that one. Lady, why do you look at me as though I had done ill? I
sought only to deliver my brother from the toils of a witch.”

“How can I help it?” cried Zoe. “That you--you, who have been with us
all these months, who seemed really fond of the children, should have
helped to commit a cold-blooded murder, to kill your own
sister-in-law--oh, it is too horrible!”

“She was not my sister-in-law, lady,” with extreme horror. “She was a
witch--even, perhaps,” Danaë dropped her voice, “a vampire.”

“She was the best and loveliest of women!” cried Prince Romanos; “and
you, with your vile superstitions, are not fit to carry her shoes!”

“I thought she was a vampire!” said Danaë, with a certain gloomy
satisfaction. “It is not enough to kill them; they retain their power
when they seem to be dead, as you would know well, lord, if her spell
was not over you.”

“Kalliopé, be quiet; you make my heart sick,” cried Zoe.
“Don’t--don’t say you helped to do this awful thing!”

“You will not understand, my lady,” said Danaë patiently; “I did not
want her killed, for then the effect of her spells would remain, as it
does now. She must be made to remove them of her own free will. You
are too kind, lady. If you lived among us, you would know that it is
wrong and foolish to be gentle with witches and vampires. You must
make your heart hard, thinking of the victims who have to be delivered
from them. That is what my father would have done, but his plans went
wrong through the men whom Petros engaged to help him carry off the
Lady.”

“We shall get no sense out of this girl,” said the Cavaliere gloomily.
“Can’t she speak the plain truth?”

“Look here, Kalliopé,” said Maurice abruptly. “Were these men, whom
Petros got to help him, intended to be members of the Prince’s guard,
or not?”

Danaë reflected a little. “Nothing was said about it, lord,” she
replied; “and I think Petros would have feared to broach the matter to
them. He is servant first of the Despot, and then of my brother, but
they are servants altogether to the Lord Romanos, and might have
betrayed the plan to him. Surely they were dressed like the guard that
they might be admitted to the villa without the sentry’s suspecting
anything?”

“That is possible. And you admitted them?”

“I put a little piece of iron, which Petros gave me, into the lock,
lord, so that the key would not quite turn.”

“And why did you hide yourself and the child, if you were sure no harm
would be done to him?”

“The Lady bade me hide, lord, and I was frightened--old Mariora cried
out. There was a panic upon me.”

“Oh, Kalliopé, were you not sorry--not the least sorry--when you saw
what you had done?” cried Zoe.

“I was a little sorry for Janni’s mother, my lady--but not for the
woman who had bewitched my brother.”

Prince Romanos rose decisively from his chair. “Cavaliere, if you are
not convinced, I am. Henceforth I live for vengeance. As for this
wretched girl, I suppose she must enjoy the consideration she has
denied to others. After all, perhaps her fittest punishment will be to
send her back to Strio. I left it so young that I did not fully
realise what an undesirable place it was to live in. I think--” he
spoke in Greek, with intense meaning--“that we will send you back to
Strio as a suspected witch, girl.”

Danaë turned so deadly white that Zoe stepped forward to catch her.
“Why--why should you say that, lord?” she murmured.

“You made your way into two households--mine first and then the Lady
Zoe’s--with false tales. Why should we have believed them if you had
not cast a spell upon us? Through you my two servants lost their
lives, I my wife, and Janni his mother. What harm you have wrought
here I have not heard yet--but no doubt you have begun your evil work.
You are discovered now, Lady Danaë, and you shall carry your fame
home with you.”

“Oh, lady, lady mine! You won’t let them--” the words came brokenly as
Danaë swayed and caught at Zoe. “You don’t believe---- Am I really a
witch?”

“Prince, how can you?” began Zoe, but Armitage took the shaking form
from her arms, and turned upon Prince Romanos with honest indignation.

“You miserable hound! let the unfortunate girl alone.”

“What! she has bewitched you too?” asked Prince Romanos, and with a
shriek which rang in the ears of those present, Danaë swooned away.

“Oh, go out, go out and leave her with us!” cried Zoe distractedly to
the men. “It has been too much--all this long strain--and this last
thing, she thinks we believe it. Poor girl! she had no idea what she
was doing.”

“If I may trespass on your kindness to shelter her for one night more,
Princess?” said Prince Romanos smoothly, as he went out. “To-morrow I
will relieve you of such an unpleasant charge.”

“Go, go!” said Zoe impatiently. Eirene had laid aside her recovered
girdle for a moment, but there was a far-away look in her eyes as she
brought water and restoratives and helped Zoe to lay Danaë on the
floor. The moment the girl opened her eyes she left her and took up
the girdle again, as though she feared being deprived of it.

“Better, Kalliopé?” asked Zoe kindly.

“Oh, lady, lady!” Danaë hid her face upon her mistress’s breast, and
clung to her trembling and shivering. “Is it true? Am I a witch?”

“No, nonsense! There are no such things. Lie down, or you will faint
again.” To Zoe’s intense astonishment, the girl had pushed her away,
and was trying to raise herself by a chair.

“Lady, it is true. I have bewitched you, and you don’t know it. Let me
go away, before I do you more harm. If I give myself freely to death,
that will remove the spell.”

“Lie still, and don’t be silly. There are no witches now.”

“There was one in Strio, lady--a girl only as old as I am--I knew her.
She had no wish to do harm, but evil befell all those on whom she
looked, and her lover fell ill and wasted away. Even the priest could
do nothing, and when they took her to the festival of a very holy
relic in another island, the roof of the church fell in, and killed
several people. The day after she came back to Strio she was found
dead at the foot of the cliff, and all said that she had thrown
herself over so as to break the effect of her spells. And it was
through me that the Lord Harold was lost.”

“It was through you he was recovered. Now, Kalliopé, let us go back
quietly, and you shall lie down in my room. I am not excusing you at
all. You have done very wrong--worse than I could ever have
believed--but instead of being sorry for that, you accuse yourself of
being a witch, which is absurd.”

“But you can be a witch without knowing it, my lady,” the girl
objected feebly, as they passed along the verandah. Zoe shrugged her
shoulders deliberately, and made no answer until she had her patient
established on the sofa.

“Now I am going to talk to you, Kalliopé--I can’t call you Danaë
yet. Why do you say your sister-in-law was a witch?”

“The schismatic woman? Because she was a witch, lady.”

“I never saw anything like your obstinacy, Kalliopé. She was your
sister-in-law, and she was not a witch.”

“But, lady mine, she bewitched my brother!”

“There was no witchcraft about it. I knew her well. She was very
beautiful and very loving, and I should have been surprised if your
brother, being what he is, had not fallen in love with her.”

“But to marry her, lady--forgetting all he owed to his house and to
his faith!”

“That also was inevitable, unless he had deliberately cut himself off
from her at once. But I should say rather that it was he who bewitched
her to her undoing. It was madness in her to consent to a secret
marriage, and so I told her.”

Danaë’s eyes were still obstinate, and Zoe spoke impressively.

“Well, I can’t hope to convince you against your will. But your
brother has far more reason to believe you a witch, and a malevolent
one, than you had to think his wife one.”

Again the trembling came upon the girl. “Oh, lady, why?”

“Because his wife brought him nothing but good--except what was due to
his own concealment of the marriage--and you have done him the most
dreadful harm.”

Zoe turned away, and taking up a book, pretended to read, leaving
Danaë to sob and shiver among the cushions. At last an inarticulate
murmur called her back, and the girl seized her hand convulsively.
“Lady mine, I am sorry; I wish I had not done it. But she was a
schismatic, and they said she was a witch, and I believed it.”

“Then don’t believe anything so silly in future.”

“But my brother, lady. He believes that I----”

“No, he doesn’t. He only said it to frighten you.”

“Oh, lady, then he will not send me back to Strio with that terrible
message? You will make him have pity on me, so that I can stay here
with you?”

“I should not let him send that message, certainly, but I am afraid he
won’t leave you here, Kalliopé. He means to take you away with him
to-morrow.”

“To be Janni’s nurse at Therma?” hopefully.

“No, I don’t think so. It wouldn’t do. I am sure he means to send you
home. But you love your island; you will be glad to get back.”

For answer, Danaë flung herself off the sofa, and clasped her
mistress’s knees tightly. “Oh, lady mine, let me stay here! If you
will not have me in the nursery, let me go to the kitchen again.
Anything rather than go back to Strio!”

“But, Kalliopé, you must see that your brother could not leave you
here as a servant. I should be very glad if he would let you stay, but
you will be wanted at home. You are a great lady there.”

“Oh, lady, if you knew what it was like! But you can’t dream of it.
Why, if you had been my father’s wife when the Lord Harold was lost,
do you think he would have taken you by the hand and spoken
compassionately to you, as the Lord Glafko did? No, he would have
beaten you till the blood came, for your carelessness in allowing the
child to be lost.”

Zoe sat aghast. “Well, it would certainly have been a warning against
carelessness in future,” she said, trying to laugh.

“There, my lady! you see what it is like. And I have seen now what it
is like in Europe, where ‘men do not strike women,’ as the Lord Glafko
said. How can I go back to it? Before I left Strio I knew of nothing
better, but now that I have seen the Prince, and the Lord Glafko,
and--and Milordo, and know how they treat women----”

“My poor girl, I see how hard it is for you, and I will do what I can.
But I am afraid your brother is determined. Now go, and--and Linton
had better help you to pack, in case----”

Zoe felt herself perfectly inhuman as Danaë turned great eyes of
reproach upon her, but she durst make no promises. When her husband
came in, she turned to him eagerly.

“Graham, you won’t mind if I try to persuade Prince Romanos to leave
that poor girl with us? It is a miserable prospect for her to be sent
back to Strio.”

“I shan’t object, but I doubt if you’ll get him to do it. And what
have you in view for her exactly? Armitage doesn’t seem to come up to
the scratch.”

“No, how could he? It must be a dreadful shock to find that a girl you
have admired so much is practically a murderess. But I wish he would!
It would be all right then. He could go away for a year’s cruise, and
I would take her thoroughly in hand. He wouldn’t know her when he came
back, and it would be so splendid introducing them!”

“But you don’t think he might prefer to do the training and watch the
transformation for himself?”

“Of course he might, but it’s the dramatic effect I am thinking of.
But I am afraid he has received too great a shock to want to have
anything to do with her. And the Christodoridi are not a family that
one would exactly choose to be connected with.”

“That depends on your moral character. If you prefer a family that’s
bound to come up on top every time, you couldn’t do better. Witness
Romanos retiring triumphant from here with his attendant Professor!”

“Oh, you went on with your business, then. What has he got?”

“Freedom from pressure for the moment, and the prospect of
establishing his dynasty permanently, which is what he cares about.
His railway muddle he conveniently shoves off on our shoulders.
Maurice consents to finance the proposed line between here and Therma,
as the only way of keeping the port free, and retains the right of
constructing a future extension from here through Illyria to the
Adriatic, which may become very important. But Pannonia must be given
the chance of continuing her line through the Debatable Land as far as
this place, and we must square Scythia by letting her build one from
Przlepka to Karajevo in Thracia.”

Zoe was silent a moment, making mental maps of the proposed changes.
“Perhaps they’ll refuse,” she said.

“I only wish they might, but they are too keen. They’ll both trust to
getting control of our part of the line in time. And it will be one
unceasing fight on our part to keep them out. Romanos doesn’t care,
having secured his heir and avoided a European scandal, and found a
way of slipping out of the partial promises he made to both Scythia
and Pannonia.”

“And he does nothing in return?”

“Oh yes; he makes us guardians to little Janni.”

“I should have thought that was only another obligation. Do you mean
regents in case anything happens to him?”

“No, he has sense enough to perceive that the child would never be
accepted as High Commissioner either by the Powers or the people. It
would be a case of Maurice or a return into the Young Roumi fold. But
it is a handsome acknowledgment beforehand that if he comes to a
violent end he believes we had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, if that’s all, I think he ought to be in a superlatively good
temper this evening. I begin to have hopes.”

But when Zoe seized an opportunity after dinner of pressing her wishes
upon Prince Romanos, she was disappointed. He was firm in his
resolution to send his sister back to Strio.

“But not with that accusation hanging over her?” said Zoe. “If it was
so, I should refuse to let her go.”

“No,” he said reluctantly; “she well deserves it, but the result would
probably be to disgrace the family still further. The best thing for
her will be to retire into her original obscurity, and be forgotten
here.”

“But if you would only let me have her to train! She has such fine
qualities, and she is so beautiful----”

“She is a beautiful savage, Princess, like all our women in Strio.
They are no more fitted for freedom than an Arabian or Persian woman
suddenly taken from the harem. Am I to let loose on Europe a being
with the morals of the Dark Ages and the face and form of a goddess?
Who could cope with her? In Strio we know what to do.”

“She dreads it so much,” urged Zoe; but as his face showed pleasure
rather than sympathy, she tried another argument, which it ashamed her
to have to use. “I really think she would be sure to marry well if she
stayed here. Lord Armitage was very much struck----”

“I have too much kindness for my old comrade Lord Armitage, or any
other civilised man, to inflict her upon him,” he said, after a pause
of consideration. “One of her own people, with old-fashioned views and
a heavy hand, is the appropriate husband for her, and I shall make it
my business to see that she is married quickly.”

“It sounded to me as though he would have liked Lord Armitage, with
his money and his beautiful new yacht, very much as a brother-in-law,”
said Zoe, when she was reporting her failure to her husband
afterwards, “but he liked revenge better. I couldn’t help wondering
whether part of his anger came from the way she gave him away about
the Girdle of Isidora.”

“Princess Eirene is certainly not going the way to help him to forget
his loss. Was it really necessary to wear it so conspicuously the very
first night?”

“I believe she can’t bear to lay it down. And didn’t she look
happy--quite young and blooming? I saw poor Maurice stealing puzzled
glances at her every now and then. You know, she really thinks to-day
is going to be the turning-point, that Prince Romanos will decrease
and we shall increase. She is almost as superstitious in her way as
Kalliopé in hers.”

“Ah, that unfortunate girl! So Armitage didn’t rise to the occasion?”

“No,” very dolefully. “Oh, I quite see how much wiser and more prudent
he is to remain silent, what a mistake it would be for him to fetter
himself with a totally unsuitable wife, but I wish--oh, I wish that he
had come forward! It would have been so chivalrous.”

“So utterly foolish. Well, we can hardly----”

“No, he has sighed as a lover--perhaps not even that--sighed as an
admirer and submitted as a peer of the realm,” said Zoe flippantly. “I
am just going to peep at the babies before I go to bed.”

In the nursery Linton, with spectacles on nose, was busily engaged
upon a cloth gown of Zoe’s, which she had evidently been renovating
and altering.

“I couldn’t bear to let that poor girl go without some little thing to
show there was no ill-feeling, ma’am,” she whispered hoarsely. “She
has been crying in bed fit to break your heart, and I thought it might
comfort her a bit if we let her go off in European clothes. There’s
this dress of yours that the Master can’t bear the colour of, as good
as new, and she’ll look a real lady in it, now that I’ve altered it to
fit her.”

“Thank you, Linton; it’s very good of you to think of it,” said Zoe,
in a depressed voice. “How we shall miss her and Janni, shan’t we?
Poor things! how I wish the Prince would leave them with us.”

“I’m sure I never thought to be sorry when they went--” Linton took
off her spectacles and wiped them resentfully--“but there! you never
know, as they say.”

Zoe looked in at the two children in their cribs, bade Linton
good-night, and went out. At the door a white figure with long black
hair was waiting for her.

“Lady--oh, lady mine, will he let me stay?”

“I am so sorry, Kalliopé. I tried all I could, but he would not
listen.”

The girl wrung her hands wildly. “And last night--only last night,
lady--I was so happy!”




 CHAPTER XIX.
 _PATRIA POTESTAS._

Danaë was not to be allowed any mitigation of her hard fate; even
the alleviations devised for her by her friends were forbidden. When
her brother saw her in the European dress, he sent her promptly back
to change it, and she travelled in his train not as his sister, but as
Janni’s nurse. For her own purposes she had chosen to leave Strio as a
nurse-girl, and as a nurse-girl she should return thither. Her brother
refused to own her. Petros, who was discovered at Therma, hanging
about the Palace in a state of considerable embarrassment not unmixed
with apprehension, since he did not know what his master had heard or
what he would do, found himself treated as the person responsible for
her misdoings. The very morning after her arrival, as soon as a
respectable elderly woman had been installed to look after Janni,
Danaë was summoned to the Prince’s private room, and confronted with
her alleged uncle, who was evidently extremely uncomfortable, and
rather inclined to bluster. Some coins lay on the table.

“I won’t take them!” Petros was asseverating. “You will accuse me of
stealing next. I know you, my Prince.”

“Take your wages, girl,” said Prince Romanos coldly to his sister.
“You will be expected to bring back something to add to your
_proïka_ [dowry] when you return from your situation. You had better
take your niece back to Strio at once,” he added to Petros. “Your
passages are taken, and her luggage will be sent on board.”

“But am I to go at once, lord?” Danaë ventured to ask.

“You will go straight from this room to the quay. And tell the girl’s
father from me,” again he addressed Petros, “that he will do well to
find her a husband at once, before she brings further disgrace on his
house. And you may warn the husband to look well after her.”

Flame flashed from Danaë’s eyes at the words and the obvious glee
with which Petros received them--for was not his master ranging him
with himself against the Despot and the Lady Danaë?--but it was
quenched by a sudden rush of tears. “O my Prince, you will let me bid
farewell to the little lord?” she faltered.

“No,” said Prince Romanos curtly. “I wish you had never come near him.
I wish I had never set eyes on you!” he cried passionately. “I wish
Strio and all upon it had been sunk in the depths of the sea a year
ago, before you were inspired by the devil--” Danaë shivered at this
plain speaking instead of the usual periphrasis--“to come and turn my
life into a wilderness! To see you touch the child whose mother you
murdered is an abomination; I will not hear of it. Go back to your
accursed island, and may the fates repay to you and your accomplices
the measure you meted out to the innocent! As for you, dog--” he
turned suddenly on Petros, whose discomfiture on finding himself the
object of his master’s attention was very marked--“you cozened me out
of a pardon, I believe?”

“I had your promise, my Prince,” responded the delinquent, with an
involuntary grin, partly due to nervousness.

“And you tried to place me under an obligation to you by stealing the
Lord Glafko’s son?”

“Why, lord, you were always lamenting that you had no way of bending
the Lord Theophanis to your will, and when the chance offered I
thought I would give you one.”

“Unless your Pannonian friends held out the hope of better terms, I
suppose. Well, you are returning to Strio, and my advice to you
is--stay there. Many years to you!”

“My Prince would soon want me back again. I make my bow to you, lord,”
said Petros smilingly, but when he found himself outside the room with
Danaë, his assurance wavered. “I have the promise, but I wonder
whether the Lord Romanos is to be trusted to keep it? What do you
think, lady?”

“You are pardoned for killing Despina, not the Lady,” said Danaë
impatiently. “If I were you I would take the advice given me. If you
return to Therma, the Lord Romanos may hold himself quit of his
promise.”

“Why, then, it will be a case of who strikes first,” said Petros, his
swagger returning. “On the whole, I think I have got off pretty
lightly, considering you were foolish enough to let everything out,
Eurynomé my girl. I don’t quite know what I thought would be the end
of it all, but I certainly never expected to be taking you back to
Strio in this way, like damaged goods. And the message to the Despot!
Well, you will bear me out that I was charged to deliver it.”

Danaë made no answer as she followed him gloomily through the Palace
gate. It seemed as though all the odium due to the other conspirators,
who were so placed that they could not be touched, had heaped itself
on her. In the softened state of mind which had been the result of her
last conversation with Zoe, she had hoped her brother would allow her
to attend, as a sort of expiation, the imposing religious ceremony of
the translation of Donna Olimpia’s remains from their temporary
resting-place to the principal church in Therma. But no, whatever
favour might perforce be shown to Petros, she was to receive none.
Nothing proved this more clearly than the prohibition to say good-bye
to Janni, who would now be wailing his little heart out for his Nono.
And the cruel message to her father! What could be the outcome but
such a marriage as would justify ten times the dread with which she
had looked forward to her return home?

The sea was no kinder to Danaë than the land, and the unpleasant
experiences of her voyage to Therma were even intensified on her
return--the sole comfort being the greater deference which infused
itself gradually into the manner of Petros. From Tortolana onwards he
took his proper place as the confidential servant who had been
entrusted with the duty of bringing his young mistress home from
school, and Danaë’s European luggage aroused much interest, though
she disappointed all observers by not wearing Frank clothes.
Reluctantly she set foot on the soil of Strio, and climbed the steep
street between the white houses. To the islanders she seemed a
stranger, and they seemed strangers to her. It was less than a year
since she had left home, and yet most of the pretty girls who had
roamed over the roofs with her seemed to be already transformed into
blowzy matrons. The people looked after her curiously as she passed,
noting the atmosphere of detachment which appeared to surround her,
and wondering how the Despot would like the result of his experiment.
It was the same when she reached the fortress, to find her mother,
hastily awakened, regarding her with apprehensive, faintly hostile
eyes, and Angeliké frankly of opinion that if she must come back at
all, she need not have timed her arrival precisely at this juncture.

For the desire of Angeliké’s heart was in sight, and her betrothal to
Narkissos Smaragdopoulos, the son of the chief man of Tortolana,
within measurable distance. The old woman who was the recognised
intermediary in such affairs among the aristocratic families of the
group had voyaged from Strio to Tortolana, and informed Kyrios
Smaragdopoulos that Prince Christodoridi might be brought to look
favourably upon his son as his daughter’s bridegroom. The prudent
father, after polite disparagement of the honour done him, made the
regulation inquiry as to the amount of the bride’s dowry, and since
then old Aristomaché had travelled backwards and forwards, on
haggling intent. Over the last thousand drachmæ in dispute the
projected match nearly came to shipwreck, but the contending parties
had consented to split the difference, and the stalwart Narkissos was
now a recognised suitor. Under his father’s wing, he had paid two or
three state calls on Prince Christodoridi, in which the subject of the
marriage was never mentioned, and Angeliké, demurely handing round
the coffee, never addressed, but it was understood that everything was
going on most propitiously.

“It really is very unfortunate that you should have come back just
now,” lamented Angeliké as she and her sister knelt at their window
that evening, with their arms upon the broad stone sill.

“I shouldn’t have come if I could have helped it,” snapped Danaë.

“Well, I wish you had managed better. I have had such trouble with our
father about settling the betrothal, and all because of you. First he
said that he would be disgraced if his younger daughter was married
first, and then when I said that our brother was sure to find a
husband for you, or if he didn’t, at any rate we could say he had, he
said he had promised you not to let me be married before you. Of
course I pointed out to him that we might be betrothed for ages before
being married, and I do wish you could have kept away until the rings
had been blessed. When we had exchanged them, I should have felt
safe.”

“I believe,” said Danaë slowly, “that you are afraid of my stealing
your dear Narkissos. You needn’t be.”

“I’m not,” said Angeliké sharply. “I know what he thinks of you. Oh,
not that time long ago, when you spilt the coffee over him. He saw you
in Tortolana yesterday, and he thinks you look quite old.”

“How do you know what he thinks? Does he write to you?”

“Do you imagine I’m going to tell you? Of course he doesn’t write.
What good would a letter be to me? But we have ways of knowing about
each other, and a good thing too. So don’t flatter yourself----”

“I tell you I don’t want him. I wouldn’t marry him if he would take me
without a drachma. I don’t want to marry anybody. I should like to
die.”

“That’s because you have nobody to marry you,” said Angeliké smartly.
“I have felt like that myself towards the end of the Great Fast. But
not now--any more than at Easter. Danaë, _what did you do_?”

“Do--at Easter?” Danaë was puzzled.

“No, at Therma. Petros told our father that there was an English lord
who would have married you, but when he heard all about you he drew
back.”

“It is not true! There was never anything of the sort!” cried Danaë
hotly. “How did you hear?”

“Oh, I listened,” said Angeliké, as calmly as Danaë herself would
have made the same confession a year ago. “You were to have a husband
found for you soon, lest you should disgrace the family.”

“It is the family that disgraces me!” cried Danaë furiously. “Since
Milordo heard that I was of the Christodoridi, he has spoken no word
to me.”

“Then there was something in it?” asked Angeliké greedily. “Tell me
about Milordo, and I will tell you what Petros said about him.” For
Petros had learnt from the comrade who had attended Prince Romanos to
Klaustra some things that had happened, and a good many that had not,
and had superimposed his own interpretation upon both. But Danaë knew
the worth of Angeliké’s sympathy of old, and was not to be drawn.

“Milordo is rich and great, and will marry some beautiful European
lady of wealth and high birth,” she said drearily. “He made a picture
of me, that was all.”

“In European dress?” asked Angeliké eagerly.

“No, just these old things. He did not know who I was.”

Angeliké was puzzled. Danaë did not seem even to care to know how
Petros had calumniated her to her father--a recital from which she had
promised herself a pleasant excitement. Already her shrewd mind had
discovered various discrepancies in the published accounts of her
sister’s sojourn on the mainland. Contrary to his declared intention,
Prince Christodoridi had sent his elder daughter to school, but
coaxing and questioning alike had failed to draw from him the name of
the school or its teacher. She had continued to wear her native
costume, when everyone knew that all schools that were worth anything
insisted upon European dress, and she had in some way come into
contact with the English impostors who called themselves Theophanis.
Moreover, she had incurred the wrath of Prince Romanos, and had been
sent home by him with a message that was positively insulting to his
father, and she was spiritless and miserable, and seemed to shrink
from all her old associations. Angeliké felt herself challenged to
discover the truth, the means of learning which, so she decided, must
be contained in the large trunk Danaë had brought back with her. She
did not offer to unpack it, never went to it when anyone else was by,
never left it unlocked, and produced nothing from it but such clothes
as she had worn before she went away. For days Angeliké watched and
pried, until she discovered that the key was concealed in her sister’s
hair, a tress of which secured the handle. That night the tress was
dexterously snipped off, and the key removed.

When Danaë woke in the morning, and discovered her loss, her anxious
misery would have moved any heart less hard than her sister’s. She
said little, after Angeliké had, with a brazen face, disclaimed all
knowledge of the key, for she durst not show the importance she
attached to her box and its contents, but she went about searching
unavailingly. Angeliké’s favourite hiding-places, known of old, were
all visited, for Danaë had not the slightest faith in her denial, but
it was clear that the key could only be wrested from her by a personal
struggle, such as Danaë had learnt to detest. It was indeed the irony
of fate that had transformed the unruly barbarian of Klaustra into the
unappreciated reformer of Strio, but the surroundings of her present
life had taken on quite a new appearance to her. She experienced now
something of the same despair that her own untruthfulness had caused
in Zoe; she could trust no one, there was not a creature whose word
could be accepted.

Wearily Danaë mounted the stairs to the room she shared with her
sister, and stood transfixed as she opened the door. There was
Angeliké peacocking about in Zoe’s myrtle-green gown. The skirt was
put on back in front, and the coat cruelly strained to make it meet
over her plump chest, but she was trailing hither and thither and
admiring herself just as Danaë had done in Linton’s clothes. The
recollection did not occur at the moment, however, nor would the
effect have been a softening one if it had. Training and recent
sorrowful musings were alike forgotten, and Danaë rushed at her
sister and fairly tore the green gown from her. Her face was so white
with rage, and she seemed endued with such irresistible strength, that
Angeliké, not usually a coward, made no attempt to protest, and only
whimpered feebly when a final push sent her violently against the
wall. Half-awed, half-angry, she watched while Danaë gathered up
tenderly the desecrated garment, and laying it on the bed, began to
smooth it out and fold it as Linton had taught her. A hot tear dropped
on the cloth, and she wiped it carefully away, then fetched a needle
and cotton, and in the same furious silence sewed on a button or two
which had been loosened by Angeliké’s rough handling.

Angeliké’s versatile mind did not retain impressions very long, and
her anger was soon succeeded by an overpowering curiosity. Approaching
her sister meekly, with a wary eye open for possibilities of danger,
she addressed her in a conciliatory voice.

“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 next _panegyris_ [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.




 CHAPTER XX.
 GREEK AND GREEK.

It was 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--a
_pamporaki_!” [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 a _pamporaki_ twice--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,
the _symphonia_ [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!”




 CHAPTER XXI.
 MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE.

Prince Christodoridi sat 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.




 CHAPTER XXII.
 _IN FORMÂ PAUPERIS._

Parthenios Chalkiadi and 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.”

“Yes, come, lord,” said the old man hastily. “Your boat will be at the
quay at nine o’clock, but you will take a little supper with me
first.”

“My daughter’s bridegroom will sup here,” said Prince Christodoridi,
but Armitage shook his head.

“I take no food under this roof until my wedding-feast, lord,” he
replied, and for once Prince Christodoridi’s fierce eyes sank abashed.
His hospitality had been slighted, and he could not resent it.
Armitage bade good-night to him and to his friends with marked
formality, and took the arm of Kyrios Parthenios as they went out of
the gate. “There are some things that are too much for flesh and
blood,” he said. “The Despot has treated that poor girl and me
infamously, and I won’t break bread in his house until I can do it
with her.”

“You have indeed been hardly used, friend, yet for my goddaughter’s
sake I could wish you had taken the cue I gave you. I would most
heartily have supported you in standing out for a dowry, for when it
is known that she was married without one, it will give grievous
occasion to evil tongues to----”

“But it mustn’t become known!” cried Armitage. “Oh, hang it! this will
never do. You must put me up to every possible mark of honour I can
show her, so that no one may ever guess.”

The peacemaker’s brow cleared. “Indeed, friend Milordo, I should have
known that your heart was as noble as your name. If the usual presents
are given----”

“Yes, of course. There is a silk gown for the wedding, isn’t there?”

“That is very important. And if you were disposed to be munificent, I
know of a piece of silk the like of which I have rarely seen in all my
voyages. The man who owns it fears to offer it for sale, lest the
Despot should force him to accept a price lower than what he gave for
it, but I can settle the matter with him in secret.”

“Secure it for me to-night if you can. And the bride’s mother ought to
have something handsome, I believe?”

“Ah, lord, Kyria Xantippe would kiss your feet if you gave her a gold
watch! The young man Narkissos brought her a chain, but she has
nothing to wear at the end of it.”

“She shall have the best that can be got at such short notice. And if
there is anything else you think of--presents for Danaë’s nurse, or
the servants, or anyone--get it, and send the bill to me. Now, in
return, will you find me a chance of seeing my bride alone?”

“Before the wedding? It is impossible, lord!”

“It may be, theoretically, but I am certain that the other sister and
her betrothed don’t find it so in practice.”

“Oh, one knows that the rules are not always strictly kept,” confessed
Parthenios unwillingly. “But you and Lady Danaë are not even
betrothed, lord! For the sake of the unfortunate girl herself, make no
further attempt to see her at present. Have you not done harm enough
yet--though I trust we may manage to avert a scandal?”

This appeal put things in a new light to Armitage, but it must be
confessed that it did not keep him from trying to effect his object by
enlisting Narkissos on his side. Influenced by fellow-feeling,
Narkissos accepted the office of sounding Angeliké as to the
possibility of bringing Danaë to speak to her suitor for five
minutes, and did his part faithfully. Angeliké received the
suggestion dubiously, but promised to lay it before her sister, and
returned to announce with great severity of manner that Danaë was
shocked by the request, and could not dream of acceding to it.
Armitage was perplexed at first, but the scene in the dungeon had
implanted a certain doubt of Angeliké in his mind, and he reflected
sagely that it was quite possible his entreaty had never gone beyond
her.

Great was the excitement in Strio on the wedding-day of the Despot’s
two daughters. It detracted a little from the interest of the occasion
that both the bridegrooms should be foreigners, for to the stern local
patriotism of the islanders Tortolana seemed little nearer than
England, but the alliances were so infinitely superior to any the
island itself could have offered that regret was stifled. Narkissos,
sniffing delicately at a bunch of basil, followed by his train of
gaily dressed friends, would naturally have been the favourite, but
Armitage, determined to do all possible honour to his bride, brought
with him an escort of armed sailors from the yacht, whose smart
appearance worked havoc with the hearts of the female population. So,
too, Danaë easily carried off the honours as the better behaved of
the brides. Custom demanded that she should appear absolutely
miserable in the prospect of leaving her childhood’s home, and she
embodied the ideal so faithfully that Armitage started when he saw
her.

“At this rate I shall never need to hire a model for Tragedy,” he said
dolefully to himself, having caught Princess Christodoridi’s proud
whisper to a newly arrived matron that Danaë had eaten nothing either
that day or the day before. Her hand was cold and listless when the
rings were exchanged in the betrothal ceremony, and when she retired
to put on the gown he had sent her in preparation for the actual
marriage service, there was not a sign of triumph in her face, though
she returned wearing a silk which turned every woman in the room pale
with envy. Angeliké was wearing the coveted blue and citron stripes,
but Danaë’s gown was crimson shot with gold, with fleeting glimpses
of blue and straw-colour, green and purple, as she moved. It was the
richest silk that had ever been seen in Strio, and Angeliké’s looked
poor and colourless beside it. But Angeliké and her bridegroom took
their part in the service with the utmost zest, going through the
crowning and the feeding with bread dipped in wine, the running round
the altar and the pelting with sweets, as if it was a highly enjoyable
game, which was entirely contrary to etiquette, but awoke a
sympathetic chord in the bystanders. While she and Narkissos were
being kissed, generally on the artificial flowers of their wreaths, by
as many friends as could get near them, and the younger members of the
congregation were scrambling for the sweets, Danaë, finding herself
and her bridegroom for the moment unobserved, turned to him and
addressed him in a tragic whisper.

“Lord, you know I would not have married you if I could have helped
it?”

“I was afraid I couldn’t flatter myself it was otherwise,” he replied
drily. “I hope I don’t look as if I disliked it quite as much as you
do?”

To his delight Danaë lifted her eyes from the floor for the first
time, and looked up at him wonderingly. “Is it possible to appear
happy when the heart is oppressed with misery, lord?”

“I can’t see myself, you know. Don’t you think I am doing it rather
well? entirely for your sake, of course.”

“Will you do something else for me, lord?” She declined to respond to
his opening, and he wondered uneasily whether she thought he had
spoken in earnest.

“To the half of my kingdom, lady.”

“Well, then, let us leave Strio this evening, as soon as they have
brought us to your ship.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping to do, but I have not been able to
get at you to find out whether you would like it or not,” he replied,
rather puzzled.

“Whatever pleases you, lord, must now please me,” replied Danaë with
great meekness, as Parthenios Chalkiadi came up and seized a hand of
each to conduct them to the bridal feast. It was his duty also to
remain and watch over them, to prevent their feeling shy, as he kindly
explained to Armitage, and also to add to the hilarity of the occasion
by exchanging jokes with Angeliké’s godfather, who was chaperoning
her and Narkissos on the next divan. Inexorable custom demanded that
the brides should eat nothing on this, the only public occasion at
which they would sit at meat with their husbands instead of serving
them and the men generally, and they were also forbidden to utter a
word, or even to answer if they were addressed. A demeanour indicative
of extreme woe, and gestures expressing crushed subservience to the
dominion of man, were the correct thing. Having once transgressed,
Danaë refused to do so again by paying the slightest heed to any
remark of Armitage’s, but Kyrios Parthenios was happily able to act as
his mouthpiece, conveying to her not only his commands, but such
viands as she could decorously conceal under her veil, and eat when no
one was looking.

After the feast came the procession down to the harbour, attended by
music and singing, and youths and maidens waving boughs of myrtle. For
the purposes of this wedding the houses of the bridegrooms, to which
their brides ought to have been escorted, were represented by their
respective boats. Danaë, as the elder sister, must of course start
first, and Angeliké, who had eyed her sourly through her veil at the
feast, embraced her affectionately in farewell.

“Your gown is lovely,” she whispered. “With a silk like that, I should
think you hardly mind being married without a dowry, do you?”




 CHAPTER XXIII.
 GUESTS OF HONOUR.

The music and the shouting had died away, and the lights of Strio
were growing dim across the water as the yacht headed for Therma.
Armitage, released at last from the duty of making elaborate and
grateful bows to his parents-in-law, which had claimed him as long as
he was within sight of the shore, heard a meek miserable voice at his
elbow.

“Lord, may I speak to you?”

“I hope you don’t think it necessary to ask me that?” he said, turning
round quickly. “Let us sit down here.”

There were two chairs comfortably placed in a sheltered nook, and he
pulled one forward for her, and arranged the cushions. Danaë took a
precarious seat at the very edge of the chair, and evidently found it
shaky.

“Do you mind if I sit on the ground, lord?” she asked, slipping easily
to the deck. Armitage did mind very much, but took the cushions from
the rejected chair.

“You must let me put these for you, then. I knew it!” to himself, as
she settled herself at his feet, where she could see his face
distinctly, while hers was in shadow. “Now what has my lady to ask of
her servant?” as she clasped her hands together and hesitated.

“Your forgiveness, lord,” was the prompt and unexpected answer. “And
it is not kind to jest with me. Is it not yours to command? Here I am
at your feet, ready to obey, but if your goodness will permit me to
speak----?”

Unreasonably irritated, as he himself felt, Armitage leaned forward
and took her hands. She made an instinctive effort to withdraw them,
but left them passive in his. “My dear Lady Danaë--” he knew it was
absurd to address her thus, but could not for the life of him resolve
to shock her by calling her by name--“please understand once for all
that you have a perfect right to speak to me on any subject you
choose, and that I shall be delighted to hear what you have to say,
and to do what you wish if it is in my power.”

“You are very good, lord.” Danaë’s tone implied that his assurance
was mere politeness, such as she would have expected from him in the
circumstances. “You forgive me, then, for yielding to my father and
mother? Truly, lord, I intended to refuse, knowing that you did not in
truth desire to marry me, but had spoken only to shield me from my
father’s wrath. But my sister said to me, ‘You are always talking
about dying, and now if you don’t marry Milordo you will die, and he
will die too;’ and I knew it was true, and I did not want to die. And
you had said ‘Trust me,’ and I thought you had some plan----”

“So I had,” said Armitage quickly, “but I could not get hold of you to
find out your wishes. I sent you a message----”

“I received none, lord.”

“So I imagined. Well, I thought if you did not desire the marriage, I
would ask Kyrios Chalkiadi to bring you on board and come with us to
Therma, where he could place you under your brother’s protection.”

“He would not have received me. It would have been no use,” she said,
and he read in her tones that she thought the proposal scandalous.
“But ah, lord, it was good of you to think of it!” and to his utter
horror she kissed his hand. He snatched the hand away and rubbed it
involuntarily on his coat, as though to rub the kiss off.

“Forgive me, lord. I did not mean to offend you,” she said, and he
felt as though he had struck a child.

“It’s not that!” he cried incoherently. “My dear girl, you mustn’t
think I don’t like it--I like it very much. But it isn’t the
thing--for a woman to kiss a man’s hand, I mean. It ought to be the
other way about.”

“Not among us, lord,” she replied, gently but firmly. “But I will try
to learn the ways of your people. And this, my offending you when I
desire so much to please you, makes it easier for me to say what I
wished to ask. Since I am now your wife, and it would grieve me to
disgrace you before the great ones of your land, will you grant me a
time in which I may study the things of Europe, and learn to talk
about them?”

“It sounds a good idea,” said Armitage, irresistibly amused by the
businesslike way in which she spoke. “But what exactly would you wish
to study?”

“Lord, I am very ignorant. I can spin and weave and sew and embroider,
and cook--I made all the sweetmeats for the feast to-day--_loukoumi_
and almond-milk and all----” she paused.

“And very good they were,” said the bridegroom heartily.

“But I know nothing of the things European ladies do. I cannot write,
nor read--save a very little--I can speak neither French nor English.
Ah, lord!” she clasped her hands entreatingly, “take me to the Lady
Zoe, and let her teach me. Indeed I will do my best to learn from her,
to learn to be like her. And when you come back in two or three
years----”

“That is quite out of the question,” said Armitage, with great
firmness. “A year at the very outside.”

“As you will, lord. I must learn all the harder. But truly you need
not fear that the Lady Zoe’s kindness will be wasted, as when I was
with her before.”

“That certainly makes the plan more promising,” said Armitage gravely.
“Then when I come back, you promise that you will be exactly like the
Lady Zoe?”

“Yes, lord, as far as I can,” very meekly.

“And you won’t then mind having married me?”

“Mind, lord!” The words and their tone stirred Armitage with a most
unwonted thrill. He caught Danaë’s hand again.

“Danaë, why should we trouble the Lady Zoe? Come on a long cruise
with me, and let me teach you.”

But Danaë knew her own practical mind far too well to encourage such
foolishness. “How could you teach me, lord? I want to become a
European lady for your sake.”

“It’s quite true that I can’t offer to set you the example of that,”
he said, discomfited. “What is it exactly you want to do, then?”

Danaë bent forward, and rested her clasped hands on his knee. “Ah,
lord, as soon as ever we land let me go to Klaustra! The sooner I
begin, the sooner the year will be over,” she added, with an evident
effort at sympathy which would have sounded coquettish in anyone more
sophisticated.

But Armitage replied seriously. “I’m afraid we can’t quite manage
that. We must pay our respects to your brother in passing through
Therma. He would have reason to be very much displeased if we did not,
and he will probably wish us to spend a few days with him.” There was
another reason for delay which he did not care to mention to Danaë.
Experience of the complications which had beset the wedding of Prince
and Princess Theophanis long before warned him that the Greek ceremony
in Strio was almost certainly insufficient to make their own marriage
legal, and he was anxious to consult Prince Romanos and the British
Consul-General on the subject. Prince Christodoridi, to whom he had
endeavoured to broach the question, persisted in regarding his efforts
as an attempt either to back out of his engagement, or to cast a slur
on the ministry of the Orthodox Church, so that he had abandoned them
in despair.

Danaë hung her head. “But, lord--you will pardon me if I speak of
it--there are European ladies at Therma, and I have only Striote
clothes.”

“And I like you best in them, as you know. But don’t be afraid. You
shall get just what you like in the way of clothes. We shall find some
one who will advise you.”

“Ah, lord, you are too good! Do I not know that it is shameful I
should have to ask you for clothes on the very day of our wedding? But
I could not bear that the European ladies should laugh at your wife,
or I would have held my tongue, knowing--knowing----” her voice
failed.

“Now who has been talking to you?” cried Armitage angrily. “No one was
to know anything about it.”

“Lord, it is better I should know. Otherwise how could I have
understood the depth of your goodness to me?”

“Now you really mustn’t,” he expostulated. “It really is not what you
think. I--I am sure your father would gladly have given you a dowry.
It was I who refused it.”

Danaë withdrew her hands from his knee. “I am sorry you thought I
deserved this of you, lord.”

“Oh, you won’t understand!” cried Armitage desperately. “Our customs
are different from yours. With us it is the highest compliment to be
willing to marry a girl without a dowry.”

Danaë’s aggrieved attitude was slightly modified, though her silence
showed that she considered the custom, however honourable to the lady,
likely to be inconvenient in practice. But Armitage was evidently
waiting anxiously for some remark. “I am glad you have told me this,
lord,” she said, in a repressed voice. “But I am also glad that my
sister told me the truth. I might--I might have asked you for money.”

“I hope you would not have had to do that in any case. Of course you
will have your own allowance, which you will spend exactly as you
like.”

She lifted brimming eyes to his face for a moment then, mindful of her
lesson, raised the corner of his coat and pressed it to her lips.
Armitage rose abruptly.

“My dear girl, you mustn’t make so much of the most ordinary things.
I--I hope we shall be very happy together, I’m sure. But I don’t know
that I shall be able to spare you a year at Klaustra; six months
or--or three--is more likely. I shall come now and then to see how you
are getting on, and if I find that the improvement in you justifies
it, don’t you know---- Oh, hang it! why will you make me talk like a
prig?--well, I shall take you away.”

“Yes, lord,” was the meek and sorrowful reply, and Armitage realised
that he was in danger of presenting himself to his bride as a tyrant
depriving her little by little of what she was looking forward to as
the most absolutely blissful period of her life. He spoke hurriedly.

“You must be tired, I am sure. I hope you will find your cabin
comfortable. If there is anything you want, send your maid to row the
steward. If he doesn’t understand, be sure you call to me. Understand
that everything and everyone on board is here entirely for your
convenience.”

For once Danaë was speechless. She seemed to have offended him in
some way, and yet he only loaded her with fresh courtesies. Her
impulse was to cover his hand with kisses, and entreat his forgiveness
afresh, but happily she restrained herself in time. Passing the
lighted deckhouse, she saw something that distracted her attention.

“Surely that was Petros, leaning against the door and talking to your
officer?” she asked, turning on her husband eyes full of dismay.

“Why, yes,” he answered, surprised by her agitation. “It was he who
told Kyrios Chalkiadi where I was, and brought him up to get me out of
the dungeon, you know, and it seems it has made the island too hot to
hold him. So I could hardly refuse him a passage to Therma when he
asked for it, and he wants me to intercede for him with your brother
and get him to take him back.”

“No doubt my brother will listen to you, lord, but I think friend
Petros would be wise if he remained in his own place as he was told,”
said Danaë drily, and Armitage wondered what she meant, and reflected
that he had almost everything to learn about her still.

Prince Romanos justified his brother-in-law’s expectations by
insisting on the bridal pair’s paying him a visit of some weeks when
they reached Therma. It is true that it proved necessary for them to
be married over again at the British Consulate, but it was also true
that they arrived just in the nick of time to afford at once a
much-needed distraction for the inhabitants of Therma, and an
opportunity of showing civility to the foreign representatives. The
arrangements outlined at Klaustra by Professor Panagiotis for getting
the Prince out of his difficulties had not met with all the success
that their ingenuity deserved. Pannonia and Scythia were intensely
dissatisfied with the respective shares assigned to them in the
railway project, and particularly with the fact that the most
important portion of the proposed line, that from Klaustra to Therma,
carrying with it the control of the historic harbour, was withheld
from their hands, though had it been entrusted to either, the sky
would have been rent by the protests of the other. Now they presented
Notes almost daily, sometimes separately and sometimes together,
drawing attention to the totally inadequate fulfilment of the Prince’s
promises, while at the same time the popular orators in the Assembly
were thundering against the surrender of so large a share in Emathian
commerce and communication to the alien and the enemy. Nor was the
dynastic question so easy of settlement as it had appeared. When
Prince Romanos boldly announced at one and the same time his marriage
with the heiress of Maxim Psicha, and the fact that she had been
foully murdered some months before, no amount of splendour lavished
upon her tomb, or of ostentatious provision for Janni as heir to the
throne, could check the torrent of talk and scandal that arose. The
general belief was that, for purposes of his own, the Prince had had
his wife put out of the way--a slander which was not discouraged by
the agents of the aggrieved Powers. Moreover, at the same time that
the people tolerated the marriage because it promised at some future
date to include Illyria within the Emathian boundaries, the Powers
demanded assurances from Prince Romanos that he had no intention of
taking any steps in that direction, so that he was hard put to it to
satisfy their pressing inquiries without fettering himself with
pledges that might prove inconvenient. Therma itself was also in a
disturbed state. A certain low quarter of the city had become
notorious for a series of mysterious murders, the perpetrators of
which invariably escaped. The victims were chiefly foreigners, of such
a class that their respective countries might have been imagined to be
well rid of them, but their fate afforded the means of planting one
more thorn in the pillow of the unhappy ruler of Emathia.

Thus, though it would have been Armitage’s last thought to allow
himself to be used to bolster up the tottering throne of Prince
Romanos, this was the purpose that he and his wife served. Much
against his will, he was obliged to allow himself to be appointed--in
virtue of his yacht and his relationship to the Prince--an honorary
Admiral of the Emathian fleet, which consisted of two or three
steam-launches, intended to prevent smuggling, which they failed most
signally to do. In return, wearing the uniform of his new dignity, he
entertained severally the members of the Assembly, the Consular body,
the heads of the army, and selected burghers of the city, on board the
yacht, and delighted the populace with illuminations and a firework
display. Meanwhile Danaë wore European clothes all day long, had
Janni with her whenever she was not out of doors, and found herself
and her husband the cynosure of every eye and the attraction at every
social gathering they could manage to attend. Armitage’s boyish face
and grey hair made such a piquant contrast with the splendid beauty of
his wife that it only needed the discovery that Lady Armitage was a
child of nature from the islands to send Therma wild about them. The
wife of the new British Consul-General who had succeeded Sir Frank
Francis was herself newly married, and had a soul attuned to romance.
The bride and bridegroom awoke in her a reminiscence of the Saracen
maiden and Gilbert à Becket, and this in turn stirred vague memories
of Pocahontas and the London locality supposed to be named after her.
“_La belle sauvage_--” could anything be more appropriate? Mrs
Wildsmith appreciated her discovery too well to keep it a secret. One
whisper to her dearest friend, the wife of the Pannonian
representative, and the nickname was public property throughout the
foreign colony in Therma. As “la belle sauvage” Danaë was fêted to
her heart’s content, and never dreamed of the truth.

It was no wonder that her head was a little turned, and that the quiet
and hard work of Klaustra began to look less attractive. Prince
Romanos had sent urgent invitations to his Theophanis rivals to be
present at the series of festivities which were to celebrate at once
his sister’s marriage and the anniversary of his own election, and it
would have been natural enough for the Armitages to return with the
Wylies when they went back. But Princess Theophanis was ill, and her
husband would not leave her, so that the visit was postponed for the
present, and Danaë took full advantage of her respite. She learned to
drive quite contentedly in a carriage, which had frightened her
horribly at first, and to endure with equanimity the scandalous
spectacle of men and women dancing together. She never tried to sit at
her husband’s feet or kiss his hand nowadays; instead, she claimed
little services from him, and treated him occasionally with a parade
of indifference which seemed delightfully wicked to herself and
secretly amused him. She ran riot in the matter of clothes. At first
she was content to ask Mrs Wildsmith’s help in selecting the least
startling of the terrible ready-made German monstrosities which filled
the “European” shops of Therma, and to let Armitage design her evening
gowns. But beautiful as these last might be to the artistic eye, they
were not conspicuously _chic_ or “smart,” and these two qualities, as
she was now aware, comprised the whole duty of woman with regard to
dress. At last fortune placed it in her power to gratify her supremest
aspirations after these elusive qualities. Just before a great ball at
the British Consulate, the wife of the Pannonian Consul-General was
obliged to go into slight mourning, and could not wear the gown she
had ordered from Vindobona for the purpose. She showed Danaë the gown
and lamented its cost, and Danaë, too unsophisticated to feel any
delicacy in the matter, promptly offered to buy it. The sum asked
staggered her, accustomed as she was to regard her allowance as
boundless wealth, and in fact it allowed Mme. Melchthal a comfortable
commission, but she paid it, and the coveted garment passed into her
possession.

To say that she created a sensation when she appeared at the ball
would be a mild term. The gown was of vivid emerald-green satin, with
a cuirass of glittering sequins of the same colour. It had long
hanging sleeves of gold gauze, and a fringed golden sash about the
hips. On a plump, fair-haired woman like Mme. Melchthal it would have
looked striking; on Danaë it was melodramatic, almost sinister. She
saw the look of dismay in her husband’s eyes as she took off her
cloak, and it spurred her to shock him still further. For the first
time she tried to dance, which she did as badly as might have been
expected, and having found a partner who spoke Greek, she talked and
laughed--and both her voice and her laugh were louder than
conventional custom prescribes. Prince Romanos, who held strongly to
the opinion that a young dynasty could not be too careful of the
strictness of its etiquette, watched her gloomily, and at length broke
up the gathering at an unprecedentedly early hour by offering her his
arm and leaving the ballroom, followed by Armitage and the suite. On
the way home Danaë sulked undisguisedly. Her magnificent gown, the
wonderful coiffure devised by the new Vindobonese maid who had
superseded the old woman she had brought from Strio--with the strip of
golden gauze twisted in and out of the blue-black locks--was all this
to be wasted on a bare hour’s enjoyment? Arrived at the Palace, her
brother escorted her punctiliously to the suite of rooms allotted to
her and Armitage, and entered for a moment. Pure bravado impelled
Danaë to throw off her cloak and display the offending gown again. To
her intense astonishment, her husband quietly replaced it. Prince
Romanos laughed, not pleasantly.

“You are beginning to see what comes of marrying a beauty of the
harem!” he said. “Well, I did my best to warn you. But I do not
propose to have my family made the laughing-stock of Europe. If you
had been remaining here, Lady Danaë, I should have recommended your
husband to engage for you some elderly lady who would have taught you
to behave with the propriety in which you are totally deficient, but
happily it is not necessary.”

“I wonder you don’t recommend him to beat me,” said Danaë insolently.

“If I thought there was the slightest likelihood of his doing it, you
may be sure I would. But remember, however foolishly indulgent your
husband may be, you owe a debt to me. You have yet to earn your life.
I have the right to claim your services, and if you continue to repay
me by such displays as this----”

“I don’t understand you, Prince,” said Armitage.

“One would think I was Petros,” said Danaë.

“After all, you are not so very different from Petros,” said Prince
Romanos meaningly. “I hope your wife will be in a better mind in the
morning, Lord Armitage. Good-night.”

Armitage escorted him to the door, and came back to find Danaë
sitting with her arms upon the table. “What did he mean?” she asked,
without looking at him.

“I don’t know. Your brother has been rather strange of late. Perhaps
it is just as well that you will not have much opportunity of
irritating him further at present, Danaë.”

“What have you and he been plotting together?” she asked.

He took no notice of the tone. “You will be glad to hear that Glafko
and Princess Zoe will be here in a day or two. They were to leave
Klaustra to-day, and Theophanis will follow them when the Princess is
stronger.”

“You have asked them to come at once!” cried Danaë.

“You have no objection, have you? Purely as a matter of taste,
wouldn’t you yourself rather be like Princess Zoe than Madame
Melchthal?”

“You want to shut me up where I shall see nobody!”

“But surely going to Klaustra was your own idea? I wrote to Princess
Zoe by your request, but if you would rather not pay the visit just at
present I am sure you will be able to arrange things with her, and we
will go for a cruise first.”

“But you have made this new arrangement without letting me know. You
are determined to take me away from Therma and all my friends--do you
think I don’t see that? Why didn’t you tell me what you meant to do?
Have I ever disobeyed you?”

“I have never requested you to do anything that you have refused.”
Armitage evaded the point politely. “But as to my wishes----”

“Oh, you are like all husbands!” Danaë caught a twinkle in her
husband’s eye at the suggestion of her vast experience of matrimony,
and qualified her words hastily. “Dearest Koralie says they are all
alike--grumbling if one gets a single good gown. Now if this”--she
flung out her train--“had cost only a few drachmæ, you would have
been charmed with it.”

“I can’t imagine that I could have disliked it in that case more than
I do now, but I assure you I should have objected to it quite as
much.”

“Yes, and I know why. Husbands are all like that--sweetest Koralie
says--they are angry and make a fuss at once if anyone even looks at
you.”

“Then I think I have shown remarkable self-control this evening,” said
Armitage imperturbably.

“I suppose you will tell me next that you don’t want to see me smart
and _chic_ and European?” There were tears in Danaë’s voice as she
sprang up and displayed her stately figure in all its bravery, but her
husband remained irresponsive.

“You can hardly expect me to prefer you as you are now to the girl who
sat on deck with me on the night of our wedding?”

This was the climax. She could not succeed in making him angry, but
such a proof of irremediable bad taste destroyed the last remnants of
Danaë’s temper. She snatched up a large pair of scissors from the
table--she had been cutting pictures from a Vindobona fashion-paper
before going to dress for the ball--and deliberately slashed a long
jagged rent in the front of the green satin skirt.

“Now I hope you are pleased!” she cried. “I can never wear it again!”
and bursting into stormy sobs she rushed away and into her own room.
Ordering her maid out in a voice which made the insulted menial vow
mutely to give notice at the first moment when her mistress looked
less capable of stabbing her on the spot, she slammed and locked the
door, and throwing herself on the bed, sobbed and raged half the
night.




 CHAPTER XXIV.
 THE TALLY.

Passing in the morning through the room which had been the scene of
the quarrel of the night before, Armitage saw what looked like a heap
of many-coloured silk on one of the lounges. Coming closer, he found
that it was Danaë, fast asleep, and as he paused near her she woke.

“I was waiting for you, and I fell asleep,” she said, looking at him
in a dazed way. Then she recollected herself, and slipped suddenly
from the sofa. “Lord, grant me your forgiveness.” She was on her knees
before him, trying to raise his foot and put it on her head, but he
was happily able to prevent this.

“My dear girl, do get up!” he said anxiously. “I am not angry with
you.”

“Then you ought to be,” replied Danaë’s muffled voice. “I shall stay
here until you have forgiven me.”

“I forgive you fully and freely. Let me help you up.” But Danaë had
sprung up without the help of the offered hand, and stood before him,
evidently awaiting comment on her appearance. She was in her Striote
dress again, the long close coat and plain skirt made of the silk he
had sent her for the wedding, the gauze vest above and the embroidered
apron below united by the voluminous girdle, and her hair, no longer
waved and puffed, had returned to its two thick plaits, one
unfortunately still a good deal shorter than the other.

“Lord,” she said softly, “it is the girl who sat at your feet that
night on deck.”

“So I see, and I can’t tell you how glad I am.”

Danaë’s eyes shone. “I gave the Vindobona gown to Toni, and told her
to burn it,” she said proudly.

“She will hardly do that, but I think you may be sure you will never
see it again,” was the dry reply. “And now, what about breakfast? You
know I like you better in that dress than anything, but shall you have
time to change? As we start so early for the review----”

“I am going to wear it all day,” said Danaë decidedly.

“That’s all right for me, but will your brother like it?”

“It is no concern of his. I wear it to punish myself. Unless you would
rather I cut off my hair?”

“I forbid you to lay a finger on it.” He forbore to suggest that it
was not very flattering to him to wear his gift as a punishment. “Come
along, then.”

Danaë tucked her arm in his--an action not at all in keeping with her
dress--and they went merrily to breakfast, Armitage bemoaning his
day’s fate.

“I wish I could have driven with you,” he said, “instead of making a
guy of myself on horseback. I shall look a regular horse-marine--worse
even than Wylie in yachting-clothes. And you will be all alone.”

“I shall take my Jannaki. Think how he will enjoy the soldiers and the
horses! I meant to invite Koralie Melchthal into the carriage with me,
but now I shall have no more to do with her. She gives bad advice.”

“Well, don’t drop her too suddenly, and hurt her feelings,” said
Armitage, amused by the thoroughness of this reformation. “Her husband
may make an international affair of it if you do.”

Breakfast had to be cut short that morning, for a servant came to say
that the Prince was preparing to start. Danaë went with her husband
to the portico to see him mount, and her brother smiled grimly when he
perceived her costume.

“Your husband has known how to punish you after all, I see!” he said.

“Yes, it is my punishment,” said Danaë, looking at him with guileless
eyes. If Armitage would not uphold his own marital dignity, his wife
would do it for him. They rode away, with aides-de-camp and guards,
and Danaë’s carriage, with her own particular escort, drew up. She
was to be attended also by Petros, who had been allowed without much
difficulty to slip back into his old post of confidential servant to
Prince Romanos, and Janni and his nurse would go in the carriage with
her. But here disappointment was awaiting her, for the nurse, an
autocrat whom Danaë, greatly to her disgust, was forced to conciliate
at every turn, sent down a message to say that Prince John had a bad
cold this morning, and it would not be safe for him to drive in an
open carriage. A little earlier Danaë would have gone straight to the
nursery and fetched away her nephew by force, but she was beginning to
understand now the relative importance of herself and the nurse in the
household, and submitted to the fiat. Petros came forward to help her
into the carriage, and as he did so, muttered a few words.

“There was another of those murders in the city last night, my lady.”

Danaë paused with her foot on the step. “But what has that to do with
me?” she asked.

“How can I tell, lady? Only, when the news was brought to the Lord
Romanos this morning, he unlocked his private desk and took out a
paper, and crossed out something that was written upon it. I had seen
him do the same the last time, so to-day I placed myself where I could
see the paper. There were a number of short lines of writing upon it,
all crossed out but two, and one of these was at the foot of the
paper, away from the rest.”

“Well?” said Danaë impatiently.

“Lady mine, those who have died in this way were all members of the
band whose help I hired in the matter of the death of the Lady. He who
died last night was the last of them save myself.”

“I can’t imagine what you are driving at, friend Petraki!” said
Danaë.

“So be it, lady. But what if the two names still on the paper are
yours and mine? And why should yours be written separately from mine
and placed by itself?”

“I really have not the slightest idea,” said Danaë, her patience at
an end. “You were never satisfied until the Lord Romanos took you back
into his service, though he warned you not to return, and now I
suppose you mean that he is trying to murder you. If he intended your
death, would he leave himself in your power night and day?”

Petros retired muttering, and climbed to his seat on the box of the
carriage. For the moment Danaë was fully occupied with kissing her
hand to the forsaken Janni at his nursery window, but when he was out
of sight the hints of Petros returned to her mind with unpleasant
significance, fitting in as they did with her brother’s words of the
night before. Had she earned her life, or not? and if she had not,
what further service might Prince Romanos demand of her as its price
in the future? But her carriage and escort swept gallantly into the
great parade-ground, bright with colours and uniforms, and all dark
forebodings were put to flight for the moment. Her station was just
behind the saluting-point, at which her husband and brother had
already taken their places, and to right and left of her extended a
long crescent of other carriages, containing on the one side the
foreign representatives, and on the other the Emathian Government
officials and their wives. Nearest of the latter was an unpretentious
victoria conveying Professor and Madame Panagiotis. Though the
Professor held no office in the ministry, yet his long efforts to
achieve the independence of Emathia, and the varied diplomatic
experience they had entailed, made him unofficial adviser-in-chief to
every Emathian government, and mainstay of the throne. On the other
side Koralie Melchthal’s carriage was the nearest. It was clear that
she interpreted the meaning of Danaë’s costume as Prince Romanos had
done, for she bent forward with her eyebrows raised and her lips
pursed in an expression of intensest sympathy with a fellow-sufferer
under the tyranny of unreasonable man. It afforded her ungrateful
friend considerable pleasure to repay her with the coolest bow at her
command.

The review was a splendid sight to Danaë, though the representatives
of the great military Powers regarded it as of little more importance
than a battle of toy soldiers. Emathia was in process of educating her
own officers, but at present she was obliged to rely on foreigners and
on Emathians who had served in other armies. A body of Wylie’s police
from Klaustra were received with much approval by the experts, and
Danaë gathered that their workmanlike equipment was considered better
value for the money spent than the more elaborate uniforms of the
regular troops. But the latter made unquestionably the more showy
figure on the parade-ground, and Prince Romanos himself was a gallant
sight as he took the salute. Armitage, on horseback in his admiral’s
uniform, afforded an unpremeditated touch of comedy that caused the
foreign representatives the keenest pleasure, and everyone was asking
why he had not mounted the yacht’s crew and brought them to add to the
apparent strength of the Emathian forces.

Just recently Prince Romanos had devised an improvement in artillery
transport, and the new method and the old were to be shown in
juxtaposition, that the connoisseurs might give their opinion.
Gun-carriages, limbers and waggons were careering about the
parade-ground, apparently bent upon mutual destruction and evading it
only by a series of miracles, when the Prince called up Petros, who
was waiting close behind him, and entrusted him with a message to an
officer at the opposite side of the ground. Petros measured the
distance across with his eye, and hesitated.

“What!” cried his master loudly. “Afraid of being run over, most
valiant Petros? Must I seek another messenger?”

The aides-de-camp pressed forward eagerly, but Prince Romanos waited,
with his eyes fixed on Petros. “I really think you had better not take
it, friend Petraki,” he said, in a tone of good-humoured raillery.
“You will fall through sheer fright, and blame me for your
misfortunes.” Petros gave him a glance of helpless hatred, like that
of a savage animal in a trap, and fairly tore the paper from his hand,
then started to run across the ground. The incident had attracted
attention, and all eyes were fixed upon him as he ran. He held on
until he was about halfway across, and then found himself the apparent
goal of four separate teams, racing for him from as many different
directions. He lost his head, turned, and ran back towards his master,
pursued by one of the galloping guns, and welcomed by a shout of
universal laughter. The sound seemed to madden him, and as, with eyes
starting from his head, he reached the saluting-point and clutched the
flagstaff for support, he flung defiance at Prince Romanos.

“That was your intention, then, my Prince--to kill me as you have
killed those others! I know what orders you gave the drivers. There
would have been an accident, and you would be rid of me. But if I go,
you go too.”

Before anyone realised what was in his mind, while all were craning
forward to catch the shouted words, he loosed his hold of the
flagstaff and flung himself at the Prince, his long dagger gleaming in
his hand. There was a moment’s wild confusion. Danaë, standing up in
her carriage and gripping the rail convulsively, heard a pistol-shot,
but did not realise that Petros had fired at her, and that Armitage
had thrown himself between them, until she saw her husband fall. A
fusillade from the revolvers of the aides-de-camp drowned the sound of
a second shot, as the madman turned his pistol upon himself.

All was tumult, as people left their carriages and crowded to the spot
where the aides-de-camp were keeping a space clear round the three
fallen men. Professor Panagiotis was in the midst, and Danaë, seeing
his fine white head towering above the throng, fairly fought her way
through to him. He was giving orders rapidly, but paused to reassure
her.

“Yes, lady, yes; look after your husband while the surgeons are busy
with his Highness. Milordo is not much hurt, and one of the doctors
will be at your service in a moment. Yes, the miscreant is dead.”

An aide-de-camp moved aside, and Danaë was inside the ring. Two or
three surgeons were kneeling round Prince Romanos, and a sailor, one
of the yacht’s crew, who had evidently been among the crowd of
spectators, was supporting Armitage’s head. He spoke little Greek, but
Danaë gathered that he expected her to faint at the sight of blood,
and was trying to assure her that her husband was not dead. But the
daughter of the Christodoridi did not come of a fighting race for
nothing. She examined the wound quite coolly, and to her intense
relief found that though Armitage was unconscious, and had lost a good
deal of blood, the bullet seemed to have grazed rather than penetrated
the skull. With the sailor’s help she tied up the wound roughly, and
then became aware that the crowd was growing less dense. The
aides-de-camp had mounted again, and were riding among the excited
people. “His Highness was not dangerously hurt, but the doctors
considered it advisable that he should return to the Palace at once.
To his great regret, therefore, the review must conclude at this
point.” After this plain intimation the spectators could hardly refuse
to disperse, the foreign representatives setting the example. One of
the surgeons had been prevailed upon by this time to tear himself from
the side of Prince Romanos, and Danaë was helping him to strap up her
husband’s head, when she found herself addressed by the Professor.

“Lady, the doctors think it best to take his Highness to the Palace in
your carriage, rather than wait while another is fetched. It shall
return for you immediately.”

“But let it take Milordo as well!” she cried indignantly.

“It is impossible, lady. Two of the surgeons and I myself must
accompany the Prince. My wife, with her admirable common-sense, has
already driven off to see that everything is prepared for his
Highness’s arrival, or I would have ventured to offer you her
carriage. But you shall be sent for at once.”

The Professor seemed anxious and perturbed, though not unduly so, and
Danaë could not wonder at his preoccupation when she saw her brother
carried past, evidently only half conscious, his white lips murmuring
something about a paper, and his hands wandering on the folds of the
cloak that was thrown over him. But her present concern was entirely
with Armitage, and until his wound had been properly dressed she had
no thought to spare for anyone else. When it was done she looked up to
find the British Consul-General standing beside her. The other foreign
representatives had departed long ago, Herr Melchthal, whose wife was
in violent hysterics, leading the way as senior member of the
diplomatic body, but Mrs Wildsmith was still standing beside her
carriage in the distance.

“My wife asks me to take the liberty of offering you our carriage,
Lady Armitage,” said the Consul.

“She is very good,” said Danaë, “but mine will return in a moment.”

“Then will you permit us to remain with you till it comes?”

“But I am not frightened,” she said, astonished. “The doctor is here,
and the escort.”

“Yes, the escort is here, certainly,” said Mr Wildsmith, in a voice of
so much significance that Danaë looked round. Men and officers were
gathered in little groups, talking eagerly, with no appearance of
being on duty. “I would not trust them overmuch,” he added.

“But what has happened?” cried Danaë.

“Surely it is evident that there must have been a plot of some sort?
The wretched man who attempted the Prince’s life is bound to have had
accomplices----”

“Oh no, there was nothing of that kind. I knew him well. It was a
private grudge. Please don’t let me keep you here. Really I would
rather be left.”

“As you please. But remember that Lord Armitage and yourself, as
British subjects, have a right to protection at the Consulate. If you
find yourselves in danger, night or day, come or send to me at once.”

“You are very kind,” she repeated, in a bewildered voice, as he bowed
and walked away. When the carriage had driven off, she became sensible
of a great loneliness, for the surgeon departed also, to find a
stretcher, as he said. The parade-ground seemed very large, the
talking troopers incredibly distant, Armitage, still senseless at her
feet, might have been in a different world. The sailor, who was still
supporting him, growled something which she understood to be
uncomplimentary to the escort, and the words seemed to clear her
brain. Undoubtedly the cavalry were behaving scandalously, and must be
recalled immediately to a sense of duty, and by her.

“Don’t leave him!” she said to the sailor, and receiving his gruff
assurance, walked across the ravaged grass towards the troopers. As
she neared them, she became aware that there were many more present
than the twenty-five men who had accompanied her from the Palace--two
hundred at least. They must have remained on the ground without orders
when the review abruptly ended, and two or three officers of superior
rank were haranguing group after group. It was too late to retreat
now, and she marched boldly up to the nearest group.

“Have the goodness to detail four of your men to carry my husband to
the Palace at once, Colonel, and a sufficient escort for his
protection,” she said sharply.

The Colonel, a foreigner who in his day had served under many flags,
looked at her with contemptuous amusement. “And who may the lady be
who gives her orders so coolly?” he asked.

“The sister of your Prince,” she answered, the sonorous Greek flowing
clearly from her lips. The soldiers were crowding round them now, and
she had a feeling that events of importance depended upon the duel of
words.

“A fine hostage for us, then!” He swooped from the saddle with
extended arm, in the evident intention of seizing her and carrying her
off. But Danaë had been watching for just such a movement, with the
intuition which had descended to her from many generations born and
bred in the midst of alarms. She swerved swiftly and suddenly, and he
overbalanced himself and came to the ground, to the accompaniment of a
chorus of smothered laughter. The sound thrilled Danaë. These men
were still to be held for her brother, if she could seize the moment.
Before the Colonel could pick himself up, her foot was in his stirrup,
and in some miraculous way she scrambled into the saddle.

“Retire to your quarters, sir, and consider yourself under arrest!”
she gasped to her discomfited antagonist.

“And to whom am I to have the honour of surrendering my sword, lady?”
he asked, with a wink to a colleague.

“To me, sir. The belt as well, if you please. Be good enough to hold
my horse,” to a young officer who chanced to be near her, and then and
there she buckled on her foe’s sword, with the utmost deliberation.
The operation finished to her satisfaction, she looked round at the
ring of curious faces. “Gentlemen, your late Colonel was a traitor. I
will now lead you myself.”

“Long live the lady colonel!” cried the youth who had held her horse,
and who evidently found the new development interesting, and the men
took up the cry with hearty amusement. The late Colonel, as was only
to be expected, was less pleased.

“Oblige me by getting off my horse, lady. This farce has lasted long
enough.” Danaë’s hand stole out behind her towards the helpful youth,
and he grasped her meaning instinctively. The Colonel, with his hand
outstretched to drag her from the saddle, recoiled from the revolver
that almost touched his forehead.

“I should be sorry to end the farce for you on the spot, sir,” said
his supplanter; “but if I am forced---- Dismount one of your men, and
place the late Colonel under guard,” she said to her helper.

“If any man dares to lay a finger on me----!” blustered the Colonel.

“Place the late Colonel under guard,” repeated Danaë inexorably, and
during the undignified rough-and-tumble struggle that ensued she
thought hard, sitting motionless on her horse, like Bellona presiding
over a scene of carnage. When the fight was over, and her predecessor,
in a very damaged condition, was safely secured, she advanced a step.

“Are all here faithful to Prince Romanos and their military oath?” she
asked loudly.

“All of us, lady!” was the cry.

“It is well, for had there been any other traitor, I would have shot
him with my own hand. Lieutenant, be good enough to go to the Arsenal,
and desire the Director in my name to close the gates and not open
them without orders from me. Then go to your own barracks, and bring
me the keys of the magazine and armoury. Do the same at the other
barracks. You will find me at the Palace.”

“Am I to leave you alone, lady?” he asked in a low voice.

Danaë looked round proudly. “I have two hundred swords of my own
regiment to guard me,” she said, so that all could hear, and the
swords leaped from their scabbards to the salute. A grey-haired
sergeant close at hand plucked off his fur cap.

“The Colonel must wear our kalpak,” he said, and Danaë put it on and
fastened the chin-strap. The soldiers shouted with delight, but her
messenger still lingered.

“Would not a written order be safer, my lady?”

“I have not time to write,” said Danaë hastily, unwilling to confess
the deficiencies of her education. “See, take this as a token.” With a
pang she took off her wedding-ring and handed it to him. It was all
she had. With instinctive chivalry he kissed it.

“The regiment is at the feet of the Lady Danaë and her husband,” he
said, and rode away. Danaë surveyed her troops helplessly. They were
all mixed up, and she did not know how to get them straight. With a
sudden inspiration, she turned to the old sergeant. “Sergeant, I must
take Milordo to the Palace at once, but I want the regiment to escort
me--in proper order.”

The expedient succeeded. Two or three hoarse shouts, and the mob
resolved itself into ranks as if by magic. Four men dismounted, and
unrolling their cloaks, made a rough-and-ready litter. Under the
vigorous superintendence of the sailor, Armitage was lifted and placed
on it, and the cavalcade started for the Palace. Before they could
reach it, a carriage with a lady in it appeared, driving to meet them,
and Danaë recognised Madame Panagiotis, who stopped the carriage and
came to speak to her. The Professor’s wife was a German lady of great
propriety, and even at this crisis she managed to get in a glance of
disapproval at Danaë on the Colonel’s saddle before she spoke.

“Lady, you must pardon us for not sending the carriage before, but his
Highness was seized with another violent effusion of blood, and all
our thoughts were for him.”

“But he is not dying?” cried Danaë.

Madame Panagiotis blinked violently. “No, lady, far from it. His
Highness is doing very well. He asked for his son--” why should he
want Janni now? Danaë asked herself stupidly--“and inquired after
your husband. Then he called for a paper from his desk, and displayed
so much excitement that it was thought better to humour him. When it
was brought he seemed satisfied, and consented to rest.”

Then Petros was right, and the paper contained his death-warrant--and
possibly Danaë’s.




 CHAPTER XXV.
 THE MASTER OF THE SITUATION.

The cold eyes fixed upon her recalled Danaë to the present. If her
own brother had doomed her to death for the wrong done in her days of
ignorance, this foreign woman should see no fear in her. She summoned
her innate courage and her acquired politeness to her aid.

“Welcome is the messenger who bears good news!” she said. “Truly,
lady, it was good of you to bring the carriage yourself for my
husband. Now we can take him to the Palace in more comfort.”

She beckoned to the men who were carrying Armitage, but as they
approached the carriage, before she could slip from her saddle, Madame
Panagiotis stopped her.

“Lady, may I entreat you not to dismount? There is work to be done
before you return to the Palace.”

“What work could prevent me from taking care of my husband?” asked
Danaë in astonishment. “You can’t mean that I should keep him here?”

“My husband bade me ask you to leave Milordo to my care, lady, and
save Emathia for your brother.”

Danaë stared at her. “But Emathia is in no danger!”

“We thought it lost until you brought back the cavalry to their
allegiance a few minutes ago, lady. Now it is for you to finish your
work, if you will.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Danaë mechanically, as she watched
the soldiers making Armitage as comfortable as they could in the
carriage. He was regaining a measure of consciousness, for he smiled
faintly as his eyes met hers. Madame Panagiotis laid a firm hand upon
the bridle.

“Lady, you must listen, and you must play the man to-day, since your
husband and brother are both helpless. There is a rising in the city.”

“Against my brother? But who----?”

“Not against your brother, but a report of his death has been spread,
and the forces of disorder see their opportunity. They may be led by
the agents of the Theophanis family; I do not know.”

“That is absurd,” said Danaë with decision. “No one who knows them
could believe it for an instant. There must be foreign treachery at
work.”

“So my husband says, lady, for the danger lies in this, that any
widespread rioting, involving danger to foreign property, will bring
the Powers--and especially Pannonia--down on us at once. Your brother
is prostrate with weakness, and the doctors dare not excite him by
informing him of the rioting. Is he to rise from his sick-bed to find
himself an exile, and his son without a future?”

“No!” cried Danaë. “But what is to be done? Let Professor Panagiotis
come himself and take command. I know nothing of the proper measures.”

“Lady, my husband does not dare leave the Palace. Besides the doctors,
he is the only person admitted to the presence of his Highness. The
mob which is making a demonstration in the Place de l’Europe Unie, and
threatening the government offices, must be dispersed, and the streets
patrolled, and every attempt at a gathering broken up. The duty would
have fallen to Milordo had he been able to undertake it, but now you
are your brother’s representative.”

“And the force at my command?” asked Danaë sharply.

“This regiment, which you have saved for his Highness, as I saw by
means of the Palace telescope. The Klaustra police, since you vouch
for their loyalty. And as a reserve the Guard, but that must be kept
to garrison the Palace unless the necessity elsewhere is
overwhelming.”

“And what support is to be expected?”

“The Ministers and officials will rally round you when they learn that
the news of the Prince’s death is false. At present they are afraid of
becoming marked men if they take any decisive steps. My husband is
preparing two documents for his Highness’s signature at the earliest
possible moment, one constituting you colonel of the cavalry regiment,
the other--to be used only in case of necessity--proclaiming martial
law in the city.”

“It is well. Let him telephone to the various Ministries that if the
mob do not scatter, they will be dispersed by cavalry,” said Danaë
resolutely. Then her eyes fell on Armitage’s white face, and her
courage failed. “Lord,” she said, riding close to the side of the
carriage again, “you hear that they want me to fight for my brother
and Janni, when I would fain be tending you? Must I go?” She spoke in
a low voice.

“Yes--if it is to save Emathia,” he answered feebly.

“I hate the wife of Panagiotis!” was the inconsequent reply. “Lord, if
I must go, give me your wedding-ring. I had to use mine as a token.
There was nothing else.”

Armitage took off the ring, and put it upon the finger she held out.
“If I could go with you I would, but I should only hamper you,” he
said. “But don’t be rash, or I shall come and fetch you.”

There were tears in Danaë’s eyes, but perceiving that this was a
joke, she smiled dutifully and unwillingly. Stooping from the saddle,
she caught up her husband’s hand and kissed it fiercely, then
commended him by a gesture to the care of Madame Panagiotis, and
turned back to her soldiers. The messenger whom she had despatched was
just returning.

“Lady, it is done as you commanded, and here are the keys. But there
is fighting in the city, and no orders have come to the troops or the
police from the Palace.”

“The police have not given way?” cried Danaë in disgust.

“No, lady, but the chief of police fears to act without orders, and is
keeping his men in reserve. His Highness’s hand has always been heavy
on those who acted without his leave, and now it is said that he is
dead.”

“That is not true. He is alive and doing well, and has appointed me to
represent him. What is the fighting about?”

“I know not, lady, and I doubt whether the mob know themselves. Some
are crying one thing and some another, but those who are threatening
the Police Bureau have a red flag, and are calling out for a
revolution.”

“Can you get to the Police Bureau from the back?”

“Yes, my lady; through by-lanes.”

“Then go, and tell the chief of police to march his men into the
thickest of the crowd when we enter from the two opposite corners of
the square. That will separate them and force them down the side
streets.”

She looked round, and saw that her strategy was approved. Only one of
the officers seemed to have something to suggest, and she glanced
towards him.

“The machine-guns, lady?” he ventured.

“To be sure. We will fetch them,” said Danaë, but her troops were
evidently waiting for a word of command. In despair, she turned to the
officer who had spoken, and made a shot--happily a successful one--at
his rank. “Captain, I appoint you my aide-de-camp. You will ride
beside me, if you please, and transmit my words, lest my voice should
not reach the men.”

A smile flitted across one or two faces, but the captain thus honoured
was equal to the occasion. With a perfectly grave face he gave the
necessary order, and they clattered across the parade-ground in the
direction of the cavalry barracks. The machine-guns were secured, and
the force increased by the addition of a number of men who had not
listened to the disloyal suggestions of the former colonel, and who
had been informed by the messenger of the change in the condition of
affairs. The smallest possible guard was left at the barracks, for
Danaë did not underrate the difficulty of the task before her. Above
all things she was anxious to overawe and not to infuriate the mob. A
rising put down by bloodshed would be only less disastrous, as giving
an opening for foreign intervention, than a rising which was
successful, and this was her reason for leaving the streets at the
side of the square open.

From the barracks a messenger had been despatched to the Klaustra
police ordering them to join her, and they came up now, a welcome
reinforcement to her own four troops. A judicious reconnaissance
through the garden of a house deserted by its panic-stricken
inhabitants showed her that the time was ripe for action. The splendid
square was turned into a perfect pandemonium. The new Therma had
contrived to attract to itself an undue proportion of the dregs of
Europe and the Levant, and these seemed to have ranged themselves with
one accord under the banner of revolution. Red flags dotted the
seething, shouting, gesticulating mass of people, and garden-seats and
railings from the trampled flower-beds had been torn up to provide
weapons, though the frequent popping of revolvers and gleam of daggers
showed that the demonstrators had by no means come unarmed to the
place of rendezvous. The lack of unity in the would-be revolutionists
was remarkable. Each flag seemed to mark the position of a separate
orator with a separate panacea for the popular woes, and such fighting
as had yet taken place was merely between the advocates of opposing
remedies. But while Danaë waited for the Klaustra police to come up,
the mob had become more homogeneous, and there was a distinct movement
towards the north end of the square, where the Legislative Chamber,
the Ministry of Justice, and the Police Bureau were situated. Before
rejoining her troops, Danaë cast a glance to either hand. The other
Ministries at the sides of the square were all barricaded and the
inmates of the few private houses had either followed their example or
fled. This particular house had a broad piazza in the front, and here
she took her stand, with one troop and the two machine-gun detachments
as a reserve in the garden below her. The Klaustra police and another
troop of her own men had been sent some little distance down the broad
street which left the square at the two northern corners, with orders
to prevent the mob’s re-forming, and it was now time for the two
remaining troops to enter at the south-east and south-west openings,
and drive their respective wedges into the crowd. Just before they
appeared, the two or three terrified functionaries who had been vainly
endeavouring to pacify the people from the portico of the Ministry of
Justice fled panic-stricken before a shower of stones, and a
handkerchief waved from the roof of the Police Bureau showed Danaë
that her orders had been received and understood. One change she made
in her arrangements at the last moment, even while her squadrons were
entering the square. The two front gates of the garden were thrown
wide open, revealing a quick-firer ready for action posted in each,
with a force of soldiers standing by their horses behind it.

The first effect of the entry of the cavalry upon the scene was
ludicrous rather than impressive. The mob were making so much noise
themselves that they never heard the approach of the soldiers till
they were actually upon them, pressing steadily on, though using only
the flat of their swords, towards the centre of the square. The cries
of dismay from the back had no sooner penetrated to the front of the
crowd than a strong body of mounted police rode out from the courtyard
of the Police Bureau, and the demonstrators showed little desire to
face them. The troops were not in large numbers, and there were three
roads on each side of the square down which flight was possible--who
knew how long it might be so? There were one or two struggles round
the red flags, here and there a soldier was struck by a
revolver-bullet better aimed than its fellows, and fell from his
horse, but his comrades pressed on, and the mob was broken up. That
portion of it which was farthest from the police, at the back of the
square, did indeed, on discovering the smallness of the forces at the
command of law and order, make an attempt at a rush, which would have
overwhelmed the slender line of horsemen, but Danaë flung her reserve
troop upon them boldly, and they also gave way. Riding into the square
with the machine-guns, she accelerated their flight, and meeting the
chief of police, promised him the assistance of troops in keeping the
space clear. But her own duties were not yet over, for while she was
considering how many men she could spare him, two messengers reached
her. One, coming from the Palace by way of the rear of the Police
Bureau, carried the edict proclaiming martial law, which was put aside
for use if necessary, the other brought the news of a mutiny at the
cadet-school. The commandant had succeeded in keeping his pupils from
actually joining the rioters, but they were encouraging them from the
windows and roof, and the mob dispersed from the square was re-forming
before the school.

Danaë was now becoming quite expert in dealing with crowds, and
leaving the square to the police for the present, she led her troops
to the neighbourhood of the cadet-school. This time the mob were
expecting interference. Their nerve was shaken, and the men on the
outskirts were keeping an eye open for the appearance of the soldiers.
When the horses’ heads emerged from the street opposite, and the
troops, in three bodies radiating fanwise, began to ride through the
crowd, all the cheers and reproaches of the rebellious cadets could
not induce them to face the onslaught, while the discharge of the two
quick-firers, though the bullets were judiciously aimed skywards,
drove the young gentlemen pell-mell from their points of vantage. Once
forced from them, they had to face their commandant, but the numbers
within the walls were so equally divided that when Danaë demanded
admittance, the gates were not opened without a considerable scuffle.
The commandant appeared alone, in great disarray, and without any
formal greeting entreated her Highness to retire, and honour the
school with a visit on a more propitious occasion. He could deal with
his rebels himself if he was only let alone. But the situation was too
serious for the risk to be run of supplying the revolutionaries with
trained officers, and an idea had suggested itself to Danaë, based on
the discomforts of her own first voyage from Strio. Reluctantly the
commandant allowed her to enter the place, and proceeded to muster the
cadets at her request. The presence of the cavalry and the
quick-firers stimulated obedience, even on the part of the rebels,
though some of them had to be dragged to the parade by main force, and
others indulged in disloyal cries and insulting remarks. Commanded,
through the aide-de-camp, to separate themselves into supporters and
opponents of the existing _régime_, they complied with some surprise,
and an appeal to the commandant disinterred from the ranks of the
loyalists only one or two whose political opinions had undergone a
quick change since the collapse of the demonstration. With the thirty
or forty recalcitrants ranged before her, Danaë pronounced sentence.
They would proceed at once upon a disciplinary cruise, under the
charge of the deputy-commandant, and would be escorted on board
forthwith by the Klaustra police. The first result of the announcement
was that the commandant presented his resignation on the spot,
indignant that affairs should be taken out of his hands, but he was
induced to withdraw it on being assured that the culprits should be
restored to his jurisdiction the moment the crisis was over. Then
Danaë called up the sailor, who had attached himself to one of the
gun-detachments, and impressed upon him, with endless repetition to
make sure that he understood, a message for the captain of the yacht.
He was to get up steam at once, and sail as soon as he had received
his unwilling passengers on board, and was then to cruise up and down
outside the mouth of the harbour, in the roughest water he could find
within sight of signals from the shore. The sailor grinned broadly
when he understood the significance of the message.

“And are they to be fed, lady?” he asked, in his halting Greek.

“Certainly--if they are hungry,” replied Danaë, without a smile.

“I see, lady. Fat salt pork is what we usually recommend in these
cases.”

“The captain will know what to do better than I,” said Danaë, and
having seen her captives on their way to the quay, rode away,
heartlessly rejoicing that they would think no more of revolution for
the next few hours, at any rate. Her own task was far from being
fulfilled as yet. The infantry barracks had to be visited, and the
temper of the men ascertained, but the result of the inquiry was
encouraging. What might have happened if the revolutionists had met
with an initial success was doubtful, but the rank and file were now
staunch in their loyalty. Here and there an officer was missing, and
had evidently thought it prudent to disappear before inquiry was made,
but the empty places were quickly filled up from the loyal cadets, and
guards were provided for the public buildings and the Place de
l’Europe Unie as if nothing had happened. Then came more riding
through the streets, breaking up any semblance of a crowd, and
receiving complaints and appeals for protection from Jews, Moslems,
and other unpopular people, and a hurried journey to the scene of a
violent explosion, in an obscure house on the outskirts of the city,
which proved to be an anarchist bomb-factory. Then, leaving the chief
of police in charge of the public peace, since it had not been
necessary to make use of the martial law proclamation, Danaë retraced
her steps to the Palace, so tired that she could hardly remain in the
saddle. One further ordeal was awaiting her, in the shape of an
interview with the foreign Consuls, who had come in a body to enforce
the rather obvious truths that the riotous proceedings of the day were
calculated to prejudice Emathia in the eyes of the Powers, and that
steps ought to be taken to put a stop to them. Supported by Professor
Panagiotis, Danaë had no difficulty in showing that the necessary
steps had been taken, and that she had a reserve of force in hand if
further riots occurred. This was so clear that the dreaded offer of
outside help in coping with the situation could not well be made, and
the diplomatists withdrew, congratulating Danaë on her own escape and
her brother’s progress towards recovery. Then at last she was free to
find Armitage, who had defied all the doctors by refusing to go to
bed, and was awaiting her eagerly.

“At last!” he said, as she slipped into her old place on the floor
beside him, and rested her head against his arm.

“You ought to be in bed,” she murmured reproachfully.

“Not a bit of it! You know I was coming to fetch you, if you did
anything rash. Now tell me all about it.”

She obeyed with immense delight, fighting the day’s battles over again
as if she had been reciting one of her island ballads, and ended
with--

“And the chief of police said that I had saved everything by acting at
once. The crisis was so sudden that the Anarchists had not got their
bombs charged. They were charging them in a hurry when the explosion
occurred. But if they had had them in the square, the troops must have
been driven back.”

Armitage’s hand came down and pressed hers tightly, and he asked,
“Were you frightened?”

“I had no time to be--except when I wanted the soldiers to go on, and
I did not know the words. Shall I have to command them for long, do
you think?”

“Only till some time to-morrow. Panagiotis has telegraphed to Wylie to
beg him to leave his wife where she is, and come on at once.”

“I am glad. All will be well when the Lord Glafko comes. But I wonder
whether I shall have earned my life by then?”

“What do you mean? That’s what your brother said last night. Have you
found out----?”

“He had a list of all who were concerned in the death of the Lady.
Petros told me so this morning, when his own name was the last but one
on the list. All the rest were dead, and now he is dead too. I am the
only one left.”

“If I had known this, you would have wasted no time in saving your
brother’s throne for him,” said Armitage wrathfully. “We would have
gone on board the yacht at once. Let us go now.”

“Ah no, lord, not when things are so nearly safe! Besides, you forget
that I am making use of the yacht already. And I am not afraid, with
you.”

“I should not be afraid for you, but that I think your brother must be
a little mad on the subject. Danaë! to please me, will you ask if you
may see him now? I will come with you if you prefer it. It is only
natural that you should wish to see him, and he can hardly refuse.
Then we can judge by what he says whether he has laid aside his grudge
against you, or not.”

“Are you really in earnest?” she asked, puzzled. “I will go if you
wish it,” and she rose stiffly, for she was aching in every limb. “No,
do not come. I am not afraid he will hurt me. But if he has still not
forgiven me, what should we do?”

“Keep watch all night, and go on board at daybreak,” said Armitage
decisively, and Danaë laughed in sympathy as she went out. She
returned very soon.

“They won’t let me see him. He is asleep, and the doctors forbid him
to be disturbed. The wife of Panagiotis is in charge of the nursing. I
was angry, and asked her husband why she took so much upon herself,
and he said she had been trained under the best German surgeons.”

“But did you want to nurse him?” asked Armitage, in surprise.

“No, indeed; she is welcome to him, though I did not see why she
should be there. But if it had been you, I would have dragged her out
of the room by her hair!”

“I believe you would. But meanwhile, we are still in the dark as to
your brother’s feelings.”

“Oh no,” said Danaë unconcernedly. “Panagiotis says that he was
pleased to hear what I had done, and spoke of me as one who had
deserved well at his hands.”

“I hope that puts things all right,” said Armitage, still anxious.

“Surely his gratitude ought to last while we are here,” said Danaë,
with an irrepressible yawn. “And when I am at Klaustra, he can’t do
anything to me there.”

“Klaustra! I had forgotten all about it.”

“But you spoke about it only last night. Besides, you promised!”

“I hadn’t spent a whole day without you then. Oh, you shall go if you
wish, but I shall go too. I can’t spare you.”

“I am so sleepy!” murmured Danaë irrelevantly. But her head nestled
down against his shoulder, and she fell asleep crouching beside him.




 CHAPTER XXVI.
 THE FAIR PRIZE WON.

“Hail, lady!” Wylie rode up to Danaë and saluted, as she sat on her
horse, the picture of hopeless bewilderment, in the midst of a
clamorous crowd.

“Oh, how glad I am that you have come, lord!” she cried. “These people
say that certain Roumis dwelling among them are responsible for all
yesterday’s rioting, and they have broken into their houses and
dragged them out. The police have no evidence against them, but I am
afraid to send them home lest they should be killed.”

“Case of police protection, evidently,” said Wylie. “You want me to
settle it?” Receiving an eager affirmative, he spoke in Roumi to the
unfortunate Moslems, who were held by many hands, then scolded their
assailants roundly, and remarked that it would be well for everything
stolen from the looted houses to be back in its place when he arrived
there in a few minutes to settle the lawful owners in their homes
again under a police guard to protect them. Meeting Danaë’s grateful
eyes, he laughed.

“I didn’t intend to take your work out of your hands in this way,” he
said; “but Panagiotis seemed to think you would be glad to be relieved
at once. I have not seen your brother, but he sent polite messages,
and an order putting me in charge of the city and the troops.”

“Oh yes!” with infinite relief. “I can leave it all with you, and go
back to my husband. But how is the Lady Zoe?”

“Very well, thank you, but she is not so very far off, you know. You
will find her at the Palace. She refused to let me leave her behind.”

“Oh, I must go to her!” cried Danaë. “You won’t mind if I leave you?
This gentleman, my aide-de-camp, will explain everything, and you will
know what to do far better than I do.”

Hardly waiting for his answer, she rode away, and on arriving at the
Palace demanded eagerly where the Princess Zoe was, and ran upstairs
to find her. Zoe, instructing the rough Emathian handmaid who had
accompanied her in Linton’s place in the art of unpacking, found her
door suddenly burst open to admit a human whirlwind with flying plaits
and draperies, which dropped at her feet.

“Oh, lady, lady mine!”

“Kalliopé, my dear child! Come, let me look at you. Why, you are
taller than ever--and so much improved!”

“Really, lady? Not a savage any more?”

“I never called you a savage, I am sure.”

“Artemisia did, and Princess Theophanis, and all of them. Tell me
quickly, lady--am I different?”

Zoe turned her face to the light, and looked at her searchingly, while
the girl knelt blushing and trembling. “Very different. You have found
your soul, my little mermaid.”

“A water-nymph, a Nereid--do you indeed call me that, lady?” To
Danaë’s ears this was the highest compliment that could be offered
her. “But--” she hid her face in Zoe’s gown--“you know how it is that
a water-nymph obtains a soul?”

“I do, and it has come true in your case, hasn’t it? He shares his
soul with you, and you accept the gift.”

“Even so, my lady, but if you only knew--! I was so wicked, so
ungrateful--he ought to have taken it back.”

“He won’t do that, I am sure. He met us at the door when we arrived,
and I could see that he did not repent. You had a very narrow escape
of losing him, Kalliopé.”

Danaë hung her head. “Yes, lady,” very faintly.

“But, my dear child, it was not your fault!”

“But I had to leave him, my lady. I wanted to stay at his side, and he
bade me go. I durst not even let myself think how nearly I had lost
him, or I must have returned to the Palace at once. And it was only
the night before that I found out how much---- Oh, lady, I think that
my European clothes, and all the feasts and sights, and the kindness
of the European ladies, made me mad at first. I forgot who I was, and
that Milordo in his goodness had made me his wife; I even thought him
unkind. But it came to me in the night that all these things were
nothing to me if his face was turned away, and in the morning I
humbled myself and set his foot on my head, and he forgave me, and I
was content.”

“My dear child!” said Zoe involuntarily, realising the acute
discomfort this reconciliation must have caused to Armitage. Danaë
misunderstood her.

“Not content with myself, lady mine--I don’t mean that. You will teach
me what I ought to be, and I will give myself up to learn from you.
But you do think that he is willing I should be his wife?”

“More than willing, I should say.”

“And--lady, tell me truly--you don’t think my being his wife will do
him any harm--that I shall disgrace him?”

“Not while you feel as you do now.”

“And that will be always. It is well, then. Now I shall fight for my
life. Otherwise I would have let my brother do his will.”

“But what has your brother to do with it?”

“He has condemned me secretly to death, my lady, like all those who
were concerned in the death of his wife. They are all dead but me
now--Petros was the last.”

She spoke with such evident sincerity that Zoe was impressed, though
she would not show it. “My dear child, you must be dreaming. Your own
brother! You mustn’t let yourself get morbid. Let us go downstairs
now. I see my husband coming back.”

They went down to find Armitage, and presently Wylie joined them, with
a somewhat perturbed face.

“When did you see your brother last, lady?” he asked of Danaë.

“When he was carried wounded from the parade-ground,” she replied.
“None of us have seen him since. He asked for Janni at first, but the
poor little one was frightened and cried, and the doctors said he must
not come in again.”

“Haven’t you seen the Prince, Graham?” asked Zoe.

“No, I was to have seen him now if he was well enough, but the doctors
think it wiser not. He is to keep his strength in reserve ready for
seeing Maurice.”

“Maurice!” cried Zoe and Armitage together.

“Yes, Panagiotis has sent for him. He has some deep-laid plot on hand,
but I don’t see it at present.”

“But what is the idea?”

“So far as I can see, it is to magnify the Prince’s illness
sufficiently to make it natural for him to appoint Maurice regent.
That would be an important step gained in uniting our rival interests
against the Powers, but I don’t see that it justifies deception.”

“But you can’t be certain that there is deception,” said Armitage.

“Not certain, but why should the Prince not see me for a minute, if he
is well enough to send messages and sign documents? I should not
disturb him, and it would be much more satisfactory. But one can’t
force one’s way into a sick man’s room against the will of his
doctors.”

“Who is his doctor?” asked Zoe.

“Terminoff, who was with us in Hagiamavra. That’s one thing that makes
me think there is something up. Anyhow Panagiotis intends to see
Maurice established as regent as soon as he arrives, and apparently
attaches immense importance to his arriving as soon as possible.”

“Then he should have written to Eirene instead of Maurice, or at any
rate to both of them,” said Zoe.

“Since he knows the Princess by this time about as well as we do, I
should think it is highly probable that he has,” said Wylie, in his
driest tone.

“Then we may expect them here to-morrow--he is sure to have wired--if
Eirene is able to travel. She will send Maurice if she cannot come
herself, but perhaps this will be just what the doctor said she needed
to rouse her.”

“I hope the Princess is better?” said Armitage.

“Oh, poor thing!” said Zoe. “It is her mind that is suffering more
than her body. You remember how delighted she was when you gave her
back the Girdle of Isidora, Kalliopé?--Danaë, I mean--and how she
seemed quite different? Well, I think she must have felt, somehow,
that this baby was sure to be a boy. When she found it was a girl, it
seemed to take from her all desire to live. She just said, ‘Call it
Isidora,’ and turned her face to the wall.”

“But she is not dead?” asked Danaë, awestruck.

“No, poor Eirene can’t even die dramatically. Her schemes never come
off,” said Zoe, with a touch of her old flippancy. “Don’t look at me
so reproachfully, Graham. You know that poor baby would have died if I
hadn’t gone and fetched it and given it into Linton’s charge. And poor
Maurice so fond of it, and creeping in by stealth to see it for fear
of hurting Eirene’s feelings! I have no patience with her. She might
be fond of it for his sake, if not for its own.”

“And how does the Lord Harold like the baby?” asked Danaë.

“Not at all. He objects most strongly to Linton’s attentions being
diverted from himself.”

“Ah, you will want me in the nursery again,” murmured Danaë
ecstatically; but Zoe caught a look from Armitage which implied that
he would have a word to say as to the way in which his wife disposed
of her time.

With Wylie’s arrival, quiet seemed to settle upon Therma. Troops and
police and populace all welcomed him, or found it politic to seem to
do so, and the European Consuls abandoned concerted action for the
moment in favour of drawing up separate claims for compensation for
damage done in the riot. Whether Professor Panagiotis had planned it
or not, the publicity which attended Wylie’s assumption of the command
of affairs served to distract attention from the movements of his
brother-in-law, and on the next evening the Consuls were astonished by
the intelligence that Prince and Princess Theophanis had arrived in
the city, and were staying at the Palace. They had been received at
the station by Colonel Wylie and the troops, the Ministers and the
municipality, and the guard of honour appointed to attend them during
their stay was composed exclusively of veterans who had fought in
Hagiamavra. Addresses of welcome had been presented to them, and on
the morrow they would visit the Legislative Chamber, and receive the
welcome of the Assembly. It was all very proper, and the explanation
that this was the state visit planned some time before, but postponed
on account of the lack of health of the Princess, appeared quite
satisfactory; but the Consuls were not satisfied. Why had they not
been invited to the station to take part in the arrival ceremony? they
asked, only to receive the obvious reply that Prince Theophanis was
not welcomed as a sovereign prince, but as one of the liberators of
Emathia, allied by close ties with the throne.

While the Consuls were busy taking counsel with one another, and
Professor Panagiotis was employing every means in his power to ensure
a full attendance of the members of the Assembly on the morrow, the
party at the Palace was the same as that which had met at Klaustra on
the night of Danaë’s short-lived social triumph. Many changes had
taken place since then, but the most surprising was the transformation
in Princess Theophanis. It was difficult to believe that she was the
woman who but a short time ago had turned her face to the wall in
bitterness of soul and longed for death, or the weary chatelaine of
Klaustra, haunted by the knowledge that the battle she was fighting
had already been decided against her. Now she moved regally about the
stately rooms, almost as if she felt she had a rightful place there.
She showed marked kindness to Danaë, and Danaë and Zoe commented on
the fact to one another.

“What a change to have been brought about by the mere prospect of a
temporary regency!” said Zoe. “I suppose she feels that it establishes
Maurice’s position, but really she is no nearer her ambition than
ever.”

“The Lord Theophanis is pleased to see the change,” said Danaë.

“Yes, isn’t it pathetic to see his eyes following her about? She is
like what she was when he married her, before her ambition had come
between them. There really was a time when she seemed to think love
was enough, but it didn’t last.”

“I wonder,” said Danaë slowly, “whether she would speak to me so
kindly if she knew that, were the choice mine, the regents would be
the Lord Glafko and you, lady?”

“I really don’t think it would affect her. She knows that nothing
would induce us to take Maurice’s place, and I’m afraid she wouldn’t
care much what your wishes were, Danaë. What are you going to wear
to-morrow?”

“Not kalpak and dolman, at any rate,” said Danaë, with a sigh of
relief, for her two days of command were like a nightmare to look back
upon. It was an immense comfort to feel, when she rose on the morrow,
that all the military arrangements were in Wylie’s capable hands, and
that Armitage and she could resign themselves to take a purely
decorative part in the day’s proceedings. There was an unusual sense
of stir about the city, for the country-people, with whom the story of
the hard-fought and apparently hopeless fight in Hagiamavra was
rapidly assuming the character of a national epic, were pouring in to
see Prince Theophanis and his brother-in-law. The Palace square was
crowded long before the carriages were ready to start, and the Place
de l’Europe Unie so closely packed with a friendly, good-humoured
throng that it was difficult to make a way for them. The elements of
disorder were not in evidence to-day, at any rate, and the soldiers
received cordial welcome, while Maurice and Eirene were greeted with
tremendous cheering. The triumph lasted until they had actually
reached the threshold of the Chamber, but here came a disagreeable
interruption. The foreign Consuls had learnt or divined the cause of
the visit, and were assembled to protest against it in the name of
Europe. That Prince Theophanis should be proclaimed regent during the
illness of Prince Romanos was not to be thought of. Since there was no
question of a hereditary dynasty, Janni had no rights that needed
protection, and if it was simply a matter of appointing a guardian for
him, it would be most incorrect to choose a person who had made
himself so prominent in politics. As for the maintenance of government
and tranquillity in Emathia, that might safely be left to the Powers.
If Prince Romanos felt himself unequal to his duties, he had only to
resign them into the hands of Europe, and Europe would proceed to
agree upon his successor, as it would have done if he had held office
for the full five years of his appointment.

The protest was read in the name of his brethren by the Pannonian
Consul-General, who succeeded in restraining a smile even when he
spoke of the agreement of Europe, and it evoked loud murmurs among the
members of the Assembly who heard it. The language in which it was
couched was distinctly unfortunate from the point of view of its
promoters, for the Emathians had been learning for nearly four years
to regard themselves as a free people electing their own sovereign,
and now they were abruptly reminded that their country was still
technically dependent on Roum, and that their liberties existed at the
mercy of the Powers. The news filtered through the crowd in the
portico to the greater crowd in the square, and cries of anger began
to rise. But Professor Panagiotis kept his head. Requesting Maurice’s
permission to reply, he inquired deferentially what exactly it was
that the representatives of Europe desired. Since the natural anxiety
of Prince Romanos, in view of the events of the past week, for the
safety of his family and the stability of his government was not to be
allayed, would he be permitted simply to appoint a guardian for his
child? There was much murmuring among the nearer Emathians at the
Professor’s conciliatory tone, especially when Herr Melchthal replied,
with scarcely veiled contempt, that Europe had no desire to interfere
with the guardianship of a mere private individual such as Prince
Joannes Christodoridi. The Professor countered swiftly. Yet it seemed
that his Highness was not allowed to appoint his honoured
brother-in-arms, Prince Theophanis, to the charge of his child; might
he, then, appoint the Cavaliere Pazzi, the father of his deceased
wife? There was some demur at this, for was not the Cavaliere the heir
of Maxim Psicha? But the discontent of the deputies and the people was
growing so highly pronounced that the Consuls yielded the lesser
point, having gained the greater, and the Professor went down the
steps to lay the news before the invalid at the Palace. But the square
was now in a turmoil, and the crowd, unreasonable in their
indignation, refused to let him pass. He had betrayed Emathia, and
they would keep him until the Prince’s answer arrived. Professor
Panagiotis bowed to the storm, and a messenger was sent off. A time of
tension followed, the Consuls, though masters of the field, looking
decidedly uncomfortable in face of the sour looks cast upon them. The
deputies glared askance at the Professor, who chatted with great
unconcern to the party from the Palace. They were almost as
uncomfortable as the Consuls, not knowing whether anything had gone
wrong, or whether a preconceived plan was being worked out.

“If only the Consuls had made their protest before we started!”
lamented the Professor, as the moments went by. “It is so thoughtless
of them to keep the Princess standing like this! You would not care to
wait inside the building, madame?” he asked solicitously of Eirene,
who shook her head. “His Highness’s answer must come soon, of course,”
he resumed. “Perhaps he will even telephone--” he was looking in the
direction of the Palace, in spite of his words, and his jaw fell.
“_Kyrie Eleēson_!” he cried violently, and crossed himself.

The rest followed with their eyes the direction of his shaking hand,
and Consuls, deputies and crowd turned with them to look along the
street which led to the Palace. The standard of Prince Romanos was
flying at half-mast from the flagstaff.

“What is it? What has happened?” everyone was crying.

“The spoilt child of Europe has abdicated in a pet,” said the
Pannonian Consul-General confidently, but the snarl of hatred which
rose from the deputies made him turn aside with a rather unsuccessful
laugh.

“A messenger! a messenger!” came the cry from the square. In the
strain of the moment, no one thought of the telephone. All stood
gazing with white faces towards the man who was forcing his way
through the crowd.

“Holy Peter! it is Terminoff!” cried the Professor, and as the surging
throng washed up Dr Afanasi Terminoff, hatless and with torn coat, at
the foot of the steps, he ran down to meet him. “Doctor, why have you
left your patient?”

“Because he needed me no more!” shouted the doctor furiously. “His
Highness is dead!”

“Dead! dead!” the word was echoed by a thousand throats, and the
people in the square tore their clothes and cast dust upon their
heads. Dr Terminoff was still facing the Professor.

“How did you dare send that message?” he cried. “You knew on how
slender a thread his life hung. Here have we kept him alive from day
to day, in the hope that this morning’s ceremony would set his mind at
rest, and give him opportunity to recover, and you destroy all the
result of our care in a moment!”

“Don’t blame me,” said the Professor, pale with anger. “All-Holy
Mother of God! the fault was not mine.” His eagle-glance round called
the deputies and the crowd to witness as well as the Panagia, and in
one moment the air was rent with shrieks of “Down with Europe!” The
life of a foreign Consul in the Balkans is not at any time a very
peaceable one, but it is probable that the assembled diplomatists had
never been in quite such imminent danger before. Mr Wildsmith leaned
over the parapet by which he was standing.

“Colonel Wylie, we shall hold you responsible,” he said. There was a
stir of hoofs as the troopers under the wall moved forward a pace or
two, pressing back the crowd from the immediate neighbourhood of the
Consuls, but they were still in most unpleasant proximity to the
deputies, whose full-dress array allowed of a considerable exhibition
of weapons. Hands were on daggers and revolver-butts, when Professor
Panagiotis spoke again, this time from the top of the steps.

“Free citizens of Emathia, our Prince is dead. The descendant of the
Emperors, the hero who led us in battle, the statesman who has made
Emathia what she is, is lost to us. Shall his work be destroyed? Is
Europe to snatch away from us the liberties we wrested from Roum at
the cost of untold suffering and bloodshed? You say she shall not. I
take you at your word. Let us proceed at once to the election of
another Prince, who shall carry on the work our lost hero had begun.
Is there any doubt whom we should choose? Is not the friend, the
comrade of Romanos with us, who submitted to waive his own claims and
labour for the good of Emathia, to whom he whom we have lost desired
to entrust the safety of the nation? Theophanis for Prince!”

From the deputies and the crowd in the square burst an overwhelming
shout, “Theophanis for Prince!” Daggers were drawn and revolvers fired
in the air, and the shouting went on unabated. Herr Melchthal retained
his presence of mind through all the noise. He approached the
Professor.

“In the name of Europe I protest against this farce,” he said loudly.
“No mandate has been given for an election.”

“No mandate is needed,” was the fiery reply, and the deputies cheered
again. “Here are the representatives of free Emathia, responsible only
to God and their country. They will now proceed, with all possible
solemnity, to repeat by means of the ballot the election they have
just made by acclamation. Mr President, will you be good enough to
convene the Assembly?”

The crowd in the square were silent now, watching with eager eyes the
deputies as they filed into the building. An attempt at further
protest on Herr Melchthal’s part was met with cries of “Privilege!”
and he and his colleagues were forced to assert the dignity of Europe
in no more effective way than by withdrawing in a body, lest by their
presence they should be supposed to countenance what was going on. It
was a bitter pill to be obliged to request safe-conduct from Wylie for
their passage through the streets, but the choice lay between this and
sneaking out at the back of the Chamber, and each diplomatist was duly
guarded through the hostile throng by equally hostile soldiers, and
seen safe to his own door.

The actual election occupied a very short time. The last of the
Consuls had barely left the square when a deputation of members came
to invite their Highnesses to enter the Chamber. Here there was a
slight difficulty, for some of the deputies wished to impose a
condition which Maurice declined to accept, but the rest prevailed
upon them to withdraw their stipulation, and Maurice and Eirene
Theophanis emerged under the great portico Prince and Princess of
Emathia. Eirene had cast aside her cloak, and stood magnificent in a
gown of Byzantine splendour, with the Girdle of Isidora about her
waist. The jewel was recognised at once and another shout went up.
“The talisman! the talisman! Hail to the Orthodox Empress!”

She stilled them with a motion of her hand. “The Princess of Emathia
to-day, friends; and to-day is the proudest day of my life so far.”

The underlying thought was so clearly implied that the people shouted
again, and the hastily formed processions bringing bread and salt to
offer to the new sovereigns could hardly pass. Everywhere in the crowd
travelled persons who had visited Klaustra were lauding the
administration of Maurice and Wylie and prophesying benefits to
Emathia from their rule, and Zoe, Armitage and Danaë shared in the
enthusiasm aroused. When they escaped at last from the many hands held
out reverentially to touch their clothes, it was to be thankful for
the refuge offered by their carriage, as it moved at a foot-pace
across the square. Danaë sank into her place like one dazed. The
events of the last two hours--her brother’s death, the instant
election of his rival--were not to be grasped as yet.

“What I should like to know,” said Armitage suddenly to Zoe, “is when
Prince Romanos really died.”

“Oh, that has struck you too, has it?” said Zoe. “When do you think?”

“At first I thought last night, but now I am inclined to wonder if it
may not have been as soon as he reached the Palace after Petros
stabbed him.”

“In that case Professor Panagiotis must have a good deal on his
conscience--in the way of forgery and so on.”

“I think we may safely say that his conscience will never trouble him
to the point of making him confess,” said Armitage.

“And therefore we shall never know, I suppose,” said Zoe.

“Not unless Terminoff quarrels with the Professor, and splits.”

“Or the Professor quarrels with us all, and writes his memoirs. But in
that case one could hardly depend on what he said, so it would be as
doubtful as ever.”

“Whenever it was,” said Armitage with conviction, “Princess Theophanis
knew of it last night. She is in it with him.” Zoe’s eyes met his, and
he saw that she agreed with him.

“Do you mean, lady,” said Danaë, rousing herself from her trance of
bewilderment, “that all the time they told me I was preserving the
throne for my brother and Jannaki, I was keeping it for your brother
instead?”

“I am afraid it looks like it, Danaë,” said Zoe gently. “You would
not have done it if you had known?”

“I would have done it for you, lady,” was the doleful reply.

“But if it means that Princess Zoe will live here instead of at
Klaustra?” suggested Armitage.

“Oh, that we shall all live together at the Palace?” said Danaë, with
reviving cheerfulness. “Ah, lady mine, then I shall be able to be with
you always!”

“In that case, I fear Lady Zoe would have to put up with a good deal
of me,” said Armitage. “Shall we say sometimes instead of always?”

 * * * * * * * *

That evening, in response to the shouts of the people who filled the
square, Prince and Princess Theophanis appeared upon the balcony over
the principal entrance to the Palace, and exchanged greetings with
their new subjects. As Maurice handed his wife back into the room
after one of these appearances he pressed her hand.

“Happy at last, Eirene? I hope so, dear.”

“Not quite,” she said quickly. “Maurice, why did you refuse to betroth
Isidora to Janni as the Greeks wished? It was such a natural and
proper thing to do.”

“What! to bind those two babies irretrievably to one another?”

“These people do it constantly, to end a feud. And there would be no
hardship in it. I should bring up Isidora to regard the boy as her
destined bridegroom, and she would never think of anyone else.”

“But suppose she did? You were brought up to regard a Scythian Grand
Duke as your destined bridegroom, but that didn’t prevent you from
thinking of me. Why should your daughter be different? Or suppose
Janni preferred to marry some one else? No, we won’t risk making the
children unhappy.”

“They are princes. It is the drawback of their position.”

“Then we will save them from it as far as we can. And even for our own
sakes---- Why, Eirene, think. Would the Powers tolerate our linking
the claims of Maxim Psicha with our own at the present moment, even if
they consent to acknowledge my election as valid?”

“It might have been managed secretly,” she said, and walked away
restlessly, to look out at the dark masses of people in the square. It
was always like this; Maurice would thwart her to the end, not merely
by means of obstinacy, but with some show of reason and equity. If the
way to her goal involved a breach with his convictions, he would not
follow it. And that day had brought her so much nearer! In this age of
revolutions and counter-revolutions, of compromises and buffer states,
the phantom glories of a revived Eastern Empire might not be so very
unreal, after all. She saw them clearly enough, but it was through a
mist of passionate tears. No son of hers would sit on the throne of
the Cæsars, it was only too probable now that even her daughter would
never be acclaimed in Hagion Pneuma as Orthodox Empress. She had
gained the prize which was to be the stepping-stone to the greater
glory, but to her husband it was a burden rather than a gain, and the
child for whose sake she had first grasped at it lay buried in
Hagiamavra. The coveted fruit was little but dust and ashes after all.

 THE END.




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.

This book is part of the author’s “Balkan Series II.” The series, in
order, being: _The Heir_, _The Heritage_, and _The Prize_.

The book’s sole image, a frontispiece, was of such poor quality in the
source PDF that I didn’t include it. A quality copy will be added if it
ever becomes available. If you can provide this image please contact
Project Gutenberg support.

Alterations to the text:

Punctuation corrections: some quotation mark pairings.

Footnotes have been placed in square-brackets in-line with the text.

[Title Page]

Add brief note indicating this book’s position in the series. See
above.

[Chapter XII]

Change “to do the same _downtairs_” to _downstairs_.

[Chapter XIV]

“it was _worth while_ following up” to _worthwhile_.

[Chapter XVII]

“the _Caveliere_ read it through” to _Cavaliere_.

[Chapter XX]

“_the_ took the precaution of a whispered warning” to _she_.

“and was designed _te_ emphasize the” to _to_.

[Chapter XXIV]

“A _fusilade_ from the revolvers” to _fusillade_.

[Chapter XXVI]

“that all the military _arragements_ were in...” to _arrangements_.

[End of Text]




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