He strode up and down the courtyard, swearing and sighing. He was seized by a fresh access of fury.

"I was indeed right to proclaim it everywhere: you're unbalanced, a madman, your signature is worth nothing. I shall take everything from you and give it to the community. The Sarakina, curse it, shan't eat a single grape! Not an olive, not a grain of wheat! No, no, things shall not go the way you want! I'll do for you, I swear, as you've done for your father, as you've done for my daughter. You'll see, you'll see, it's no laughing matter. I'll go and find the bishop and tell him the whole story. I've all the people of the village to witness; even the Agha is with me. I'll have the lot of you!"

"You have everyone with you," said Michelis, his heart torn by the sight of the priest's sorrow and hate, "you have everyone with you, except God. Will you have the heart to let so many people die of hunger on the Sarakina? Have you no fear of God?"

"If Mariori dies I shall become savage; I shall have no pity for anyone! I shall throw my cassock into the nettles, take my gun and kill people. Why should God kill my Mariori? What has she done to Him? Has there ever been on earth a better, more innocent, more delightful creature? And first of all I shall kill Manolios. That cur

is the cause of all. The Agha didn't hang him; I shall. He plays the saint, martyr and hero before us and he's sold himself to the Muscovite, the traitor, the renegade, the bolshevik!"

Mad with rage, brandishing his fists above Michelis's head, he roared:

"Go away! Let me never set eyes on you again! Go away if you don't want me to smash my head against the wall!"

He collapsed on the gravel of the courtyard, with his mouth wide open.

There was no one in the house. Michelis bent down and, gathering his strength, picked up the heavy old man. He carried him into the house and laid him on the sofa. He went into the kitchen, filled a glass with water and brought it to him. The priest seized the glass, drank in small gulps, and opened his eyes.

"Michelis," he murmured, "I am a broken man. God has struck me right to the heart, but I can't repent, I can't. I can't forgive anyone, anyone! Go away, I don't want to set eyes on you any more!

He revived, stood up, crossed the courtyard and opened the door:

"Get out, and never again set foot in my house!"

With these words he shut the door brutally on Michelis.

Michelis passed through the village lanes as if he had fallen into some unknown place, as if he were walking in a dream and seeing these houses, these shops and the plane tree for the first time. When he passed before the^family house, he stopped for a good while to stare at it; it was as though he were making an effort to remember. He wanted to cross the threshold and go in, but was seized with terror at the thought that he might see in the courtyard a tall dead man draped in grass torn up from the soil and with arms outstretched to bar his entrance. He shuddered and hastened away; it seemed to him that the priest's accusing words: "You killed him, you . . ." had become dead people, a long series of dead people, pursuing him.

He stopped at the end of the village. Why did I come"? he asked himself, yes, why? I was angry, and my anger has died down, so why"? Suddenly the image of Mariori took shape; he saw her stretched out before him, pale, with eyes wide open, pressing a small red handkerchief to her mouth. This village is full of dead, he muttered, full of ghosts. I must go!

The sky became covered with clouds, the sun darkened, a sudden wind sprang up; the trees shuddered, some dead leaves fell, strewing the ground with yellowish patches.

Two or three villagers passed along the road and, pretending not to see him, hastened their steps and disappeared. A child started crying at the sight of him. An old woman appeared on the doorstep, saw him, crossed herself and at once shut the door. She went over to her husband, who was wandering about the yard in search of a ray of sunshine to warm his old bones.

"Outside," she whispered to him, "there's the son of our old ar-chon, Michelis. If only you could see him! He's pitiful. The state he's in, God-a-mercy! thin, pale, with his eyes dead . . ."

The old man shook his head.

"Serves him right," he said maliciously; "he's given away his wealth, the idiot, and now he's wandering the streets. Is he barefoot?"

"No, he's still got his old shoes. Poor thing, they're right when they say he's lost his wits."

"The end of the race of the Patriarcheases!" the old man sneered. 'They ate everything, drank everything, embraced everything, and that's where they are today! Faith, the good God is just, say what you like! Listen, wife; one of these days when he comes knocking at doors, give him a bit of bread, so they can say that we, too, have given alms to the Patriarcheases!"

He crossed himself:

"God be praised!" he muttered, satisfied.

The thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind had grown colder and brought a smell of rain. Michelis shook himself.

"I'll go and find Yannakos," he decided suddenly. He went back into the village.

Big drops of rain were now falling, the lanes were empty. As he passed in front of the widow's house he stopped, and pushed open the door. The courtyard was deserted, the red carnations faded. He went in. The bedding, stools and chest had been stolen. The wooden bed frame was lying about in pieces, the shutters had been torn away. There was only one left, hanging lamentably on its hinges, banging against the wall and creaking lugubriously as the wind shook it. Passers-by had been in and befouled the corners and walls. ...

"Poor Katerina!" muttered Michelis. "What a lot of pleasure you

gave and received! The things she must have heard and seen in this room, now so desolate. Ugh! the misery of this world!"

A mouse could be heard nibbling. She had nested in the rush ceiling and was hard at work, unrestingly, as if the good God had engaged her by the day to devour the widow's ceiling.

He shut the door behind him and made for Yannakos's house.

"In spite of all her follies, Katerina is more sure of entering Paradise than priest Grigoris with all his cassocks," he thought, on the way. "Perhaps she's there already, sitting at the side of Mary Magdalen!"

With his heart a little lightened, he knocked at Yannakos's door.

Yannakos had been in the stable since daybreak. He was saying good-bye to his donkey. He had promised to give him to the Sara-kina, but yesterday evening he had received a message from father Ladas: "Either you'll give me back the three pounds or I shall take your donkey. So think it over, if you don't want to go to prison."

He put his arms around the sturdy warm neck of his beloved companion. He sobbed as he spoke to him, and what affectionate words he found to say to him!

"My Youssoufaki, people are wicked; they're jealous of us; they want to separate us. Who'll come every morning to talk to you, stroke you, fill your bucket with fresh water and your manger with fodder? Who'll go to the fields to find you tender grass to refresh you, my Youssoufaki? You're all I had in the world; I didn't care a fig for anything people could do or say to me, I smiled as I listened because I knew that, when I got back home, I'd find you there waiting for me, and you'd turn those good eyes of yours toward me and wag your tail. And that we'd go off, the two of us, you in front, me behind, to do the round of the villages, buying and selling; earning our bread honestly, by the sweat of our two brows. What's going to become of you now, in the hands of the old skinflint who's spoiling to separate us? And me, what'll become of me, alone in the world? We're done for, my Youssoufaki; cursed be the wicked and their gold pieces, cursed be the unjust fate which made us poor. Good-bye, good-bye, my Youssoufaki . . ."

He bent down to embrace the velvety neck, passed his hand slowly, tenderly over the white and downy belly, reached the rump, pulled the tail and wept.

Youssoufaki, happy at his master's caresses, shook his head, raised his neck, lifted his tail and began braying softly.

There was a knock at the door; Yannakos jumped. But when he saw Michehs, fear vanished.

"Greetings, Michehs," he said, reassured. His eyes were red.

"What's the matter, Yannakos, are you crying"?"

Yannakos, ashamed, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Must be second childhood," he said. "I was saying good-bye to my donkey. Father Ladas is claiming him, devil take him!"

"Got anything to eat?" asked Michelis; "I'm hungry. I left the mountain at dawn and it's nearly noon. After that—listen, Yannakos—I'll go straight off and find father Ladas. The donkey belongs to the Sarakini, he shan't take it!"

Yannakos shook his head; he had heard that the priest had already reached an understanding with the Agha, that he had written to the bishop and would not let Michelis touch the inheritance until a judgment had decided whether his signature was valid or not. The whole village was ready to bear false witness and say that the son of Patriarcheas was wanting in his wits.

"If he takes him from me," he said suddenly, "by the faith of Yannakos, I'll set fire to his place!"

He went into the house, prepared some poached eggs, brought bread, cheese and grapes. The rain had stopped; they sat down to eat in the courtyard, in front of the stable; beside them the ass, too, ate, well content.

"How nicely off we are here, the three of us!" sighed Yannakos. "And that old robber wants to separate us."

"I'm off to see him now," said Michelis, rising and wiping his mouth; "he shan't have him!"

Father Ladas and his wife were sitting cross-legged in front of the low table, lunching. Old Penelope had left the sock she was knitting on the stool close by her. She threw tiny mouthfuls into her mouth as into a hole, and chewed them slowly, dully, without a word. The old man was in a good humor; he pursued his monologue :

"All's going well, my dear, God be praised! The priest's a regular Devil in a cassock. He's got hold of the Agha and he's written to the bishop. You'll see, it won't be long before old Patriarcheas's properties fall into my hands. It's the community will have them, so they say! Pff! Don't you believe it, mother Penelope. I've fixed

up everything with the priest. They'll be put up to auction; the priest will have his share; the swine, wanted to keep it all for himself, but you can imagine I didn't let him get away with that. We reached a compromise. In a few days, too, we shall have the ass that belongs to excommunicated Yannakos. He'll be yours, my Penelope, you'll get on his back to go pottering round our land. He's docile, well-trained and you must have seen his saddle, all covered with down—you'll sit on it like a queen! Being all alone—no children, no dogs—we've no overhead, my Penelope, we're king and queen. O dear, O dear, if I could live another hundred years or two, the whole of Lycovrissi would fall into my hands. And why do you think? Because they're all a lot of pretentious imbeciles, they all buy new clothes and shoes, they have children. All that costs a lot of money, and as money's round, it rolls. Whereas we . . . Your health, my Penelope!"

He filled his bowl with fresh water, emptied it, and smacked his tongue with pleasure.

"What's wine, compared with the water given by the good God?" he added.

Michelis pushed open the door without knocking and came in. At the sight of him, father Ladas frowned. He must be looking for a row, he told himself; I don't like the look of him. I'll act stupid.

"Welcome, my lord Michelis," he said. "Take a seat. I expect you've eaten."

Mother Penelope got up, cleared the table, picked up her sock and, sitting down in the corner, resumed her knitting.

"Old gobble-all," said Michelis, "what'll you do with all those fields, vineyards, olive orchards, houses and full coffers you've amassed? Take them with you into the tomb? With a foot in the grave already are you still not satisfied? And you now want to lay hands on poor Yannakos's ass as well. Have you no fear of God? Have you no shame before men?"

Faith, the old man said to himself, scratching his sugar-loaf head, I really do think he's already lost his wits. Still mixing up God in my affairs! I'll talk to him gently, or he might have a fit and let fly at me with his fist.

"My dear Michelis," he replied with sickly sweetness, "what can I do? Justice is justice. He owes me three gold pounds, what can I do? I, too, have needs."

"And if I made you out a paper saying that I owe them to you, and signed it?"

The old man coughed.

"The ill-natured gossips, my young archon, are saying, with all respect to you, that, for the moment, your signature . . . Don't get angry, in Christ's name! I don't believe a word of it, but we're only men—delicate machines, if a screw comes loose . . ."

Michelis leaped up. He picked up the stool he had been sitting on and threw it down. At this rate, he said to himself, they'll drive me really mad. He came close to the old man, and stared at him with eyes of flame.

Father Ladas cowered into a comer, clung to a window and looked into the yard. God be praised, he said to himself, the street door's open; if things go badly I'll slip past and out . . .

"If you could pay me in kind . . ." he whimpered.

"I'll go home and find you something, old scoundrel!" cried Michelis, hemming the old man in still closer. "Skinflint! Usurer! Swine!"

"Your father's house has had seals set on it today by the Agha," said the old man. He immediately bit his tongue. I've made a blunder, shouldn't have said that. He'll be furious! Here it comes, I'm done for!

Michelis clutched his head in his hands; he could feel it ready to burst.

"In the name of Christ," he cried, "you're driving me mad! Speak clearly, father Ladas; are they chasing me out of my father's house? Upon my word, I'll take a can of petrol, soak the village and set fire to it! Don't go, skinflint, where are you going? Come here, you

swme!"

He rushed to lay hands on him, but the old man, with one bound, was already at the door. Michelis darted and caught him by the neck. The old man fell on his knees, squealing.

"Who did that? The priest? The Agha? You?"

"No, not me, it wasn't me, Michelis! Ask mother Penelope, I was shut up in my house. I just heard. Ask mother Penelope. Seems the Agha went there this morning with priest Grigoris. I was told the bishop's coming, too, from the town and bringing doctors."

"Doctors?" cried Michelis, his hair standing on end, "doctors?"

"Let me go, Michelis, don't grip me so tight. I'll tell you everything. Don't strangle me!"

Barefooted Journey S45

Michelis lifted him by the scruff of the neck and set him on his feet again.

"Speak, old filth, tell me ever^'thing, everything!"

"Penelope, give me a bowl of water . . . I'm choking!"

But mother Penelope went on knitting, she heard nothing; she did not stir. She knitted and smiled, calm, motionless, dead.

"Let me shut the door, so the neighbors mayn't hear us," said the old man, and bounded out onto the road, where he set off running as fast as his legs could carry him, shouting:

"Help, villagers, help! Michelis is trying to strangle me!"

The terrified neighbors bolted their doors. Father Ladas went on running and shouting. The village was soon upside-down. He arrived at priest Grigoris's house; the priest appeared on his doorstep.

"Help, Father, he's having a fit, Michelis wants to strangle me! Let me in!"

But the priest, barring the door with his arms, kept him out.

"Run," he said, "call out, give the alarm to the whole village! There, go, father Ladas, let everyone hear, then they'll believe. There, off with you, run!"

And he shut the door in his face.

The rain had begun again. Father Ladas, alive to the priest's trick, ran all over the place, stopping at every comer and uttering shrill cries. He had picked up a piece of rope off the ground and displayed it:

"Michelis came to strangle me, here's the rope! Help, brothers! Someone open his door and let me in! Michelis is coming, he's got a can of petrol!"

As soon as a door opened, he went off at a run and did his shouting a bit farther on.

"He's taken a can of petrol to set everything on fire! Help! Help!"

The village was soon in an uproar. Some took down their old guns, posted themselves behind their door and waited. The Agha emerged onto his balcony.

"Let two robust men go and arrest him! Where's Panayo-taros?"

Panayotaros came hurrying:

"At your service, Agha!"

The Agha threw him a rope.

"Here, go and tie him up and bring him to me! And wait, listen:

from today I'm taking you into my service, Panayotaros. You're fiery, robust, snarling like a mastiff. Just what I need. Wait while I throw you down the fez my old guard used to wear, curse him! You will wear it from now on. Go, and good luck!"

He turned, took down the fez from its hook and threw it.

"There, my friend, may it bring you luck!"

Then, to Brahimaki, who was sitting behind, smoking lazily and blowing out clouds of smoke through his nose:

"My little Brahimaki, it looks to me as if they've driven him mad in good earnest, the poor fellow!"

"When are they bringing me the women'?" said the colt, warming up. "By Mahomet, I'm not far from going crazy myself!"

Panayotaros caught the rope and the fez, then made for father Ladas's house.

But Michelis had left long ago. He ran through the least frequented lanes, afraid of being seen by the inhabitants. The doors closed as he passed; the women screamed with fear.

When he reached the path to the mountain, he slowed down, out of breath. Rain was still falling, fine and close. The mountain was enveloped in a light mist, the plain covered with water. Michelis slid under a rock to wait for it to clear. His mouth was parched. He stared at the rain and listened to the murmur of the water flowing and cascading from rock to rock. Gradually his thought began running with the water and descended to the plain. It, too, rolled, increased, swelled, received tributaries from all sides, became a cataract, flooded the village. Michelis's breast dilated. Living and dead emerged from the earth under the rain, covered with mud; they left the plain with solemn step and climbed straight toward him. At their head was marching a dead man, tall in stature and very fat, with his belly swollen like a gourd, greenish blue: the archon. It was like a Last Judgment. The angels had sounded the trumpet; the human worms were emerging from the mire.

A few days before, Michelis had read the Apocalypse, and his mind was peopled with angels, trumpets, prostitutes sailing the waters of seas with foaming shores, horsemen on black, green, red and white horses swimming in blood. Michelis stared at the rain, listened to the water; his temples throbbed; it seemed to him that the earth was crumbling away. It was beginning to get dark, the rain went on, sad and regular, determined to drown the world and gnaw away the earth.

"O God, Thou only art immovable," murmured Michelis, and his eyes filled with tears. "If Thou didst not exist, to what should a man cling when everything is disappearing, dissolving and lapsing away? The woman he loves? The father who begot him? Men? Everything withers, crumbles, slides. Thou alone, O God, remain-est there, stable. Let me lean upon Thee! Hold me tight, O God, my reason is tottering!"

In the grotto priest Fotis and Manolios had been anxiously waiting for Michelis for long hours.

"It will be a hard struggle to win this. Father," said Manolios. "Is it worth while to waste so much time over this life here below?"

"It is worth while, it is worth while, Manolios!" replied priest Fotis decidedly. "There was a time when I, too, used to say: 'Why struggle for this life here below? What does this world matter to me? I am an exile from Heaven and I yearn to go home to my country? But later I understood. No one can go to heaven unless he has first been victorious upon earth, and no one can be victorious upon earth if he does not struggle against it with fire, with patience, without resting. Man has only earth for a springboard if he would fly up to Heaven. All the priest Grigorises, the Ladases, the Aghas, the big proprietors, are the forces of evil which it has been allotted us to combat. If we throw down our arms, we're lost, here below on earth and up there in the sky."

"Michelis is too delicate, too used to an easy life, he will not be able ..."

"He can. Let us wait for the news he'll bring us this evening. If it's bad, I'll go off tomorrow and find the bishop and ask him to give us justice. Winter's coming, it mustn't catch us naked, starving and without shelter."

"If I could give my blood to save the souls in peril . . ." Manolios murmured.

"It is easier to give it once for all than drop by drop in the daily struggle. If I were asked what is the way that leads to Heaven, I would answer: 'The hardest.' So take it, Manolios; courage!"

Manolios said nothing. He felt that the priest was right, but he was impatient. He could not forget the superhuman joy he had experienced as he went, that day, to give his life. That flame had not gone out, it was still there in him, distant as a Paradise lost. The daily struggle seemed to him slow and dull.

Both of them hstened in silence to the rain faHing. Sometimes a flash tore the dusk, penetrated the grotto, and ht up two pale faces, a neck, an arm; then all returned to darkness. Suddenly they heard hurried steps on the stones. "It's Michelis!" cried Manolios, darting out. The two friends embraced in the dusk and went into the grotto. "Welcome, our Michelis," said priest Fotis; "what news are you bringing us from Lycovrissi?"

"That my signature is worth nothing, that the Agha has had seals put on my father's house, that doctors are coming to pronounce that I am mad. Lastly, that Mariori is dying. There's my news! You've no call for complaint! I've brought you your money's worth, God be praised!"

He slid to the ground and leaned his back against the rock. After a short silence, he resumed, trying to joke:

"You've no call to complain, I've not come empty-handed."

"We're not complaining," priest Fotis answered, rising. "That's what it means to be a man: to suffer, undergo injustices and struggle without giving ground! We shall not give ground, Michelis. Tomorrow I'll go to the town and struggle."

Michelis shook his head.

"Do as God inspires you. Father. I'm giving up, I can't do any more. For a moment, down there, rage took hold of me. I wanted to strangle father Ladas, flood the village with petrol and set fire to it. But immediately, as if I'd done it, I felt tired, discouraged. I was frightened, and I fled."

"Let us do the struggling, Michelis," said Manolios, gripping his friend's arm in the shadow. He could feel it was burning hot.

The rain had stopped and priest Fotis stood up.

"Good night," he said. "I shall retire and prepare for tomorrow. We'll leave early, Manolios."

He disappeared in the night.

"How painful life is," sighed Michelis. "Do me a favor, Manolios. Tomorrow, since you are going to the town, go and see Mariori and take her my greetings. That's all."

He lay down on his mattress and shut his eyes, expecting again to see his father appear.

Next day, all the way there, priest Fotis and Manolios exchanged only a few words. The sky was overcast, but it was no longer raining. Nonetheless, after yesterday's deluge, they waded

in mud, barefoot; they made headway painfully, in single file. They went through fertile lands covered with trees and vines, sometimes spread out in a wide plain, sometimes undulating. Finally the clouds ravelled out, the sun returned, a band of tender blue sky appeared, sparkling with freshness. On an eminence two ancient marble columns shone out white.

"All these lands belonged to us Greeks once," sighed Manolios. Priest Fotis stopped a moment, gazed at the two broken columns and crossed himself as though he were passing in front of the ruins of a church. His spirit flared up, but he said nothing.

They went on in silence with their poor wallets on their shoulders, the priest in a patched cassock, Manolios in clothes of coarse cloth.

Where they went through a village the dogs barked at their passing, doors opened, heads appeared, eyes stared at them, people now and then addressed them a kind word, a "Welcome! where are you going? good luck!" Then at once the doors shut and the two emissaries of poverty found themselves once again alone on the deserted road.

At midday they stopped at the foot of a poplar to have something to eat and restore their strength. They came up to two stones, they sat down. Aromatic plants—savory, thyme, peppermint, pennyroyal, sage—had been beaten by yesterday's strong rain and were fragrant. It cleared and a huge rainbow hung in the sky.

Priest Fotis contemplated the splendor of earth and heaven after the rain, and a broad smile relaxed his pale, grave face. "One day," he said, "at the Holy Mountain, I asked an ascetic. Father Sofronios, who lived in a hermitage a long way from his monastery, on the top of a precipice: 'How did you find the way of salvation. Father Sofronios?* 'Do I know, my son?' he replied; 'it happened like that, without my noticing it. I got up one morning; it had rained during the night; I looked out of the window. That's all.' 'Is that all, Father Sofronios?' 'What more do you want, my son? I saw God from my window.' Since then, every time I get up early and see the earth after the rain, I remember the old ascetic with emotion. He must have rendered his soul to God a long time ago and be walking about in Paradise. Perhaps, for his pleasure, God even makes it rain at night in Paradise." Manolios shivered: these words of priest Fotis's gave to the

soaked earth the highest meaning it can take on, and Manohos's heart was all refreshed.

"Thank you, Father," he said, after some seconds of deep silence. "I look for God in the great difficult moments; you show Him to me in each moment that passes. I seek Him in violent death; you make me see Him in the humble struggle of every day. I have only just understood why we are going to the town and with whom we are going to struggle when we get there."

"One never finds what one is seeking, my son. We shall find God where we are going. And we shall find Him not as He is represented by those who have never seen Him—a rosy-cheeked old man, sitting blissfully on woolly clouds—but in the form of a voice sprung from our inmost being to declare war: yesterday it was against priest Grigoris and against Ladas, today it's against the bishop, tomorrow we shall see. War always, the holy war, my son."

They started walking again and reached the town at twilight. From afar they saw domes, mosques and two minarets soaring skyward, full of strength and grace. As they passed through the gate in the ramparts, they heard the voice of the muezzin calling, imperatively and gently, the faithful to prayer.

The moslem town spread out before them—narghiles; beys squatting on mats; chubby boys with young girls' slender voices, playing the tambourine and singing amanes; women with long veils; fat barefoot Turks crying their merchandise; cakes fried in oil and grilled grains of maize.

The two travelers lodged in a Christian khan* full to bursting— on the ground floor, with donkeys and mules, on the first floor, a great room with straw mattresses ranged in two long rows. Priest Fotis knew the innkeeper, father Yerassimos, boisterous and shrewd as the devil; he was an old sea captain; he had anchored in this land-locked town and married late in life a fine slip of a girl of Asia Minor, had children by her and opened this Mian. His wife did the cooking, and he busied himself with the men and animals, with a blow here and a joke there, jovially. He was bald, and had an enormous belly which, he said, prevented him from bending over and knowing whether he was man or woman.

As soon as he caught sight of priest Fotis, he left his counter and ran to meet him.

"What good wind?" he shouted joyfully; "just the man I was *Inn

I

Barefooted Journey 351

needing, priest. I've again committed a grave sin; there's a carrier forgot his purse here the other day, full of gold pieces, and I returned it to him. And ever since that day my soul's been upset; that means she's sinned, poor thing, and is dying of grief!"

But priest Fotis was not in a mood for joking.

"We shall stay here two days, father Yerassimos. Serve us something to eat and give us two clean mattresses to sleep on. We haven't any money; you'll note down what we spend; I'll pay you some day, captain, don't worry."

"Who spoke to you of money. Father:"" said the old sailor with a loud laugh. "If you haven't any, the fat traders who come and lodge at the khan have. I'll take twice as much off them: that way I'll be paid, and handsomely. And besides, if I find a purse I won't give it back. Welcome to you both! This evening we'll eat together. You're not my customers, you're my guests. Hey, Kron-stallenia!"

A robust Oriental woman with big blue-ringed eyes, came out from the kitchen with a pan in her hand.

"Kiss the priest's hand," father Yerassimos ordered; "I shall be eating with him and his friend this evening. You know what that means, eh^ Pork cutlets!"

Dame Kronstallenia swaggered up, kissed the priest's hand and went back toward the kitchen.

"And where are you off to, wifer" cried the joyful husband; "no one's going to eat you, stav a little and let's have a look at you!"

He added, with a wink at priest Fotis:

"Tell us, how many pears will go into a bag?"

"Aren't vou ashamed, at your age!" said the innkeeper's pretty wife, laughing and disappearing into her kitchen.

Yerassimos laughed loudly.

"Well, well, what a thing woman is. Father, all the same! I don't know what the Holy Scriptures say, but I'm sure, myself, of one thing: God made Man and the Devil made Woman. And if you want to know why: I asked everyone how many pears would go into the bag, and no one knew. My wife, the sly hussy, knew: 'Two,' she answered me, 'two!' Hear that? Devil's own female! She got the bull's eye!"

Next morning priest Fotis, having crossed himself, set ofF barefoot for the bishop's palace. A plump young peasant girl opened

the door to him; she looked at his empty hands and made a face. "You're too early," she said; "my lord isn't awake yet." Priest Fotis sat down on a bench in the courtyard and waited.

Gradually other visitors turned up: men and women, each bringing an offering—a basket of eggs, a rabbit, a bowl of cheese, a cock. The young peasant girl took them, smiling, and carrried them into the house. Then she offered a chair or a stool, according to the importance of the present.

"It's his niece," whispered a little old man sitting next to priest Fotis.

After an hour the news went from mouth to mouth that the bishop had awakened. One person had heard him cough, another thought he could make out the gurgling of his morning gargle.

All turned furtive eyes toward the window with the closed shutters. A loud cough rang out; then came the noise of impressive ablutions; then dull groans; finally a clatter of water being emptied out.

"Now he's washing," said the old man. All were silent, to listen to the sacred beast washing.

A quarter of an hour later there was a din of cups, plates, forks, knives and chairs being dragged about.

"Now he's having his coffee . . ."

Another half hour went by, then shrill cries rang out, accompanied by sobs.

"Now he's punishing his niece . . ."

Not long afterward the creaking of stairs could be heard, and someone blowing his nose violently.

"He's coming down!" the old man said at last, rising. All did the same and turned their gaze toward the door. A powerful bass voice shouted:

"Anghelika, have the first comer in!"

The door opened and the young peasant appeared, with red eyes. She signed to priest Fotis, who stepped forward and went into the house. The door closed behind him.

The bishop was seated before a round table. He was a thickset, vigorous man with a short, gray finely curled beard and a wart on his nose. He looked like a rhinoceros.

"I'm listening," he said, "be brief. I think I've seen you before; aren't you the refugee? Speak."

For a second priest Fotis felt a desire to go out, slamming the door. Was that the representative of Christ? Was it that creature who taught men justice and love? Could he expect him to recognize his rights? But he controlled himself, thought of the children on the Sarakina and the coming winter, and opened his mouth to speak; but the bishop stopped him with a gesture.

"Another time, when you come to the bishop's palace, you will wear shoes."

"I haven't any," priest Fotis answered; "I had, but I haven't now; excuse me. Christ also walked barefoot, my lord."

The bishop frowned.

"Priest Grigoris has spoken to me of you," he growled, shaking his head threateningly. "It seems you want to play Jesus Christ before us, establish equality and justice in this world. Aren't you ashamed? There's to be no rich and poor any more, and of course no bishops. Rebel!"

The priest's temples began to throb, he clenched his fist; but once more he remembered, kept calm and remained mute.

"Did you pass out of the Constantinople Seminary?"

"No, my lord."

"Then you've a right to speak! I shall not argue with you, priest. You came to ask me a favor, what do you want? Be quick about it, there are others waiting. And mind what you say."

"I've not come to ask any favor, my lord. I've come to ask for justice."

"You've a very insolent look on your face. Lower your eyes when you speak to me."

Priest Fotis looked about him. He saw behind the bishop's back an icon of Christ on the cross, then a bookcase with books in gilt bindings. A picture, larger than the icon, portrayed my lord in his gold-figured bishop's robe, with a glittering miter on his head and a gilded cross in his hand. The bishop showed annoyance at his silence.

"Priest," he said, "either you speak, or you go. I've no time to waste."

"Neither have I, my lord; I'm going. I meant to ask for justice, but now I understand and I shall appeal to Him!" he said, pointing to Christ crucified.

"To whom?" said the bishop, turning.

"To Christ crucified."

This time the bishop came off his hinges. He banged the table with his fist:

"He's right, priest Grigoris is: you're a bolshevik!"

"Yes, if He is, too!" retorted the priest, pointing again to the crucified.

"Anghelika!" the bishop called.

The niece appeared.

"Another time, if this priest comes back—take a good look at him—you will not let him in."

"God will judge us, my lord bishop, do not worrv. On that day we shall appear both of us before Him barefoot," said priest Fotis, unperturbed. He opened the door and went out without a work of leave taking.

For hours he wandered through the streets; he went into the mat-shaded market, paused in the courtyard of a mosque, crossed a donkey-back bridge, lost his way in some gardens and once more slipped in among the lanes. He looked about him but saw nothing. His boiling brain exhaled vapors which confused his sight. He thought of the bishop, of the children on the Sarakina, and of the approaching winter.

He was surprised to find himself in front of father Yerassimos's khan. He went in. Manolios was not there.

"The bird's flown!" announced the innkeeper; "he went out early to take a walk."

Priest Fotis sat down, as exhausted as if he were back from the other end of the world. Leaning his back against the wall, he shut his eyes and sighed.

Manolios, faithful to his promise, had gone to Mariori's bedside. He looked at her. She was asleep, and he waited, motionless, for her to wake up. The more he looked at her, the more his heart tightened. She was only the shadow of herself; two great blue rings surrounded her eyelids; her stretched and parchment skin stuck to her bones; one could feel that Death had already begun to lick her face.

Mariori heaved a sigh, opened her eyes; she recognized Manolios.

"Good day, Manolios," she said; "did he send youi*"

"Yes, Mariori, Michelis did."

"Have you a message for me from him?"

"Yes, Mariori, his greetings."

"Is that all?"

"That's all."

Mariori smiled bitterly.

"What else could I expect, now?" she said; "greetings will do for me."

She turned her head away to hide her tears.

"Manolios, I've got a message, too," she said, "for him."

Groping under her pillow, she found a pair of scissors.

"Help me up."

Manolios raised her in his arms, arranged the pillow behind her and laid her carefully on her back again.

Mariori took off her kerchief, untied the black silk ribbon which bound her chestnut tresses, and made ready to cut them; but her strength failed her, she could not manage it.

"I can't," she said, "I can't, Manolios. Help me."

"You want to cut them?" said Manolios in alarm.

"Cut them off!" she said, feebly.

Manolios, trembling, took the young girl's warm tresses in his hand.

"Cut them off!" Mariori repeated.

Manolios cut the first tress, then the second, shuddering as if he were carving into living flesh.

Mariori took the long tresses and stared at them for a long time. They filled her hands. She shook her despoiled head painfully. She could control herself no longer: she was shaken with sobs. She bent over them, wiped her eyes upon them, then wrapped them gently in her kerchief as though she were swaddling the corpse of a beloved child, knotted the corners and handed them to Manolios.

"Take them," she said, "you will give them to him and say to him: 'Mariori sends greetings.' That is all."

^ut the Flesh

All's going well, very well," soliloquized priest Fotis on the return journey, as he waded through the mud; "all's going per-fecdy, God be praised!"

Behind him came Manolios, bent double with the burden of the two tresses in his sack, just as if he had been carrying a dead woman on his back.

The sky darkened, there were claps of thunder, and heavy rain began to fall.

'All's going well, couldn't be better!" priest Fotis still muttered, as he hastened his pace.

He said not a word more. With his face lashed by the rain, he went on, almost at a run. A flock of cranes passed overhead; he did not even raise his eyes to look at them; he began running.

It was not until, at the approach of evening, the sharp crest of the Sarakina came in sight, that he turned to Manolios.

"We'll struggle, Manolios," he said in tones of decision. "On one side, all men—bishops, priests, notables, a blind tribe. On the other, us, two or three beggars with Christ in front. Hold firm, Manolios, we shall conquer!"

He resumed his stride, wading through the mud, and laughed.

"Why wasn't I wearing shoes! I bet Caiaphas put the same question to Christ."

They were beginning to climb the slopes of the Sarakina.

Michelis, during those two days, had been wandering like a soul in agony. He dared not go and lie down. Sleep had only to lay hold of him for his father to appear to him, completely naked, with reproachful gaze.

"If I stay here alone a few days longer I believe I shall lose my reason once and for all," he told himself in alarm.

He took his great Gospel book and opened it, hoping to chase away the atrocious vision by reading; but the letters danced, he could not stop them. Shutting the book, he began once more striding up and down the grotto from end to end.

That day, at twilight, the schoolmaster had paid him a visit. He had come, so he said, to keep him company. He had spoken to him of his father, of his fiancee, of the approaching winter, of the luckless people on the Sarakina, wondering how they would stand the bad season. Then he had got into severer subjects—what is life, what is death, what is man's duty. Michelis answered him reluctantly, absently, impatient to be alone once more. The schoolmaster looked him in the eyes. Suddenly Michelis realized, and leaped up furiously.

"Schoolmaster," he said, "did you come to verify whether I am mad?"

"What do you mean, Michelis?" the schoolmaster protested, blushing.

"I know: you're an honest man, and your conscience no longer lets you rest; you came this evening to make sure whether your brother, the priest, is a liar and a criminal? What's your conclusion, your own, Hadji Nikolis, the honest man?"

The schoolmaster was silent.

"In all honesty, coward soul," Michelis muttered, looking at the schoolmaster with compassion, "in all honesty you daren't reply, soft soul."

"No, no," said the schoolmaster in a low voice, "I daren't . . .**

"If they insist, will you tell the truth?"

"Yes, I think; but they're sure not to ask me anything."

"And if they don't ask you, won't you stand up of your own accord, to cry out the truth?"

The schoolmaster coughed, but remained silent.

"No," he answered in the end, full of shame.

Michelis was sorry for him, but his anger still possessed him.

"Is that what you teach the children?" he shouted at him, "are you what's been found for forming the new generation?"

The schoolmaster rose; he seemed extremely tired.

"The spirit is willing," he said, "but the flesh . . ."

"If the spirit were really willing, it wouldn't worry about the flesh. Doesn't it do what it likes with it?"

Michelis felt, deep down inside himself, that the reason why

he had got into such a rage was that he was hke the schoolmaster. He was only speaking to him with this harshness the better to scourge and cover with shame his own soul.

"Why are the wicked the more powerful in this world?" Mich-elis went on, "why are the good so weak? Can you explain me that, wise man?"

"No, I can't."

After a moment he added: "You've covered me with shame, Michelis, and you had a right to do so. But my brother, the priest, is stronger than I. He's always been the stronger; he used to beat me when we were little. Even now I haven't the strength to resist him. If he weren't there, perhaps . . ."

Michelis hesitated a moment.

"Listen," he said to him, dully, "doesn't there ever come into your mind, Hadji Nikolis, a horrible temptation—to kill him?"

The schoolmaster jumped with terror.

"Sometimes . . . sometimes," he whispered; "not often, only in dreams."

Hardly had he pronounced those words when he regretted it bitterly. Put out at having had his secret guessed, he made for the opening of the grotto. It was still raining; the darkness was profound.

"I'm going," he said, "good evening."

"It's pitch dark, schoolmaster," said Michelis sarcastically, "go, have no fear, no one will see that you've been to the Sarakina to bring back a report to the priest, your brother. Keep well!"

As he reached the foot of the mountain the schoolmaster thought he saw two men coming up. He quickly hid behind a rock. As soon as they had gone by, he staggered back onto the path.

Michelis is right, he told himself, exasperated against himself; yes, yes, my brother is an impostor; and I'm only a poor little whipster, honest, oh, yes, but a coward . . . But I'm going to take my courage in both hands; I shall go and find the priest this very evening. I shall shout out the truth to his face, and may God come to my aid!

In front of the grotto Michelis waited dully and anxiously for priest Fotis and Manolios. As soon as he saw them his heart became firmer. He was not alone, the world was again at peace, and the dead man had disappeared.

"Welcome," he said, "the sohtude was heavy."

"The journey, too, was heavy, my son," said priest Fotis, "but God was with us and lent us wings."

In a few words he told how he had seen the bishop and what they had said to each other.

"So it's war?" said Michelis, frightened.

"War!" priest Fotis asserted; "the holy war First it was the Turks and their aghas; now it's our own people, the rich ones and the notables. They are the more mischievous. But Christ, the supreme beggar, is with us."

He turned toward Manolios.

"For Christ, believe me, is not always as you carved Him in the wood one day, Manolios: kindly, easy, pacific, turning the other cheek when He receives a blow. He is also a resolute warrior, who advances followed by all the disinherited of the earth. 'Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword!' Whose words are those? Christ's. Henceforward the face of our Christ is like that, Manolios!"

The priest's eyes burned in the depths of the grotto, like two red-hot coals.

After a pause he resumed:

"I am happy, my children, happy that we have such a leader. It's good to be a sheep, but when you are hemmed in by wolves, it's better to be a lion."

Someone called at the entrance of the grotto; they could see the glow of a face and two outstretched hands.

"Who's there?" cried Michelis, in alarm.

Under the rain, in the dark, full of anger and grief, the voice of Yannakos arose:

"Me, brothers! I've left that dirty village, I've come to take refuge on your mountain."

"Welcome, Yannakos!" cried all three, their arms wide open.

"What's happened to you, Yannakos?" Manolios asked him, "what brings you here at such an hour, through the pouring rain?"

Yannakos seized the hand of priest Fotis and kissed it tenderly.

"I heard your last words. Father, and I agree! 'It's good to be a sheep, but when you're hemmed in by wolves it's better to be a lion.' "

He twisted his dripping hair, put his bundle on the ground and sat down on top of it. They all fell silent.

At last Yannakos said:

"This evening Panayotaros, the new bodyguard, came to see me, bearing a paper with the Agha's seal; he's taken away my ass on the excuse that I owed something to that swine Ladas . . .**

He could not help crying, but quickly pulled himself together and, rising to his feet:

"One night I'll go and set fire to his damned house; yes, by Christ, fire!" he shouted.

"No, not all alone; be patient, Yannakos," said the priest. "We'll all go down together!"

"Has the hour come?" asked Yannakos impatiently.

"It is not far off, it is approaching. That is why I propose that from tomorrow the women and children should learn how to use a sling. We must be prepared."

So saying he went to the opening.

"That's sufficient for this evening, my sons," he said. "Today, men have made us drink all kinds of poison. That's enough of that. It's time to go and sleep; let slumber heal our wounds so that we may be ready to receive others tomorrow. Come, Yannakos, you shall share my poor cell with me; I'm glad to see you among us!"

Yannakos picked up his bundle again and followed the priest.

The two friends were left alone. Michelis turned to Manolios and took his hand:

"Well?" he asked in a low voice.

Manolios pulled the girl's kerchief out of his sack.

"With Mariori's greetings."

Michelis gazed at the sad present and felt it with a trembling hand; he understood. He untied the two long tresses, buried his face in them and began to weep abundantly and to cover them with kisses.

He remained like this a long time; then, raising his head:

"She is dying?" he asked.

Manolios did not answer.

The schoolmaster, having taken his heart in both hands, had gone to find priest Grigoris. Michelis's words had increased his shame and raised his courage. For the first time in his life he was resolved to resist his brother.

The priest was at table; he had dined well, the cooking had been good, the wine excellent; having lit a cigarette he was smoking

blissfully. The day before, the Agha had sent word to him that his request had been fulfilled—he had driven away the Sarakini and had seals placed on the house of Patriarcheas. It was only right that, in his turn, he should grant the favor which Brahimaki was asking. For some days and nights the priest had been vainlv turning the position over and over in his mind: he could think of no young girl who could be suggested to the Agha without provoking a scandal. And lo and behold, this evening he had found the solution, as he smoked his cigarette.

The thing's in the bag, he muttered, pouring himself out a drop of wine. A divine inspiration! Upon my faith, the girl will do very well, she'll ask nothing better, no one will say a word, the Agha will be pleased, we shall have him on our side. God be praised!

At this moment the schoolmaster came in.

"Good evening, Nikolis," said the priest without getting up. "Where've you come from? You're all covered with mud."

"From the Sarakina!" replied the schoolmaster bravely.

The priest moved uneasily in his chair.

"What did you want to go into that frightful wasps' nest for? Don't you know that Sarakina and Lycovrissi are at daggers drawn?"

Courage, schoolmaster! said Hadji Nikolis to himself; now's the moment! Show that you are a worthy son of Alexander the Great!

"I went to see Michelis," he said, taking the plunge. "I wanted to see for myself whether he was really mad, yes or no."

"Ah!" growled the priest, "you wanted to see for yourself! Well?"

"I talked with him for an hour on all sorts of subjects, big and little."

"Well?"

"He's perfectly sane."

At these words the priest jumped up.

"Mind your own business, schoolmaster," he shouted, "don't meddle in other people's affairs! Did I tell you to go there? What's bitten you?"

"I had a weight on my conscience," the schoolmaster murmured, "I was doubtful, it's not right."

"Is it for you to tell me what's right, idiot! Michelis is mad, that's what's right!"

"But he isn't," ventured the schoolmaster.

"He is, I tell you! You see no farther than the end of your nose, you can't see beyond individuals; I don't bother about individuals, I only care for the whole; I am the leader of a people, I am. Understand, triple dolt?"

The schoolmaster said nothing.

"When an individual suffers an injustice and this injustice is profitable to the w^hole, then it is just that he should suffer this injustice! But your brain's much too small to take that in!"

He paused in front of his brother, who was listening with bent head.

"If you're asked, that is what you must say. If you can't, then keep quiet!"

"I'll keep quiet," said the schoolmaster, rising, "but deep dowm inside myself . . ."

The priest gave a sardonic laugh.

"Inside you, whatever you like, I don't care a fig; inside you, absolute liberty. But outside, look out for yourself!"

In a milder voice he added:

"You're my younger brother; we're brothers, Nikolis; remember that in front of people we must be of the same opinion—mine, d'you hear?"

The schoolmaster wanted to cry out: 'Till when? I, too, have a soul, I can't agree with you, I won't subscribe to injustice, I'll go to the village square and shout at the top of my voice!" But, in place of all that, he made for the door and said:

"Good night!"

"The gall! Him!" grumbled the priest as he emptied his glass; "An opinion of his own, the nincompoop!"

He folded his napkin, crossed himself, thanked God for giving men food and drink in such abundance, then went to bed, saying to himself:

"Tomorrow, at crack of dawn, I'll send for Martha."

Early next morning Martha arrived, bent double and cursing.

What can that goat-beard want with me at peep of dawn, just the moment when that cursed bastard will be waking up and shouting: "I want this, I want that," without knowing in the least what he does want, like a woman with child. Be on your guard, old woman; don't forget, you poor wretch, that the Devil's be-

hind everything the goat-beard says, and you mustn't fall into the trap!

When she came in, the priest was sitting cross-legged on his little sofa, sipping his coffee. His eyes were still swollen with slumber.

Martha bowed to the ground, kissed the priest's hand and, withdrawing into a comer, folded her arms.

The priest was turning over and over in his mind what he wanted to say to her, not knowing where to begin.

"You, mother Martha," he said at last, "will one day enter Paradise with your body fashioned straight as a candle. Through all the years you've been in the service of the Turk, you've still not forgotten Christianity, and when we Christians are in a great difficulty, it's you we call for. That's why I've summoned you today, my good Martha."

Devil's own priest, said the hunchback to herself, there he goes, preparing his trap. He's already put the cheese in and set the spring. Eyes open, my poor Martha, don't walk in!

"Father," she said, "your words are the words of God; at your

orders."

"You know that Brahimaki is demanding a woman; he wants the young girls of the village to dance before him so that he may take his pick, the hound! That is a great shame, death would be better. Isn't that so, Martha^"

"Death would be better!" the old hunchback confirmed.

"Yet on the other hand one must not quarrel with the Agha," the priest went on; "in the interest of the community it is better to have him with us. Well, the Agha has declared explicitly: 'If you do not find a woman for Brahimaki, I shall declare war on the community! Do you understand, mother Martha? We should be ruined! So what's to be done"? Find a woman for Brahimaki or condemn the community to ruin? What do you think, mother Martha?"

"Let the community go to its ruin!" replied the old woman, sure in advance that that was also the priest's opinion.

"What did you say, Martha? God preserve us! Let the community go to its ruin? Let Christianitv be ruined! Lord, have mercy on us! No, no, my good Martha, come, think it over!"

"I've thought it over," said Martha immediately. "Let a woman be found for him!"

"Bravo, that's what I expected of you, my child. You know the kind he wants? Well-fleshed, white as the best bread, and inno-cent.

"Well-fleshed, white as the best bread, innocent. Hm, what do you expect me to say. Father? I don't know any."

"Come, think a little, my daughter, if you want to oblige me."

"What am I to say. Father? I've been through the lot of them in my mind; one's fat and innocent, but not white, another's white and innocent, but not fat . . ."

"D'you know who I thought of? Pelaghia, Panayotaros's elder daughter, and I'll tell you why . . ."

"But she's not white, Father; if you want to know, they call her 'Darkie,' or even 'Blackie' . . ."

"That doesn't matter, my good woman. That'll be all right. I'll give you a box of powder, she'll rub her face with it morning and evening and become as white as the best bread."

"In that case, Father, it'll go quite smoothly."

"But she—do you think she'll be willing?"

"She? But, Father, nothing can stop her! She's a female Brahi-maki; only Brahimaki's a man, he shows it, while Pelaghia's a woman and hides it. Whatever will happen when those two fetch up together in bed! They'll bring the house down on my head!"

The old hunchback woman grinned and wiped her running nose with the back of her sleeve.

"That'll do. There," said the priest severely; "don't go jumping to the worst. We'd do better, both of us, to think what's the best way of arranging things. Panayotaros has become the Agha's guard. So nobody will be astonished if Pelaghia comes to the Agha's, under color of visiting her father. You'll be able to manage, Martha; you're an expert on that sort of thing. When she comes, of course, Brahimaki must see her. But before he does, you must have taken her the powder."

He rose and opened a small cupboard, from which he took out a box of powder.

"There!" he said, placing it in Martha's outstretched hands. "Tell her she can mix it with a little flour, for economy."

The old woman shook her head. She saw what the priest was pushing her into, and hesitated.

She made up her mind at last and retorted:

"All that's very well, Father, but one thing's been forgotten, the most important ..."

"What, Martha?"

"Suppose Panayotaros found out? First, he'd kill me; then Brahimaki; after that, your holiness. And to end up, he'd set fire to the village, you'd better realize!"

The priest scratched his head.

"You're right," he said. "He might kill me, too. But since it's got to be done, what are we to do? Ah! I've got an idea! I'll tell the Agha to send Panayotaros on a round."

"And suppose she became pregnant?"

"Who?"

"Who d'you suppose. Father? Pelaghia . . ."

"That'll do! you talk of nothing but misfortunes, you dirty old woman!" cried the priest, exasperated. "She won't."

"How do you know?"

"God is great," replied the priest, who did not know what to answer.

"Hm . . ." said the old hunchback, "do you think the good God busies Himself with such dirty doings, Father?"

"All right; well, you will fix it up with Mandalenia. She knows herbs."

Get thee behind me, Satan, muttered the old hunchback in an aside, is the blessed priest God's representative or the Devil's?

"What are you thinking, my child?"

"You are God's representative. Father; that's all I want to say. Do what you think best."

"I am striving for the food of Christianity, mother Martha. God knows. He will bring us His aid and all will go well. Come, courage, child, your pains will not remain unrewarded."

The old woman opened her round eyes wide: Goat-beard, she thought, that's how you should have started.

"Very good," she concluded, "it's as much as my life's worth, but I'll do what I can. On your side, let your holiness do all you can. I'm a poor, miserable woman, all alone."

"Don't worry, mother, you shan't lose by it. Run along now, and good luck, we'll talk again. I'm there, trust me!"

The old woman bowed and kissed the priest's hand.

"Give me your blessing, Father," said she. "I understand what

you want; and you understand what I want. I'll go, today as ever is, and see Pelaghia. She'll jump with joy, the holy female." "God be with you, run along and hurry up and bring me good

news."

He patted her on the shoulder, then on the hump, protectively.

"And to your wedding, mother Martha," he said, "I'll unearth a good lad for you, too—but for the good reason, eh, ending in marriage, and let you escape from the hands of the Turk. Run along!"

"Do the best you can. Father, be kind to me, I'm alone in the world," said the old woman with emotion; "do, Father, and may God reward you!"

With these words she went out, wiping her nose, which was beginning to run again. ,

The old fool, muttered the priest, as soon as she had shut the door; she believed it! What a mystery Woman is, God preserve us!

He waited a day, two days, on tenterhooks. On the third day the door opened. Panayotaros entered, wearing his new scarlet fez. At the sight of him the priest started.

"What's happening, Panayotaros?" he said, rising.

"The Agha's sent me. Father."

"What did he bid you tell me?"

"It beats me. I don't understand. He sends his greetings and I'm to tell you that Brahimaki's become quieter than a lamb."

yhc Wolves ^0 Vhcir Own Hunting

WINTER ARRIVED SUDDENLY. Natuic took OR a hostilc air. The rain began to fall, an icy wind blew from the mountains, the leaves grew yellow and strewed the ground. In the earth the seeds were bathed in water, swelled, filled with juice, prepared to put forth their shoots in the spring. The lizards lodged in their holes, the bees shut themselves up in their hives, the bats hung in clusters in the eaves. All creation withdrew to wait.

The Lycovrissi came home early to warm themselves at the corner of the hearth. They brought out from their store rooms the corn, oil and wine which they had harvested and which enabled them all through the winter to have abundance of food and drink. The oil lamps gave light to the women spinning or knitting and to pass the time, telling each other legends old as the world or wanton stories.

Nikolio had brought his sheep into the fold and now remained near the fireplace, knee to knee beside Lenio. She had already spun a great pile of wool and was busy on clothes and bonnets for the baby; her belly was growing round and Nikolio looked at her as peasants look when rain comes to land well plowed and well sown.

"We'll call him George," said Lenio, "George, after his grandfather, old Patriarcheas."

"No, we'll call him Haridimos, after my father," insisted Nikolio.

"No, I tell you, we'll call him George."

"It's the husband to command, we'll call him Haridimos."

And about this they quarrelled for fun, tumbled on the bed, near the fire, and embraced to their hearts' content.

Every time it cleared, priest Grigoris got on his mule and went to see Mariori in the town. He came back each time more taciturn

and more discouraged. His face had become more somber and his heart harder than stone. One day, as he returned, he met Pelaghia wading barefoot through the mud; her chubby cheeks were rosy as the April rose. He blamed the good God.

"Why art Thou so hard on me, Lord?" he exclaimed. "Where is Thy justice? Thou makest Mariori to waste away like a candle and to the bad girls Thou givest rosy cheeks."

Brahimaki, too, was warming himself at the fireside; a thinner and sager Brahimaki, who docilely lit the Agha's chibouk and filled his cup for him with raki; without a word . . . The Agha watched him out of the corner of his eye and smiled maliciously.

"How do you find life here, Brahimaki? Want to go back to Smyrna?"

"I'm all right at Lycovrissi; I'm not stirring!"

"The woman's got you, you poor devil. I told you so: beware of women! But you—it was no good. 'I want a woman! I want her at once!' Lxx)k at the state you're in now; it serves you right!"

Father Ladas, dried up by his avarice, walked barefoot among his vines when the sun showed itself, and his elderly mate went before him, riding on Yannakos's ass.

"You see, my good Penelope," he told her, "God is just. He's a good moneylender like me. He understands business. We didn't lose the three pounds as you feared; we've now got our donkey and you can contemplate the world from on high. Ah! how right I was when I said that, if I lived a couple of hundred years more, I'd make you queen!"

At Kostandis's cafe the villagers drank sage, sucked the narghile, played draughts, and the youngest played backgammon. The air smelled of tisane and tobacco. Every Saturday evening the schoolmaster came; they made him sit in the middle and he told stories of the deeds of their ancestors. As he spoke he came alight, waved his arms and raised his voice. He would put the chairs with the narghiles on one side and the tables with the games of backgammon on the other.

"Here, on the right," he would cry, "the Persians are drawn up in order of battle; on the left, the Greeks. Suppose I am Miltiades. How many Persians are there? A million. How many of us Greeks are there? Ten thousand; one against a hundred. Attention! The attack is beginning."

The schoolmaster hurled himself upon the chairs and upset

them, putting the narghiles in great peril. In the midst of the battle, Kostandis would intervene and pick them up.

"They're beaten hollow!" shouted the schoolmaster, streaming with sweat. "We've thrown them into the sea, at Marathon. Long live Greece!"

When the game started, the villagers laughed and poked fun; but gradually they, too, were drawn in and warmed up. No one was willing to stand on the right with the Persians; they all ran to take their places behind Hadji Nikolis, the Miltiades.

"Bravo, Miltiades!" they shouted, when the battle was won, and ordered a hot tisane for the victorious hero.

One day Yannakos came down from the mountain and entered Lycovrissi, Wolf's Fountain. Sleet was falling, the streets were deserted. He gazed at the smoke-capped chimnevs. sniffed the fragrance of the food the housewives were cooking, and recognized each dish by the smell—here, fried potatoes, here they're cooking sausages in the embers, there pilaff is being soaked with melted butter. They don't stint themselves, the swine, he muttered; they stuff their paunches full, the devil take them! Farther on, the scent of hot bread being taken out of the oven tickled his nostrils. Bread . . . bread ... he sighed, with saliva on his lips.

He hastened his pace and arrived at father Ladas's house. He walked round it once, then a second time, reconnoitring carefully the position of the walls, the windows and the patch of garden behind the house. Here, he muttered, the wall's lower; good . . . All of a sudden he stood still and his heart beat fit to burst: he had heard, from the patch of garden, Youssoufaki braying, his beloved Youssoufaki. It was as if he had caught the scent of his master.

Yannakos leaned against the wall, cocked an ear and listened, troubled. Never had he heard a sweeter voice, never had Youssoufaki uttered a tenderer bray. He remembered how, when voune. he too had sung serenades under the window of the damsel he loved—his wife now dead; but what he heard now was altogether more passionate and more sorrowful!

Don't worry, my Youssoufaki, he whispered, and his eyes were full of tears, don't worry, my Youssoufaki, I shall deliver you!

It was already dark when he returned to the mountain. He was cold and hungry. He made a round of the caves where the women

were gathered, clasping their children against them to warm them. Yannakos would go in, say a kind word—"Courage, friends, grit your teeth, this, too, will pass!" The men growled without looking up and the women shook their heads and sighed.

"Trust in God, ladies!"

'Till when, Yannakos?"

Not knowing what to say, he left them and went farther on.

"What are they doing down below in Lycovrissi? Isn't that where you've been, Yannakos?"

'Their chimneys are smoking; they're eating, curse them! They've har\'ested our vines and are drinking our wine. They've gathered our olives and are stuffing themselves with our oil. But God has eyes and sees."

"When'll he turn His eyes for a moment in this direction and see us too, Yannakos?"

Yannakos again went farther on.

Three men were sitting in a grotto, conversing in the darkness, huddled against each other for warmth. The one in the middle was Loukas, that huge devil of a banner bearer.

"Have you seen the children?" said one of them, "they're beginning to swell with hunger. Mine can't stand on his little legs any longer."

"Up to now we placed our hope in God, but . . ."

"God helps those who help themselves; if you don't stir, God doesn't stir either," said Loukas. "It's time we placed our hope in ourselves. We've only got to go down to the village and steal what we can. Who was that, came in?"

"Me, lads," said Yannakos.

"Greetings, brother. Come and huddle against us and get yourself warm."

"I'm boiling, I'm burning," replied Yannakos. "I'm not cold, I've just come from Lycovrissi."

"When are we going to do what we said?"

"Perhaps tonight," said Yannakos; "agreed, lads?'

"We're ready!" they cried, all three. "Strike while the iron's hot."

"All right, tonight, that's fine. It's dark as an oven, there's a damned cold rain falling, the people'll be at home with all the chinks stopped, and as they'll have their bellies full they'll be

sleeping like tops. We won't meet a living soul in the streets."

"We're ready!" they repeated. "We'll wait here. Come by and pick us up."

"Good. Get ready the bottles and sacks, and you, Loukas, the dark lantern."

"It's all here, Yannakos. Hurry up."

Yannakos went out and made for Manolios's grotto. On the way he caught sight of Michelis, holding something in his arms and looking at it by the light of a small wood fire which he had lit.

Yannakos came up on tiptoe. These last days Michelis had remained taciturn, plunged in deep meditation. He kept wandering alone from cave to cave, looking at the people without speaking to them.

Yannakos bent over his shoulder and saw that he was holding a little child about three years old, all skin and bones, with swollen belly and limbs as thin as reeds. On its chin long hairs had grown.

"Michelis . . ." said Yannakos, very softly so as not to alarm his friend, "don't look."

Michelis turned.

"Look, Yannakos," he muttered, "it's growing a beard. It's only three years old and famine has made it grow a beard! I found it on the road."

"Don't look," Yannakos repeated.

"I found it on the road," said Michelis again, "I can't stand it any more, I can't stand it any more, Yannakos. Can you?"

"Come," said Yannakos, taking him by the arm.

"Wait. Don't you see? It's going to die."

The child tried to cry but had not the strength. It kept opening and shutting its mouth, like a fish thrown on the beach. It moved its little hands, and suddenly stiffened in Michelis's arms.

"Come," said Yannakos. "Leave it there, tomorrow we'll dig a grave."

"I can't stand it any more, Yannakos. Can you?"

But Yannakos had seized him forcibly by the arm and was dragging him along.

They found Manolios sitting in a comer of his grotto, with head bent.

"What news, Manolios?" Yannakos asked.

"Bad, Yannakos. The comrades who work round about have

brought a little bread, but it's not enough by a long way. We've sent men to Lycovrissi and father Ladas has sent back answer that we can just die. Priest Grigoris's answer was: 'Let your priest Fotis do a miracle!' There's Dimitri the butcher has sent us a' little meat and Kostandis has emptied his modest storeroom. But that doesn't make even one mouthful per child."

"Where's the priest?"

"Here!"

Priest Fotis entered and sat down without a word. He had just buried two little brothers, who had died of hunger together, in each other's arms. Their father had brought them in a bucket, wrapped in grass, having no linen for their burial. The priest had picked them up with care to avoid separating them, laid them on the ground and recited the prayer for the dead. Meanwhile, a few paces away, their father was digging a little grave.

All were silent. The priest was the first to speak.

"Woe to the man who would measure God by the measure of his heart," he said. "He is lost. It can lead him to lose his wits, blaspheme, deny God . . ."

He fell silent once more, appalled at the words he still had on his tongue, but he could not hold himself back.

"What is this God Who lets the children die?" he cried out, rising to his feet.

"Father," said Yannakos, "I don't measure God, I do measure men. I've measured the Lycovrissiots, I've judged them, I've condemned them, and I'm going down this evening to take what they refuse to give."

The priest reflected for a moment. The two little corpses embracing came back to his mind.

"With my blessing," he murmured at length; "go to it; I take the sin upon me."

"I take it upon myself. Father," Yannakos protested, "I'm not leaving it to you."

He got up.

"The lads are waiting for me," he said. "I'm ofF!"

"God bless you! Soon we shall all go down together, in day-

light/'

"I'm going with you!" said Michelis, opening his mouth for the first time.

"Come, Michelis, it'll get the rust off you!"

He took him by the hand; the night was ink; they groped their way. Yannakos was now in an excellent humor.

"It's a good start, Michelis; we've got to get some of the rust off! Up to now we were content to say: 'Come a little this way, good things, and I'll eat you!' But they're not so simple. So put out your hand and catch them! Mustn't count on God for everything; He is good, but He, too, has His worries, can't be everywhere! We've got to stir ourselves a bit. 'Wolf, why is your throat so fat?' 'Because I do my own hunting!' Well, we, too, are going to do our own hunting, tonight. Hey, friends, we're starting!"

He had come in sight of the companions in the grotto, sitting waiting around a small fire. They sprang to their feet.

"Forward, in the name of Christ!" said Yannakos. "We've got the priest's blessing too. Come on! Don't wear your heavy shoes and boots, hey, they'd make a row and we'd have them after us."

They burst out laughing. Where would they have found shoes? Their feet were wrapped in rags.

"Got the dark lantern, Loukas?"

"Don't worry, here she is!"

Yannakos looked at it and grinned.

"It was a present from poor Captain Fortounas," he said. "I expect he can see it from Hell and is having a good laugh."

Yannakos and Loukas led the way and the two companions foh lowed him. Michelis went off on his own.

"Do your business, lads," he said to them. "Don't bother aboul me, I'm going to have a look around the village."

They could not see two steps ahead; the rain continued. Trickles of water ran down, gathered and cascaded among the rocks. At intervals, in the hollows of the mountain, a night bird uttered a plaintive cry. Suddenly, on the Prophet Elijah's peak, there rose a long, far-off howl; the four men stopped.

"A wolf," said Yannakos; "he's starving, too."

"Perhaps it's Saint Elijah," said Loukas, "and he too is hungry."

"May Saint Wolf aid us!" said Yannakos. "Come on, lads, the sheep are waiting for us."

They resumed their march. Loukas took Yannakos by the arm.

"Decided where we're going to strike first?"

"Of course! The richest, the dirtiest, the worst miser of the lot. Father Ladas. We'll fill our sacks and bottles brim full! So the poor Sarakina may have something to eat and stop howling."

Then, after a moment:

"One night we'll go down and steal some petrol as well," he added.

"Bread and petrol! You're right, Yannakos. That's what men need nowadays, to keep alive and get their own back. Because it isn't enough just to keep alive."

At the edge of the village Yannakos stopped and, turning to his companions:

"I'll go in front," he said to them, "I know the ground. Follow me, one behind the other, single file. I'll climb over first."

They entered the lanes. These were deserted. It was not far off midnight, and the whole village was in its first slumber.

Provided my Youssoufaki doesn't scent me again and start braying . . . said Yannakos to himself, just as they reached father Ladas's house. God grant he's asleep . . .

He flattened himself against the wall and waited for the others. They came up one by one.

"Let's slip around behind the garden," said Yannakos under his breath. "The wall's less high that side. Give me the lantern, Loukas. Here, come, careful!"

"Is there a dog?" someone asked.

"How would he have a dog, the old miser! A dog eats," answered Yannakos.

And to Loukas:

"You, lamppost, you'll stay outside and act as the ladder. We'll climb on your shoulders and jump down inside. If you see danger coming you just hoot like an owl. Ready, lads?"

"Ready!"

The tall devil leaned against the wall, caught hold of Yannakos and hoisted him on to his back.

"In the name of Saint Wolf," he said, "jump!"

Yannakos bestrode the wall, then jumped down into the garden. He waited for his companions, who jumped down too, one by one, with the sacks and bottles on their backs.

"Follow me, I know the way. Attention."

They crossed the garden, found the back door open and entered the house. They heard the snores of the owner coming from the upper room.

"He's asleep," said Yannakos. "We're in luck."

He lit the lantern, found the still-room door and pushed it open; they went in.

It smelled of oil, wine, dried figs, quinces. The lantern flashed around the room, lighting up the rows of fat-bellied jars and the barrels of wine.

"Hurry up, lads, work fast," Yannakos whispered;, "come on, fill

I" up!

One of them tapped a barrel and ran the wine into his leathern bottle, another poured com into his sack. Yannakos lifted the can of oil and filled a bottle; then he stufFed a second sack with corn.

Glancing about, he saw a ladder against the wall. "God be praised," he said, "there's a ladder also; otherwise how would we have got all this up? The God of thieves is with us; come on, lads, let's be off!"

Laden like bandits, they crossed the garden once more, put the ladder against the wall and climbed up with their heavy and precious booty. Loukas opened his arms to receive sacks and bottles and laid them out on the ground. Then each of the companions, using his broad shoulder for support, jumped dow^n. Yannakos was the last and stayed astride the wall. He did not want to come down.

"Here, lads, one minute, while I go and see my donkey, and I'll be back," he said.

"Let the donkey be, Yannakos," protested Loukas, "and come along. There's no knowing what may happen."

"I can't," muttered Yannakos, "I can't; only a minute, lads, and I'll be here."

With these words he went down again into the garden.

His companions frowned but said nothing and, with straining ears, kept watch in case anyone should come along the road or open a door.

"Go on ahead, you two," said Loukas to his comrades; "it's better we should be dispersed. I'll wait."

He helped them load the two sacks on to their backs and they made off.

Left alone, Loukas crouched in the rain and waited. Suddenly a bray rang out, joyous, triumphal, like the trumpet of the Last Judgment. "Devil take that donkey of his," growled Loukas; "he'll wake the whole neighborhood."

A window opened in the house and a voice called; it was father Ladas's:

"Mother Penelope, are you asleep? Hey, mother Penelope, why's the ass braying like that?"

But no one answered. The braying stopped, and once more nothing was heard except the rain pattering in the courtyard. Loukas raised his head and saw a shadow astride the wall.

He stood up to his full height and caught Yannakos by the feet.

"Let's be off, Loukas, let's be off! I think the old man's awakened."

Putting the leather bottles on their backs, they took to their heels.

"You've done what you wanted," said Loukas when they emerged from the village; "you've seen your ass."

"Yes," said Yannakos with a sigh; "if I could have got him up the ladder, upon my word I'd have brought him with me. And Michelis?" he added, a little later, anxiously.

"He must have had his look round and come back. Let's get on!"

Priest Fotis and Manolios had not gone to bed. They were waiting. Day was breaking already. The east was lightening faintly; the rain had stopped, but the sky remained threatening. Suddenly whistles and joyful voices were heard.

"There they are!" said Manolios, running out.

The four robbers appeared, heavily laden. They had lit the lantern to show their way and their faces could be seen glowing. Yannakos was leading, with the wineskin on his back.

"Many greetings from old Ladas, that good and charitable man! It isn't much, he says, but my heart goes with it. He sends you this wine to drink his health in!"

"And here is oil to lubricate your innards," said Loukas, laying down the other skin at the priest's feet. "If you want more, his jars are full of it, he says."

"Here, there's corn, so the poor little children, for whom he's full of pity, may have bread to eat!" said the other two, laying down their full sacks.

"Thanks be given to him," answered priest Fotis, laughing, "and may God pay him for them with interest! I'll go at once and write him a letter saying that four angels have entered his house by night, that they have taken the precious gifts and, loading them on

their wings, have brought them to us on the Sarakina. That everything may be in order, I'll enclose an I.O.U. valid in the life to

come."

"Write also, Father," said Yannakos, laughing, "that one of the angels wanted to smash his jars and his barrels and spill the oil and wine, but that at the last moment he had pity, not on him, but on the wine and on the oil."

"Manolios," said priest Fotis, "bring a glass and let's offer the angels a drink! Come in and shake out your soaked wings, my lords!"

"To the health of father Ladas, that good man!" said the priest, emptying his glass.

"To the health of the angels," said Manolios.

"To the health of Saint Wolf," said Loukas. "You know, as we started, he began to howl on the top of Sarakina, and that gave us courage." I "And Michelis?" said Yannakos; "we didn't see him."

"He's come back," Manolios answered. "He was covered with mud and said nothing. He's asleep."

Next morning, when father Ladas came down into his garden, the sight of the ladder placed against the wall made him uneasy. Turning, he called to his wife, who was up already and sitting by the window, gazing at the world with her dull eyes.

"Hey, mother Penelope, who put the ladder against the wall? Did you?"

But mother Penelope had already picked up her sock and was knitting. She did not even look in his direction.

The old man put the ladder on his back and carried it to the still-room. He gave a glance around to see if everything was in place: the jars, the barrels, the dried figs, the quinces.

"God be praised," he muttered. "Luckily no thieves came. She doesn't know what she's doing any longer, poor woman; I must keep an eve on things. She's quite capable of setting fire to the house one day."

Then he went into the stable. The ass too was in his place.

"Here, what was the matter with you last night, waking me up with your hee-haws?" he said, furiously, giving him a kick.

But the donkey did not turn, either. His big eyes were strangely lost in the void. He had the impression of having dreamed that dur-

ing the night his real master had come and tenderly, as he always did, stroked his neck, belly and back. He had then lifted his tail happily and let out a bray, and his master had caught him by the muzzle to make him be quiet, and had kissed his ears and neck. And he had vanished through the little round window.

The ass bent his head, shut his eyes and prayed to his own God— a God with an enormous bushy tail, a huge pure-white ass's head, a velvet and gold pack-saddle and red harness embroidered with silver spangles, glittering like stars:

"O God, make my last night's dream come true!" he prayed.

Early in the morning the news of the miracle spread over the whole of the Sarakina: four angels, during the night, had brought corn, oil and wine to the starving! The simple among them believed and crossed themselves; the more shrewd glanced with smiles at Yannakos and Loukas. The women fell upon the corn and at once began to sift it, singing softly as though to lull a baby to sleep, as though they were dandling the Child Jesus. Did a grain fall to the ground? They quickly stooped to pick it up; was it not a precious part of the God, which must not be allowed to be sullied by contact with the soil? In a twinkling they crushed a certain quantity on the stones, fashioned a flat cake and baked it in the embers, moistening it with a little oil to make it more tasty; then they gave everyone a mouthful, sharing it out like the consecrated bread; and straightaway they felt comforted in flesh and blood, as though that bread were really the Body of Christ.

After that, all drank a drop of wine, and the women could not keep back their tears.

"O God," they sighed, "a mouthful of bread, a sip of wine— that's all that's needed to make the soul feel it's growing wings!"

In the afternoon, two men loaded the corn onto their backs to carry it to the mill. The women escorted the precious cargo part of the way as though afraid it would never come back.

"When'll it be back?" they cried to the bearers.

"Tomorrow morning, don't you worry, ladies!" they answered laughing.

Yannakos had become the Sarakina storekeeper. He it was who kept the victuals and shared out to the women, each morning, what thev needed for the day's meals.

"Spin it out, friends," he would cry; "tighten your belts till win-

I

ter's over. The angels have other things to do, they can't bring us some every day."

A htde bread and a little oil was enough to revive the flame which had been on the point of going out. The children began to lose their swellings and to get some color back into their cheeks. The women had milk, and the sucklings no longer complained all night. The men, too, grew cheerful again; their arms recovered strength. They transported stores to finish the huts they had begun. From time to time even a laugh was heard, a joke, and in the out-of-the-way grottoes it was now possible to stumble on a couple who had the strength to kiss and embrace.

"All this corn, this oil, this wine must become blood and we must gather the strength for an expedition," said priest Fotis to Manolios that day. "We can't always be hungry and steal. We shall have to go down to the village and take possession, by force if need be, of the lands which belong to us. They alone will enable us to live on this barren mountain."

"Soon," said Manolios, "the vines will have to be pruned, the olives lopped, the fields dunged. Are we going to let them go neglected? It would be a year lost. What are you waiting for. Father?"

"I'm waiting for the sign in me, Manolios. I'm waiting for the voice which will give me the order. You know, never have I taken an important decision without hearing that voice. And the decision you mention, Manolios, is a grave one; blood will be shed."

"I know. Father. But in a world like this, without honor and unjust, can anything be done without blood being shed? I used to tell myself: the Lycovrissi will see the state our children are in, they'll see their swollen bellies, their hollow cheeks, their skinny legs; they'll have pity on them. So the day before yesterday I sent some of them to the village. Do you know how they were received? Some people took up sticks and chased them away from their doors, others threw them a bit of dry bread, as though they were dogs. Only one had pity on them. Do you know who. Father? The Agha! He saw them from his balcony, scratching at the ground to find a few grains, a few bits of potato peel, a few lemon skins, and he shouted out: 'What's that? litde monkeys? little men?' He came down, opened his door to them, and had them come in. Then he called Martha. 'Lay the table, Martha, bring them something to eat. They're little monkeys, give them something to eat and let's turn them into men.' "

ago '^^ Greek Passion

"1 didn't know. You didn't tell me, Manolios!" cried the priest, his eyes shining through his tears.

"I kept it from you, Father, to spare you. Your heart's full of poison which men keep pouring into it; what was the good of adding this?"

"You should have told me, Manolios; my heart's got to overflow! If man's heart doesn't overflow either with love or with anger, nothing gets done in the world, you can take it from me!"

He fell silent; suddenly exhausted, he sat down on a rock, with his head bowed on his chest, as though listening. Manolios sat down facing him, gazing at the plain. It was no longer raining, and the earth was brimming with winter, glutted. A light wind was blowing and the olive trees were waving, now silver, now dusky green. The vineyards, too, were steeped in water and looked quite black. A falcon launched into flight from Saint Elijah's crest and wheeled above the plain.

Priest Fotis stood up.

"My heart has overflowed," he said, "I'm going."

Manolios said nothing; he was aware of the priest's body taut to the breaking point. "Better not speak to him," he told himself, "better not . . ."

Priest Fotis clambered up the rocks and took the path leading to the peak of the mountain. Saint Elijah was gleaming up there, perfectly white.

The priest kept on up, holding himself upright like a sword; sometimes he disappeared behind the rocks, only to reapnear farther on, still advancing. He had taken off his monk's skullcap and his hair was floating in the wind.

Soon Manolios saw his silhouette in front of the little chapel, cut out against the white wall and no larger than a falcon's. Immediately afterward the door yawned, dead black. The priest entered and disappeared.

Manolios at once went back into his grotto, took a big oak log, and began to carve the new face of Christ.

c/ke Savage Face of Qhrist

NIGHT WAS FALLING and the priest had not returned. A violent wind had arisen, the sky turned threatening. The howl of the wolf rang out again, far off, in the night.

"Let's go and see what's become of him, something may have happened to him," said Michelis.

They were the first words to issue from his mouth for many days. He had been more and more deeply plunged in bitter meditations, sometimes sighing, sometimes raising his eyes toward the little mountain church—and smiling, then, at peace. He kept the tresses of Mariori clasped against his chest, next to the skin, and trembled and clutched them at every moment as though afraid he had lost them. At night he would awake with a cry, start up, and be unable to get to sleep again.

Manolios was sitting quietly with him in the grotto. It was perhaps midnight.

"Nothing can happen to him," Manolios answered. "From the way I saw him stand up and take that path, Michelis, nothing can happen to him. For a moment I thought he was immortal."

"He's a long time ... a long time . . . what's he doing:"" muttered Michelis, not reassured by his friend's words.

"They are in consultation, they're having a secret conversation, the two of them, they're making plans, Michelis—Saint Elijah and he. No one can come between them. They're taking decisions."

"But will he have anything to eat this evening? How will he get any sleep? It's freezing."

"He won't eat, he won't sleep, and he won't be cold. In the state he's in now, I assure you, he needs nothing. He's as though dead, as though deathless, I don't know. He needs nothing."

At this moment Yannakos appeared. He was morose, grumbling and cursing.

"There you are in a bad temper again, what's the matter with you, Yannakos?" ManoHos asked. "How's business, storekeeper to the Sarakina?"

" 'How are your httle ones, Mr. Crow?' 'They're getting blacker and blacker,' " was Yannakos's answer.

He added, a moment later:

"We're getting to the end of the victuals, that's what the matter is; we shall soon be seeing the bottom. What's to be done? Take the lads down again, for a descent to the plain? This time it's priest Grigoris's turn."

"It's Lycovrissi's turn; you wait!" said Manolios.

Yannakos shivered and clapped his hands with joy.

"Has the hour come?" he cried. "Has the priest said so?"

"He hasn't said anything yet, but I think the hour's getting near. He said his heart had overflowed."

And he began to tell of his conversation with the priest.

"If only he could wait a bit longer, give me time to get ready," muttered Yannakos this time; "I'm not ready."

The two friends turned toward him to try and make out his face in the darkness.

"Something missing, Yannakos?" asked Manolios.

"Yes, indeed."

"What?"

"The petrol. I gave the good God my word to bum father Ladas's house."

"You are savage," said Michelis, making up his mind to speak.

"I'm just," retorted Yannakos. "If Christ came down on earth today, on an earth like this one, what do you think He'd have on his shoulders? A cross? No, a can of petrol."

Manolios jumped up, and leaned against the wall of the grotto to listen.

"What do you think, Manolios?" asked Yannakos, "you don't say anything."

"How do you know, Yannakos?" Manolios muttered, trembling.

"I don't know, I wasn't taught it, nobody told me, I'm sure of it."

After a silence, he went on:

"In a few days' time our children will be wandering in the streets of Lycovrissi again with their crutches, poking in the rubbish bins

to find peel and filth to eat, while the fat pigs watch them and laugh. Well, that's how our children see Christ in their dreams. That's the way they ask Him to come down on earth. But in the morning, when they wake up, they forget—they're children, aren't they?—and they go back to poking the rubbish heaps."

Manolios listened, breathlessly, without a word. But his heart was leaping. That was exactly how he had seen Christ in a dream the other night, but he had not dared reveal it. He had seen Him coming down from a sunlit, bald mountain just like the Sarakina, barefoot and carrying on His shoulder not a cross but a can of petrol. His hard, sad, wrathful face was turned toward Lycovrissi. Looking at Yannakos, he said to him: "You're right, comrade; not a cross; petrol." "I'm off to find my zebras. There's no time to lose." At the opening of the grotto he stopped and laughed: "Priest Grigoris," he said, "has a petrol lamp, so he must have a can in his storeroom. Perhaps two, even. I'll take Loukas with me; he makes a fine ladder. See you tomorrow!"

It was already broad daylight when Manolios made out priest Fotis coming down from the top of the mountain. He was leaping from boulder to boulder, with his cassock flying like two black wings; his hair was straggling over his shoulders. He really looked like the Prophet Elijah in person, especially as, behind him, the sky in the east was red with a more than customary brilliance. The priest seemed to be coming down ringed with flames.

Several women who had gone to fill their pitchers with water caught sight of him, were terrified and set up a cry:

"God, mercy! Saint Elijah's escaped from the mountain—he's coming down!"

The men rushed out and went off to meet him with Manolios at their head; they had suddenly all had the presentiment that the priest was bringing them great news.

"What's he got in his hands, lads?" said Yannakos, who, not having slept all night, had tingling eyes. He had not even washed, and his hands reeked of petrol.

"It's true, what is it he's carrying?" said Michelis, trying to make it out.

"An icon! An icon!" cried Loukas who was in front. He, too, gave out a smell of petrol.

"He's taken Saint Elijah and is bringing him to us!" ManoHos said to himself, "it's a good sign!"

Now they could make out the priest's face clearly, a severe, somber face. He seemed not to see them, not to hear their calling, as if his spirit had not yet left the Prophet's burning solitude.

"Let's draw aside and let him pass, friends," said Manolios. "Don't let anyone speak to him; he's still conversing with God." The priest was coming down with great strides, he was hurrying, sending the stones rolling. Everyone could now recognize that he was carrying, held upright in his arms, the miraculous icon of the Prophet.

"I believe I smell powder," said Yannakos to Loukas, his companion of the night's work, "look at his face!"

"Lucky we've done our business in time!" said Loukas. "Most of the houses are wood; our two cans will be enough."

The women had climbed the slope and were arriving, babbling and chattering about miracles, sairits, dreams. With craning necks they gazed at the priest descending. One saw that he had black wings and was flying, another that they were not wings but his cassock; only there was a raven which had perched on his shoulder and was holding in its beak a burning coal and making him eat it. All of a sudden they fell silent: the priest was coming past. "Come with me!" he ordered the men, without stopping. "And you too, women," he flung at the group of women, as he marched on with huge strides, holding the Prophet dead straight in his arms.

All were taken aback, as though some bird of prey had just passed through them, brushing them with its harsh wings. In great excitement, men first, the women behind, they followed in silence.

The sun, already high and shining through light clouds, was a mere white-hot ball. Below, the plain was still drowned in a thick mist. A few old women, late comers, emerged from the grottoes, shielded their eyes with their hands and gazed in amazement at the crowd descending.

When he reached the caves, priest Fotis stopped. He placed the icon on a rock, and they all—men, women and children—gathered in a circle around him.

Stretching out his arms, he began to speak. At first his voice was hoarse, his throat tight. The words hastened, jostled, trying all to

get out at the same time; none got through. But gradually his throat untied itself, his voice grew firm, the words fell into line.

"Men," he cried, "listen. Women, take your children in your arms, let them hear, too! I come down from a chariot of fire. I will lead you where it has led me. What it has confided to me, I will reveal to you! Life is not a sleeping water; submission and resignation are not the most virile virtues, nor those most pleasing to God! A good man cannot see children fall and die of hunger before his eyes without rising up and demanding an account even from God!

"I went up to that peak to talk with the patron saint of our mountain, that our decision might lead to a remedy for the evil. For our children are also his, he is responsible for them!"

With outstretched arms he addressed the icon:

"You are responsible for them. Prophet of the fire; that is why, to be honest, I went right up to your eyrie. And like the tenant farmer who goes to render his yearly accounts to his landlord, loaded with presents drawn from his vineyards and his gardens, I, too, took udth me the sufferings and mourning of the people, and I have laid them at your feet.

"All night, my children, I remained standing before that Prophet and spoke to him. I told him who we are, whence we have come and how we arrived upon his mountain, seeking refuge beneath his roof. All that, he knew—I had told him already—but it was good that he should hear it afresh. He listened and said nothing.

"Then I spoke to him of our neighbors, down below, in Lycov-rissi, telling him how they have treated us, how they have driven us away, all without exception, priest, notables, inhabitants, how they have despoiled us, not allowdng us to work the lands which Michelis, our benefactor, has given us. I told him all, I lightened myself of my bile. Still he listened and said nothing.

"Then I spoke to him of the martyrdom being suffered by his people, of the hunger, of the cold, of the sickness. The insolence of the rich passes all bounds, patron,' I cried to him, 'the gullet of the sated is swollen to excess, the knife is touching the bones; do you hear, fierce charioteer of the fire? Arise, harness your horses, descend!' And still he listened to me and said nothing.

"I grew white hot, and I gazed at him, saying within myself: Won't his heart then burst? How can he contain so much suffering, accept so much injustice, tolerate so much insolence? Won't

g85 The Greek Passion

he dart out from the icon? Won't he harness the flames, seize me by the nape of the neck and seat me by his side that we may go down to Lycovrissi?'

"I clung to the icon and, leaning close to his ear: 'Elijah, hey. Captain Elijah,' I cried to him, 'listen to this as well: our children can't any longer stand on their legs, so hungry they are; some on crutches, others with sticks, they have gone down, limping like crows, to beg in Lycovrissi. You know this, surely, you must have heard; you leaned down from your peak, I saw you; your beard swept the roofs of Lycovrissi and you saw our children weeping in front of the doors.'

"Under my gaze I felt the body of the Prophet grow warm, come to life and, taking new courage:

" 'Yes,' I cried to him, 'you consented to lean out of your chariot of fire, to look down below and see how the Lycovrissi received them! Listen: there are some who took up sticks to drive them from their doors; others—did you see?—beat them unmercifully!'

"Hardly had I uttered these last words when I recoiled, terrified. It seemed to me as if the icon struck me, as if the four horses of fire came to life, as if the lips of the Prophet were moving and as if I heard a great cry: 'Let me go!'

"At that, the icon leaped into my arms."

All were overcome, gasping. The women, with cries, fell on their knees before the miraculous icon; the men, exalted by the priest's words, raised their heads and saw the Prophet, ringed with flames, descending from the peak of the mountain.

"Welcome, Prophet Elijah!" the women greeted him.

"Give the signal. Father," cried Yannakos, "while we've still a mouthful of bread to eat and while we've strength. The victuals are giving out!"

Manolios approached the priest and, kissing his hand:

"Raise your arm. Father. Has the hour come? We are ready."

Priest Fotis raised his arm toward his people:

"In three days," he cried, "in three days, my children, on the twenty-second of December, on the birthday of light, the birthday of the Prophet Elijah. That will be the great day! Prepare, companions, men and women; we shall descend!"

All passed in procession before the icon and bowed to the ground. In their eyes the Prophet was alive, his mantle was simply a brazier crackling in the wind. The women saw drops of sweat welling from

his forehead and the children, as they pressed their hps to the icon, felt the Prophet move under their mouth.

Exhausted, priest Fotis went and lay down in his cave. He closed his eyes, that sleep might come and God might descend in a dream and speak. Manolios bore away the icon of the Prophet of fire and placed it at the back of the grotto, in the darkness, beside the Crucifixion with the swallows.

From that moment the Sarakina began to hum like a martial camp. Those who had no stick went off into the mountain in search of holm oaks whose branches they could cut. Those who knew how to handle a sling taught the women and children to use one. Priest Fotis, having distributed to the bravest the arms that were available, ran indefatigably from one to the other, giving instructions.

Toward evening Kostandis, arriving from the village, was struck with amazement at hearing this noise, at seeing the men busy showing the women how to hurl stones from the sling or how to cut branches for clubs, as though they were preparing, every man and woman among them, for war. He found Manolios carving hastily the new face of Christ; it was his own weapon, and he was in a hurry to finish it that all might be ready.

Kostandis sat down beside him, dismayed.

"Manolios," he said, "if you've the time, raise your head a moment and listen to me. I've brought bad news."

"Welcome to it, Kostandis; the mountains are used to snow, they aren't afraid of it, speak."

"Mariori is dead."

Manolios dropped the piece of wood he was carving. His eyes grew big with alarm.

"Dead?" he said, stupefied, as if he were hearing of death for the first time.

"The news came yesterday, at midday. Her old father gave a cry that shook the village. He at once got on his mule and went off groaning. When he reached the town, she was already buried; he wasn't able to close her eyes. This morning he came back. You wouldn't know him. Grief has set his wits tottering. I saw him knocking at people's doors in the village and I was frightened. I was sorry for him. He was walking barefoot, with his long hair in the wind. He kept knocking at doors, calling everyone to church. He wanted to speak to them. He had the beadle ring the knell.

Everyone left work and went. He gathered us together in the churchyard and stood on a stone bench. His chin was tremWing so that he couldn't speak. But his bloodshot eyes were shooting flames. In the end he managed to pull his strength together and a hoarse voice came out of his throat.

" 'My sons, I shall only say two words to you, I can't say more, my heart would break: the Sarakina will have us all! The Sarakina will have us all!'

"He stops, draws breath. After a long while, he begins again: 'Rise, arm yourselves, I shall be at your head; up, my children, they must be driven away, the brutes! It's they who've cast the evil eye upon our village, which was so prosperous. Ever since the cursed hour when they set foot here, misfortune and death have rained blows on us without respite. The first and most to blame is Man-olios, the excommunicated! He put ideas into Michelis's head and made him mad. He was the cause of the breaking-off of his engagement with my Mariori; he it is too, who's killed her, killed my daughter!'

"He tried to go on speaking, but he was taken with giddiness. He stretched out his arms to steady himself against the walls, but he couldn't see and lost his balance and fell heavily on the stone pavement."

Kostandis fell silent. Manolios tugged the end of the handkerchief he was wearing around his head like a turban, and bit it so as not to cry out. "Mariori is dead, dead . . . dead . . ." he repeated to himself without managing to give these words a meaning. He turned toward Kostandis: "Well?" he asked, his mind wandering, "well?" "I came to tell you, Manolios, so that you might be on your guard. The villagers are beside themselves after what the priest has said to them, and they're preparing to come and attack you. They were looking for a pretext and now they've found one. The rich are frightened of you because they believe you're bolsheviks; the poor hate you because the rich have blinded them; so they'll hit out when they can. There's a lot of them and they've arms; also, the Agha's with them; be careful."

"Kostandis, go and find poor Michelis, tell him the news. I can't. Break it to him gently, because lately our young archon hasn't been himself. He comes and goes without a word, he looks at you and his mind's somewhere else; you speak to him, he doesn't answer. At

night he trembles at going to bed, he's afraid to go to sleep. One day I asked him: What are you afraid of, Michelis?' He had trouble in opening his mouth: 'The dead man . . . the dead man . . .' was his answer. Come, courage, Kostandis, go and find him. I'm going to speak to the priest."

"It's all over now," muttered Michelis, closing the silver Gospel book which he had been reading. "I don't need anything any more, Kostandis. God has taken a knife and cut my life in two. He'd already thrown the first half into the earth; now He's thrown the second. All of me is now under the earth."

Kostandis was troubled at seeing with what calm Michelis received the terrible news; behind Michelis's serene face he could feel the world crumbling.

"All is over," said the man who had once been a young archon, again, and stood up. He took a rope from a hollow in the rock and tightened it around the Gospel book, as though he were muzzling a wild animal to prevent it from biting.

He looked at Kostandis and shook his head.

"Which way am I to turn, Kostandis? Toward man? That's dirty and stinks. Toward God? He lets father Ladas live and prosper and kills Mariori. Toward myself? An earthworm twisting in the sunshine and crushed by a boot at the very moment when he was telling himself: Tm all right, I'm all right in the sunshine, it's warm.' Can you understand it at all, Kostandis?"

But Kostandis had children, how could he understand? He got

"I'll go and see Yannakos," he said.

In the cave which he had transformed into a storeroom, Yannakos was measuring what was left in the way of oil and flour. For several days there had been no wine.

"Two days more," he muttered, "three at most. We shall just do it. After that, war. Then, we shall see! Life's a curable disease. Here, as long as I'm alive, as long as I can say to myself I'm alive and my Youssoufaki's alive, I've courage. One day we shall be together again. Death's the only thing that can't be cured."

"Hullo, Yannakos!" cried a voice behind him. "What's become of you, old one? D'you never come down to the village now?"

Yannakos turned and saw Kostandis.

"Hullo, Kostandis, friend," he said joyfully. "Yes, I do still go

down to your blessed village, but how'd you see me? At the hour when I go there, it's black as pitch."

He told him, laughingly, how he had twice been into the village, like a wolf, to carry out a raid on the two houses.

"Look here," he said in conclusion, "the victuals we got away with are saying good-bye to us, but here's the petrol, see, in the corner; no one's touched it yet. It's waiting for the moment to do its miracle!"

"What miracle?" asked Kostandis, agog.

"Turning into fire, Kostandis. Isn't that its job? If not, why has God sent it down to earth?"

He thought for a moment and struck his forehead.

"You did well to come," he said, "it's the good God sent you. Want to do something for me? Today's Sunday. The day after tomorrow—^Tuesday—can you take my ass from father Ladas's? You'll tell him you need it. If you pay the old skinflint, he'll let you have him; you'll keep him all day at your place? Understand? Not a hair of his must be burned. At your place he'll be safe."

"So you're planning to set fire to father Ladas's house?" said Kostandis, appalled.

"Well, what else have we been talking of, all this time? Isn't that petrol's job? The good God knows what he's doing."

"Weigh up the pros and cons, Yannakos; this will get you into terrible trouble."

"I've weighed them again and again, Kostandis, the weight's just right for me, as if I'd ordered it. I've told our Prophet Elijah too— Captain Elijah, as our priest calls him. He says yes."

Kostandis scratched his head.

"I don't understand," he said.

"You don't understand because you've got a caf^, a wife and children. If you're hungry, you manage somehow. How could you understand? So you act stupid, you kiss the Agha's dirty hand and priest Grigoris's and all the rest! But the man who hasn't anything, Kostandis, doesn't kiss any hands; there's the whole secret. Don't frown, old one; your hour will come, you'll see, be patient."

"I'm on your side, Yannakos, so don't go for me," said Kostandis after a while, with a deep sigh, "I often talk it over with Andonis and fat Dimitri the butcher. What can we do?"

"Go and ask priest Fotis, he'll tell you. All I ask is one thing:

for my Youssoufaki to be at your place on Tuesday; there! And watch out, not a word about it, eh?"

Sunday passed and Monday came. Toward midday, thick snow began to fall; soon the top of the mountain was all white. The Prophet Elijah muffled himself in his white; famished, the ravens flew off toward the plain. The sky was of red copper.

Manolios, bent over the oak log since early morning, was concentrating all his force and carving the wood. His soul had become a graving tool, cutting, gouging, hollowing, endeavoring to set free the face of Christ imprisoned in the wood. The divine face rose up within him, as he had seen it the other night in his dream, hard, sad, wrathful. A deep weal gashed it from the right temple to the chin; it had a drooping mustache and bushy eyebrows.

Since dawn he had been trying to reproduce this austere image faithfully; he must be quick. As evening approached, the divine countenance emerged at last from the wood; Manolios jumped back, appalled.

At that moment Michelis came in, tired, despairing. He looked at the carved wood and recoiled.

"What is it?" he cried; "it's War!"

"No, it's Christ," replied Manolios, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"But in that case, what's the difference between Him and War?"

"None," replied Manolios.

It had grown dusk. The flakes were falling thickly, silently, covering everything. Down below, the plain had disappeared.

Manolios lit the oil lamp, took down from its hook the old face of Christ which he had carved, and placed it side by side with the new one.

"What a difference!' muttered Michelis, fearfully. "Is it the same?"

"The same. Then, He was patient, meek, serene; now. He is hardened. Can you understand, Michelis?"

Michelis was silent. But after a moment:

"In the past, I couldn't have," he said; "now, I can." Then he fell silent again.

On the Tuesday, day had scarcely broken when the Sarakini were already afoot. The peak of the mountain was sparkling white. The

Prophet was hidden under a thick hood. But as soon as the first rays of the sun fell on him he came to life and awoke in a rosy glow.

Priest Fotis assembled his people:

"My children," he said, "this day will decide our fate. We have been patient as long as we could. We have reached the edge of the abyss. If we had waited a little longer we should have fallen in. The children first, then the men and the women. We had to choose between dying or fighting for life. We have chosen the fight. Is everyone agreed?"

"Agreed, priest, all of us!"

"I have questioned the watchman who is stationed up there above us, Captain Elijah. He, too, agrees. Then I questioned my heart. Agreed, likewise. All our today's undertaking is undertaken not blindly but with open eyes, with clear minds, like free men. We shall be going to demand what is our due, not charity, but justice! In the plain we have gardens, vineyards, fields; we have olive trees and houses. Let them give them to us! We are not seeking to lay hands on the fields belonging to the others; we are asking that we may work our own, and so live. We are not the army of violence; we are the army of the victims of injustice who have had enough of injustice.

"We shall not be the first to strike. But if they strike us, we have the hands God has given us and we shall strike back. What can justice do, how can it impose itself in an unjust and dishonest world, if it is not armed? We are going to arm justice. They have armed injustice, they have! We are going to show, today, that virtue, too, has heads. Christ is not only a sheep, He is also a lion. And it is as a lion that He will come with us today.

"Manolios has carved His face in wood. There it is! That is the Christ who will march at our head and be our leader!"

With these words he lifted the savage face high. In the morning air, above the heads of the crowd, the image of Christ swayed, menacingly. At the last moment Manolios had painted red the wound which went from the temple to the chin. So Christ appeared to the gripped people like some great Combatant wounded in the wars and sallying out afresh to combat.

"Here is our leader!" cried the priest. "Raise your hands, salute Him!"

Then, to Loukas, the banner bearer:

"Loukas, fix this holy face on the top of the banner, and let it

go before us and blaze our march! And now, everyone to his place, God's day has dawned, forward! First, Loukas with the banner; then the men with arms, then, closing the rear, the women and the children with slings!"

The troop formed, all crossed themselves, priest Fotis took the icon of the Prophet Elijah in his arms, Manolios moved to the van with his men; Yannakos took up position behind them, with the petrol can under his arm. Michelis had climbed onto a rock and watched them set out.

"I shan't go with you. Father," he had declared to priest Fotis; "my arms—see?—have no strength in them. Good luck!"

He watched them go. Their rags were fluttering in the wind; many of them were barefoot, others shod with sheepskin or clouts. Their cheeks were hollow, their bones stuck out and glinted at cheek and chin, their eyes looked like black holes. They were hungry, they were cold, they began running to get warm.

Yannakos put the can of petrol down for a moment and rubbed his frozen hands.

"Aren't we going to sing, lads?" he cried. "Do people go to a festival with their mouths sewoi up? Come on! A marching song, an amane, a. psalm, anything you like; let's sing, lads, and get warm!"

And suddenly breasts swelled, mouths opened; priest Fotis gave the signal and all the people intoned triumphantly the ancient warlike canticle their ancestors had sung when going out to war against the barbarians:

Lord, save Thy people and hless Thine inheritance; Lord, aid us to drive out the harharians.

Hp Other Way

IT WAS THE HOUR when Lycovrissi was beginning to stretch and wake. It was freezing hard. The mountains around about were all white; the men of the village had stayed huddled in their nice warm beds, spinning out their laziness. The night before they had killed the pigs and, having singed off the hides and emptied them out, had turned them over, properly clean, to their wives and daughters, who today would busy themselves with preparing the jelly, stuffing the bowels to make sausages, filling small pots and jars with the pate, the bacon, the salted breast.

That day, therefore, the housewives had got up first and, rolling up their sleeves, had placed cauldrons on the fire, then set to work, from dawn onward, grinding the pepper and caraway for the sausages, pressing bitter oranges and lemons for the jelly. Fat, all pink, freshly washed and hairless, hanging head downward from the hooks in the kitchen, the pig was waiting.

"Woe to you, mother Martha, if you introduce any of that unclean meat into my house!" the Agha had told his servant the evening before. All day he had heard the squeals of the pigs being killed in the yards. "Ugh! giaours!" he kept saying, aloud, "you people who soil yourselves with pig's flesh and poison the air with your grilling sausages!"

But secredy the Agha was mad on pork sausages; he knew of no better meze to go with raki. The sly hunchback served them to him every year, pretending they were made with camel's meat. The Agha knew perfectly well they were not, but he feigned innocence. In that way he could eat them and lick his fingers, all the while keeping the law of the Prophet. To the depths of his being he was determined not to know that the savory meat which

he tasted as a connoisseur was pork. So every year, on the day they killed the pigs, he would arraign the old hunchback:

"Woe to you, mother Martha, if you introduce any of that unclean meat into my house!"

Which meant: Go and buy me all the sausages you can, as you would if it were for you. And bring me them and swear that it's camel.

"Don't worry, Agha," replied the hunchback, without even venturing to smile, "I'll find you plenty of camel sausages again this year, never fear. Brahimaki shall have some, too."

Meanwhile the starvelings in rags were coming down from the mountain at the double. Yannakos at one moment said to those next to him:

"It's a good day the priest has chosen for marching on the village, brothers. Today the pigs are hung on the hooks, all ready. The wives have lit the fires and are getting them ready for us. At last the time's come for greasing the insides of the poor."

But his comrades, gripped by the war hymn, did not hear.

The troop had reached the foot of the mountain and was com-' ing out into the plain. The village lay in front of them with its houses covered in snow; all the chimneys were smoking. The nostrils of the starvelings quivered as they scented the fragrance of the pigs already being boiled to make the jelly. The women remembered their homes laid waste, they recalled what they, too, used to do at this time of year, on the same day, and they sighed.

Before they reached Saint Basil's Well, priest Fotis halted and signed that he wished to speak.

"My children," he cried, "attention! We'll go first to the house of old Patriarcheas and entrench ourselves there. If the door is shut, we'll break it open; the house is ours, we will enter it. Then we will split up and go to our gardens, our vineyards, our fields, and occupy them. God grant they may not come and attack us. But if we are attacked, we will reply. It's war. We are claiming our right, God forgive us! The village is awake, I can see men assembling in the distance, I can hear the bell ringing, take care. Forward, in the name of Christ!"

The bell was, in fact, ringing for all it was worth. The village was upside down. Panayotaros, who had been unable to get to sleep, had got wind of something and, going out at break of day on

to the Agha's balcony, had looked out toward the mountain. And behold, in the dawn half-light, he had seen the Sarakina descending. Hurtling down the staircase, he had come out into the square, run to the church, seized the bell rope and begun to ring the tocsin furiously.

At the same moment old Mandalenia, who had gone with her pitcher to Saint Basil's Well, had seen in the distance the beggar people coming down with a roar. As fast as her legs would carry her she had made for the village again, screaming:

"They're coming, the bolsheviks! The bolsheviks! To arms, villagers!"

The inhabitants, who were still lying in bed, jumped up when they heard the bell ringing. The cries of mother Mandalenia reached their ears. They bounded out of bed, opened their doors and, wrapped in their blankets, began running to the church. Housewives, abandoning their kitchens, shouted from doorstep or window to the men as they passed in disorder:

"Hullo, what's happening? Why's the bell being rung?"

But they ran breathlessly on without answering.

Priest Grigoris had already reached the church and was standing before the door, gasping.

"To arms, friends'" he shouted. "Here are the bolsheviks coming down from the Sarakina. Don't let them get into the village! Go home, arm yourselves, and to Saint Basil's Well, all of you!"

He turned to Panayotaros who was tugging the bell rope like a madman:

"Panayotaros, go and wake the Agha! Tell him to get on his mare and rush to Saint Basil's Well, the bolsheviks are coming down!"

The schoolmaster arrived, breathless. He had forgotten his glasses and kept knocking into things right and left.

"Don't arm, brothers," he begged, "I'll go and parley with them. I'll get them bv persuasion! We're brothers, don't plunge the village into bloodshed!"

"Mind your own business, idiot!" roared the priest, furiously. "No compromise now! The hour has come to wipe them out! At them, lads! Arm, brothers! Death to the lice-carriers!"

Brains caught fire; the villagers ran to their homes, armed themselves with clubs, pistols, scythes; many of them seized the

knives with which they had killed the pigs the evening before. All tumbled, yelling, in the direction of Saint Basil's Well.

Panayotaros arrived running and placed himself at the priest's side; he brandished his pistol, and fired into the air. "Forward, hearties, the Devil take them!"

The Agha heard the pistol shot in his sleep: he struck the floor vdth his whip; Martha appeared.

"Here, what's that pistol shot?"

"The bolsheviks are coming down, Agha!"

"What bolsheviks, you misshapen hag? Speak! The ones from Russia?"

"No, Agha, the ones from the Sarakina; get on your mare, the Christians want you to, on your mare and go and help them!"

The Agha burst out laughing; he still felt like sleeping; he turned over on his other side, toward Brahimaki:

"You'll wake me up when the ones from Russia come; for the moment, be off with you!"

Priest Fotis, seeing the Lycovrissi fiercely advancing, left his people and came forward, unarmed, with the icon of the Prophet Elijah in his arms.

"Brothers," he cried, "I've something to say to you; halt! For the love of Christ, listen to me; let no drop of blood be shed."

For an instant, the two rival troops halted and waited; priest Fotis took a few more steps forward.

"It's to you, priest Grigoris, to your reverence, Father," he cried, "that I wish to speak; come nearer."

"What do you want with me, goat-beard?" replied the priest, coming toward him with a rush; "here I am!"

The two priests were now face to face, between the two troops; the one tall, thick set, shining with fat, like a bull; the other with his skin sticking to his bones, his cheeks hollow, his bare feet covered with blood, like an old raw-boned, wounded horse.

"Father," said priest Fotis in a powerful voice, that all might hear; "Father, it is a great sin to foment war between brothers; the blood that would be shed would fall upon our two heads. I've something to say to you, Father; listen to it, and you, too, all of you, my brothers! Lay down our arms, don't come to blows, wait; we two leaders, priest Grigoris and I, each representing his people, will fight it out here in front of you, disarmed; we will take an oath: if

priest Grigoris throws me, and my back touches the ground, we will go back up to the Sarakina peaceably, empty-handed; if I throw priest Grigoris and make him touch the ground, we shall go and take possession of the goods which Michelis has given to our community; between us two, above us, God will judge."

The Lycovrissiots exulted when they heard the words of priest Fotis; at the sight of his livid face, his cricket's feet and hands, they roared with laughter.

"Blow on him, priest Grigoris, blow on him and he'll fall over backward!"

The people of the Sarakina were alarmed:

"No, no, Father," shouted Loukas; "let the bravest of them come and wrestle with me; that fire-eater Panayotaros, who struts about with his pistols and his great red fez, the dirty Turk! Let him step out in front of me, if he dares!"

He handed the banner over to a companion and rolled up his sleeves.

"I'm coming, scum! Here I am, bolshevik!" roared Panayotaros rushing forward: "I'll break your neck, you swine!"

He drew his pistol from his belt and bounded forward; but priest Grigoris raised his hand:

"Stop! Leave us alone, it's for us priests, us two alone, to give judgment. I accept your challenge, lousy priest; I swear before God: if you throw me, I shall not oppose your taking possession of the goods the witless Michelis made you a present of; but if I win, go away the lot of you and leave us in peace! I invoke God: let Him come and stand between us and let Him judge!"

"In the name of Christ," said priest Fotis, crossing himself.

He turned, signed to an old man and gave the icon of the Prophet into his arms. Then he took off his threadbare cassock, folded it carefully and laid it on a stone; his black shirt appeared, in rags, likewise his tattered trousers; his spindle shanks were covered with wounds.

Priest Grigoris waited with his legs apart and hands folded; he tapped the ground with his foot like a mettled horse; he was in a hurry to be done. But seeing priest Fotis suddenly standing before him, like a skeleton, in rags, with deep black eyes like wells, he shivered: he thought he had before him the scarecrow Death.

"Make the sign of the cross, Father," said priest Fotis calmly; "I am ready."

Priest Grigoris crossed himself mechanically, and disdainfully stayed where he was.

"Come here, vile grasshopper!" he bawled; "come here and let me twist your neck!"

"Can't you open your mouth. Father, without uttering an insult? Is it with such lips that you sing the praises of the Lord? Are those the hands that elevate the holy Chalice?"

"They are the hands that will break a goat-beard's bones," yelled priest Grigoris, and he charged his opponent with lowered head, like a bull.

He raised his fist and struck; but priest Fotis stepped lightly aside and the fist fell on empty air; priest Grigoris, carried along by his momentum, all but fell and rolled on the ground. Seized with rage, he charged priest Fotis again; he caught a tuft of his beard and pulled it out in his fury; priest Fotis in turn, gathering all his strength, brought down his knotty fist in a terrible blow on the buxom belly of priest Grigoris; the old man bellowed with pain; his eyes turned; he blenched; but he quickly recovered himself; fury increased his strength tenfold; he leaped upon priest Fotis and began biting his neck, nose, ears. Nothing could be heard but the screams of priest Grigoris, like some wild beast devouring his prey.

The Sarakini, terrified, held their breath; with craning necks they watched, breathlessly, their priest in danger.

"Our priest's done for," muttered Yannakos in despair; "that brute will strangle him."

"Have no fear, my Yannakos," answered Manolios; "can't you see God? there, just above them? Trust Him."

Manolios had not finished speaking when priest Fotis, getting a grip on priest Grigoris's forked beard with an iron hand, struck him with the other a powerful blow on the jaw; howling with pain priest Grigoris doubled up, spitting teeth and blood; before he had time to recover, priest Fotis caught him by the waist, shook him to right and left, then hurled himself upon him and, with the whole weight of his body, made him bite the dust.

With his knee he was preparing to hold priest Grigoris down, but he did not have time: Panayotaros had rushed upon him and was striking him in a mad frenzy. Then Loukas darted forward, next Yannakos and Manolios; the two camps mingled, the slings began to whistle and for a long time nothing was heard but blows

of Sticks and pistol shots, while knives, too, were plunged into flesh. At first there were cries and insults; but gradually there were only gasps and muffled groans.

Kostandis, Andonis the barber, the fat Dimitri, the butcher, ran up armed with clubs and flung themselves into the combat. Yannakos, seeing his friends, detached himself from the melee and shouted to Kostandis:

"Hey, Kostandis, did you do what I asked you?"

Kostandis gazed at him open-mouthed; he could not remember.

"My ass . . ."

"Don't worry, Yannakos, he's at my place."

"Fire, then!" cried Yannakos, hoisting one of the two cans of petrol on to his shoulder.

"Courage, lads," thundered Loukas, laying about him blindly right and left with his club; "courage, we've got them, the swine."

In fact, the Lycovrissi were giving ground; they recoiled gradually and took refuge in the village; several had already barricaded themselves in their houses. Meanwhile the Sarakini had picked up priest Fotis, stretched him out near the well, and were washing his wounds; blood was running from his broken head.

"Courage, brothers!" shouted Manolios, rushing forward. He had snatched from Panayotaros one of his pistols, and was firing into the«air as he chased the retreating villagers.

The alarmed voice of the schoolmaster again made itself heard:

"Stop, brothers, don't kill each other; we shall reach a compromise, trust me; we are all Hellenes, Christians, brothers!"

But he was quickly caught between the two camps; friends and enemies hurled him to the ground and trampled him frenziedly; someone threw a huge stone at him, and the poor peacemaker rolled into a ditch, unconscious.

The Lycovrissi were now all retreating toward the village; Loukas then seized the second can of petrol, darted forward, and began throwing petrol on to the doors, windows and walls.

"At them, women, follow me; set them on fire!" he cried, as he advanced.

Soon the flames began to lick the houses; the Lycovrissi women, shut up in their homes, began uttering shrill cries.

Before Priest Grigoris had yet recovered consciousness, he had been carried to old Mandalenia's house, close by, and laid out in the middle of the yard; the old woman brought her herbs and

unguents, washed his wounds and anointed them with balm. The poor priest had no pride left and was roaring with pain.

Meanwhile Manolios went ahead, followed by his men; they arrived before the spacious house of Patriarcheas, broke open the door and entered.

"Here, my braves, we'll barricade ourselves!" Manolios declared; "let two of you bring our priest here; you others, go in quickly; we're at home!"

Andonis the barber and Kostandis volunteered to bring priest Fotis; the villagers were busy with buckets of water, trying to put out the fire; the whole village was howling. Suddenly terrified voices rang out:

"Old Ladas's house is burning!"

"They've smashed his jars, the oil's running downi the road; they've stove in his barrels, the wine's spilling in floods!"

In the fight Panayotaros had lost his fez; he ran limping this way and that, firing with the pistol he still had and summoning Manolios to appear. But Manolios, full of anxiety, was bending over priest Fotis, who had been brought in and laid on Patriarcheas's bed. The women had bandaged his wounds, and now he opened his eyes, looked at his companions and smiled.

"They broke their oath," he murmured, "God will punish them! I rolled their priest over, I'm happy."

"Are you in pain. Father?"

"Of course, my Manolios, my wounds are hurting me, but I'm happy, I tell you; God has given His judgment; we have won!"

Joyful shouts rang out in the courtyard; Loukas and his companions, having set fire to the houses, had gone in and taken three newly-killed and beautifully cleaned pigs; they brought them with jubilation into the house of archon Patriarcheas.

"Light a big fire, women," they cried, "we've plenty of wood; open the storerooms, take flour, make bread; roast the pigs, the fight's sharpened our appetite, we're hungry!"

"It's Advent, it's a fast, even oil's forbidden!" protested an old woman; "have you no fear of God, you?"

"Let's consult our priest!" Loukas suggested.

"I take the sin upon me," replied priest Fotis; "eat!"

Yannakos arrived, with his beard scorched and his clothes reeking of wine and oil.

"I've done what I wanted, brothers!" he cried triumphantly;

"my soul's satisfied; the old skinflint's house is blazing; God be praised!"

There was a knock at the door; the voice of Kostandis could be heard outside.

"Open, open, brothers; the schoolmaster's been killed!"

They opened the door, and Kostandis, the barber and the butcher brought in the schoolmaster's lifeless body. His brain was leaking out of his open head; his wide-open eyes were glassy; his jaw was hanging.

"We found him in a ditch," said Kostandis; "both villagers had been over him."

Men and women bent over him in silence; they kissed him; a few meager flowers were picked in the courtyard and put into his hands.

"He wanted to reconcile us and we've killed him," said Mano-lios, wiping away tears.

The Agha, stretched on his soft couch, listened to the pistol shots, smoking his chibouk and caressing Brahimaki. But the wild boy sniffed the smell of powder and his blood flared up; he gave his Agha several kicks and tried with all his strength to rush off into the road and take part in the fight; but the Agha held him back by the foot and would not let go.

"Don't be a fool, my Brahimaki," he told him, "leave the giaours to break each other's bones. Won't the dirty vermin ever disappear? How many years have we been sweating blood and water to finish them off? And what's the result? A hole in the water. You cut off one romnoi head and lo and behold, ten more rear up. If they don't kill each other, I'm telling you, no one will manage to wipe them out. So I'm letting them be; when they're knocked out, I shall get on my mare and restore order. D'you understand, thickhead? I'm telling you so that if one day you have the luck to become agha of a Greek village, you'll know how to deal with giaours."

"Let me kill one or two!" cried Brahimaki; "my hand's itching."

"Don't bother, I'm telling you, let them kill each other of their own accord. If we get mixed up in it, we shall have trouble; the vessels of the Franks will anchor in front of Smyrna once more and proclaim the blockade, and then you'll have hell to pay! Here

we are, nice and comfortable, my Brahimaki; it's cold outside, I won't let you go out. The old woman'll bring some honey and nuts, you'll see."

He clapped his hands, and old Martha appeared.

"What's happening outside, old thing?"

"They're cutting each other's throats, Agha. The two priests have torn each other's beards out, Panayotaros has lost his fez and had his knee broken, old Ladas's house has been set on fire and the oil and wine are running in floods down the road!"

The Agha roared with laughter:

"Bravo, giaours; go to it, my lads; the plague take the lot of you! Bring us some honey and nuts, old Martha, quick!"

He turned toward Brahimaki, who was cursing and wanted to go out.

"Don't be a fool, I tell you, don't mix yourself up in the romnoi affairs! That cursed race, a real blunder of Allah's. Listen to what my late grandfather used to say to me: pay attention and try to understand, lout! All that Allah had created was perfect; but one day he was not himself: he took fire and dung and out of them he kneaded the romnios. As soon as he'd seen what he'd done, he was sorry—the blessed scum had an eye that went through you like a gimlet. Tve made a blunder,' Allah muttered with a sigh; Tiow'm I going to put it right? Let's roll up our sleeves now and knead the Turk; he'll kill off the romnoi and everything will be in order again.' He took honey and gunpowder, kneaded them well and fashioned the Turk. Without losing a minute he put the Turk and the romnios on a dish together, they started fighting straightaway. They fought and they fought, from morning to evening, and neither could manage to bring the other down; but as soon as night came that artful romnios, in the darkness, tripped the Turk up, and he fell. 'Devil take me,' muttered Allah, incensed, Tm in a fine mess! These rom-noi are going to make one mouthful of this world I've created; what's to be done?' He didn't close an eye all night, poor devil; but next morning he jumped out of bed, full of joy: I've got it! I've got it!' he exclaimed. Once more he took fire and dung, he kneaded another romnios and set the two of them on the dish. The fight began again straightaway; one gets tripped up, then the other; one gets knifed, then the other. They fought day and night, fell, got up again;

came to blows afresh, tell yet again, got up again at once, and the fight went on; it's going on still! That, my Brahimaki, is how the world found peace . . ."

Old Martha came in with the honey and nuts.

"Open the window, open it wide, Martha," the Agha commanded, "let me hear their cries and the pistol shots and rejoice my heart. Fill the bottle with raki! Keep a look out, and when they've all been killed come and let me know; I'll get on my mare and go and impose order!"

Toward evening, at length, the shots ceased; the villagers were in their houses, washing their wounds and anointing them with oil, letting themselves be cupped and having tisanes prepared for them. They lit the oil lamps and inspected the damage: an ear hanging in strips, some teeth missing, a finger cut off, two or three ribs broken. They also visited the village: several shutters burned, some doors smashed in, three pigs which had been hanging from the hooks had disappeared, old Ladas's house was still blazing, the oil and wine still flowing into the road and the com strewn about the courtyard, charred.

"And his poor wife, you know, mother Penelope, that real saint," asked old Mandalenia, "what's become of her?"

"All praise to the neighbors' wives—they dashed into the flames and saved her. She was sitting on her stool, poor old thing, paralyzed and screaming. She hadn't got up to try and escape; she was frantically clutching to her bosom the sock she had been knitting, and jabbering something."

"Hadn't her swine of a husband dashed into the flames to save her?"

"What next? The old skinflint did dash into the flames, of course, but not to save his wife, oh no; to save his coffer with the gold in it; he grabbed it up in his arms, rushed into the road, put it on the ground, sat down on it and started whimpering. Soon they brought mother Penelope to him and—would you believe it?—she sat down on the ground and at once started knitting again. You're right, my dear Mandalenia, what a saint the poor

woman is!"

Old Mandalenia was busy cupping the wounded. As she went to bring help farther on, rating the men under her breath (curse them, the good-for-nothing rascals!), a door opened suddenly and a hand caught her by the skirt.

"Seen my man, you old witch? The Devil's got into him once more, he's picked up his pistols and turned the village upside down, so they tell me; is all that true, mother Mandalenia?" "I haven't caught sight of your man, mother Garoufilia, all I've seen is his big fez, close by Saint Basil's Well. His head, my poor woman, must have gone one way and his fez the other. There! let go my skirt!"

"Plague take him!" said mother Garoufilia, and slammed her door noisily.

The old healer set off as fast as her legs would carry her, in haste to reach the house of priest Grigoris, who had been taken home; his neighbors were coming and going, bringing him coffee, lemonade, tisanes.

"There's nothing wrong with you, Father," a little old woman in rags whispered in his ear. Snot dripped from her hooked nose on to his venerable beard. "There's nothing wrong with you, you mustn't worry. You've had nothing to eat since morning and you're hungry. That's all it is. Reverend Father." And a moment later, with a sigh:

"All illnesses, believe me, come from hunger," added the poor little old woman who was always hungry; "eat and you'll get well." They brought him food—lenten fare, since it was Advent. The priest sat up and began munching, painfully, fretting and fuming; that accursed priest Fotis had smashed his front teeth, and he swallowed each mouthful precipitately, half-chewed; blood was flowing from his broken head. He waited for mother Mandalenia and her drugs. His aches and pains had indeed calmed down a little, but his heart was boiling with rage.

'Tell me, old girl," he whispered to his hooked-nosed neighbor, "tell me, I must know: did anyone see when that damned priest threw me? Move away a little, please, your nose is running." "What's that you're saying, Father? Is such a thing possible? Could a mosquito like that ever knock down your holiness? God preserve you from it! Don't say such a thing! No, my lord, no one saw, no one, I swear!"

But the suspicious heart of priest Grigoris remained inconsolable. He clenched his fists and once more rage gripped his chest. "That bandit Manolios, that pervert, is the cause of everything! He's the one has put himself at the head of the Sarakina and invaded the village; he's the one has kindled fire and burned

down houses. He's the one—the traitor, the reprobate, the bolshevik! I'll tear his eyes out!"

He signed to the neighbors and they drew near.

"Pity it's Advent," he sighed; "I mustn't eat meat."

"But you're ill, Father," protested the litde old woman, "as you're ill, it's all right."

"I am the priest, God's representative: it must not be!" declared the priest in a sententious voice. "Bring some more bread, olives, and vegetables without any oil. I'm hungry."

They brought him the tray, loaded; they filled his glass with wine.

The priest began eating again, greedily.

I must eat a lot, he told himself, I must drink a lot, to get back some strength. Tomorrow I must get up early and go and see the Agha; he must send an urgent despatch to the pasha of Smyrna and get Turkish soldiers post-haste with guns: the bolsheviks have invaded Lycovrissi, let them be quick and drive them out! It's time order and justice reigned again on earth!

The door opened and the priest turned.

"Welcome, mother Mandalenia," he said, relieved, "come close, a word in your ear."

The old woman drew near and bent over the priest.

"Get rid of the neighbors," he whispered to her, "and kill me a chicken."

NEXT MORNING the Agha woke early. He listened hard: no cries, no pistol shots; all was calm. He became anxious.

"The giaours," he rumbled, "aren't they fighting any more; why the devil have they stopped killing each other?"

He called Martha.

"Here, you dirty Christian, aren't they fighting any more? Is it all over?"

"It's all over, Agha; they're not fighting any more. But the bolsheviks are occupying the house of Patriarcheas, they won't clear out; 'The house is ours,' they say, and the poor schoolmaster— well, he's been killed."

"Killed!" exclaimed the Agha, enraptured; "bravo, that's what I like to hear; one less. And the priests?"

"They're still alive, Agha."

"Both of them?"

"Both of them. You know, priests are like cats; each one has nine lives. They've only got their faces knocked about and half their beards torn out; but they're all right; they're not dying."

"A pity," muttered the Agha, "a pity they're still alive! But patience; there's sure to be another fight soon. Saddle my mare."

The old hunchback went to the door, but the Agha called her back:

"Where's Brahimaki? He slipped away before dawn."

"That trollop Pelaghia must have turned up before dawn; that's it!"

"Devil take her! Hasn't he yet had enough of her? To hell with him, the young rake! Go and saddle my mare!"

Priest Fotis, too, had waked up early; he was still in pain, but

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he bit his hps; he uttered no cries; he would have been ashamed. He called Manolios.