"Dear Manolios," he said, "let's hurry, let's lose no time. Send our people quickly, men and women, to take possession of our gardens, our vineyards and our olive orchards. Let them put up huts there and remain on guard so that no one may come and expel us. I shall stay here with a few companions. Go, in the name of Christ,"

"Are you still in pain. Father?"

"What does it matter whether I'm in pain or not, dear Manolios? Our community is in danger, and are you still thinking of me? Go, call our men, get out among our property; any minute the Agha will appear."

Manolios went down to the courtyard; the schoolmaster was still stretched out on the stones, right in the middle of the yard. His eyelids were stiff, it was no longer possible to close his eyes; they stared at the sky.

The women had cut laurel branches and covered the corpse with them; a few old women were squatting about him and weeping softly; a mother had placed in his hands a sprig of basil, that he might take it to her child who had died of hunger; he had been going to the Lycovrissi school these last months, and Hadji Nikolis had been very fond of him.

Manolios called the companions and divided them into three groups. They armed themselves with their sticks, took with them food fetched from the storerooms in the house, and set forth: one of the groups make for the gardens of old Patriarcheas, another for his vineyards, the third for the olive orchards.

The village was still asleep. They passed in haste through the deserted streets. Old Ladas's house was still smoking; the snow had melted in the plain, the sky was limpid; the Prophet Elijah's peak smiled, bathed in light and covered with snow.

The beadle heard footsteps, opened his window, saw the Sara-kini and immediately understood. He dressed hastily and hurried to bring the bad news to priest Grigoris. He was delighted.

"I'll put some gunpowder in his ears," he muttered, grinning; "I ought to have been bishop and him beadle; but destiny is blind."

He ran up the road which climbed to the priest's house; several

doors opened timidly, the cocks began to crow. He arrived, pushed open the priest's door and entered. The old man was sitting on his bed, watching the day breaking. He had dined well last evening, the chicken had been succulent, he had gone into it up to the ears; old Mandalenia had spread balm on his wound and bandaged his head with care; he felt no more pain. Only his beard was rather sparser, and the right half of his mustache had been almost completely pulled out. The well-padded priest had emerged from the combat decidedly the worse for wear, toothless, seedy, like a scalded cat.

But he no longer felt either pain or shame; he had only one idea in his head, only one desire: to finish off Manolios. The anathema he had hurled at him was not enough; he wanted to tear out his eyes and eat them; ancient cannibal atavisms, wild prehuman instincts had awaked within him. Ah, to roll Manolios on the ground, fall on top of him, bite the knot of his throat and drink his blood! A wolf, come from the depths of the ages, had exploded the crust of his soul; it gazed at Manolios and howled. Christian love. Christian kindness, fear of God, Hell, Paradise—all had deserted the heart of priest Grigoris; nothing was left in the inhuman gulf of his entrails but the wolf.

The beadle approached, swallowing his saliva, not knowing what sequence to give to his words, to make them hurt the priest most cruelly.

"Father," he began, with feigned humility, "forgive me— The great vessels are subject to the greatest tempests; the highest peaks are struck by the lightning. You are a great vessel. Father; you are a high peak . . ."

"Speak out, old fox, don't play the innocent!" cried the priest, exasperated, "I know you well, come! You had the gall to want to be bishop, you didn't manage it and your lips distil poison. Drop those two-edged hints of yours, and speak out clearly. What's the matter?"

The beadle boiled inwardly but controlled himself; he set to work to pour him out the poison drop by drop.

"Priest Fotis," he said in a tearful voice, "has come out of the fight safe and sound; he's alive and he's triumphant."

"Drop that, you scoundrel, you're getting at something else; up with that bile of yours!"

"The Saralcini—I've seen them with my own eyes—have gone out early and spread over old Patriarcheas's property; by now they must have taken possession of it; we're done for!"

"Plague on you, rogue! That's enough!"

"There's more, alas, Father, forgive me."

"Speak!"

"The whole village is amusing itself with the story of how priest Fotis knocked you down and got his knee onto your venerable chest."

Priest Grigoris became purple with anger.

"Come closer, scum, approach!"

But the beadle was frightened and took refuge in a comer.

"And what's worse still . . ." he continued.

"Worse still? Speak, viper's tongue, empty your sack. D'you want to be the death of me?"

"What's worse, Father . . . Hey, courage, we're mortals, you know . . . poor mortals . . . We shall all die . . ."

The priest seized his steel snuffbox and hurled it at his head; but the beadle had time to avoid it by ducking and the snuffbox went through a pane of the window, which smashed into smithereens.

"Speak, or I shall get up, you blackguard, and beat you black and blue. What's worse . . .?"

"What? Didn't you know, Father? How am I to tell you? I shall faint. Your brother . . ."

The priest could no longer control himself; he threw off the bedclothes, leaped out of bed and flung himself toward the beadle. But the beadle took care to put the table and two chairs between him and the priest and barricaded himself in behind them.

"Your brother . . . has been killed," he whimpered.

"Who has killed him? Who?" roared the priest, and the blood began to flow from the swollen veins on his forehead. "Who? when? where?"

"I don't know, Father, how d'you expect me to know? Poor man, he was found in a ditch with his head smashed in. At present he's laid out, stiff, in Patriarcheas's yard, surrounded by those bandits."

"Don't you suspect anyone, beadle, damn you? Come, think and answer!"

"How d'you expect me to answer. Father. No one. But . . .

now I come to think of it . . . who knows? . . . perhaps it might be . . ."

"Might he? Think properly, my good friend. Out with it straight, don't be afraid. You're a man with a lot of sense, you must know . . . Well?"

He pushed aside the table and chairs and laid a protective hand on the beadle's shoulder.

"Surely you must know," he wheedled. "It might be ..."

"Hm ... I was there, for a moment I thought I saw . . . But I can't be sure of anything, I'm afraid of sinning, I'm afraid of Hell, Father . . ."

"Reassure yourself, my son, have no fear of Hell; I am there to protect you, speak freely! I too suspected the same person immediately. The cursed bolshevik! You saw him with your own eyes, didn't you, my friend?"

The poor beadle was silent; he was afraid of Hell, but he was also afraid of the priest; he became giddy.

The priest shook him roughly.

"Can I take you as witness? Come, help me dress, you know how fond I am of you; I'll go and see the Agha, I'll ask him for vengeance! So you saw him, didn't you? You saw him with your own eyes, my dear son?"

"What am I to say. Father? I thought I saw . . . but I can't tell you for sure that I saw . . ."

The priest brandished his arm menacingly; the beadle cowered.

"You saw him, yes, you saw him," he shouted at him; "why deny it? Can you be in league with him, with the bolshevik, you too, wretch?"

The beadle raised his eyes and saw the priest's fist suspended over his head.

"Father," he entreated, "give me time to gather my thoughts together, to remember . . ."

"All right, I am waiting."

I said I had seen, thought the beadle, but whom? that I won't say. That I won't say. In that way I shan't be committing a sin . . .

He found relief:

"I saw him," he cried, "I saw him. Father! I remember now. I saw him at the moment when the priest of the Sarakina had just thrown you and was planting his knee on your venerable chest . . ."

"Shut up! Help me dress, I tell you. I'm glad you saw him—the Antichrist—and will be able to bear witness. You don't know what an immense service you are rendering to Christendom, my friend!"

The beadle picked up the priest's drawers, socks, shirt and cassock and set to work dressing that sacerdotal bulk; he put on his shoes for him, his belt, his priest's cap, then helped him to reach the door.

"Give me your arm, don't go, beadle; help me as far as the Agha's house. Quietly, don't go too fast. Then, see that the body is brought to the church. Above all, don't forget that you saw him!"

The Agha was preparing to mount his mare; he saw priest Grigoris come in, tottering, hobbling, with his head bandaged, and he burst out laughing.

"How did you get into that state, priest?" he exclaimed. "Who's been damaging that face of yours?"

"Justice, Agha!" cried the priest, with outstretched arms; "justice, vengeance! Who? Manolios! He it is who roused the Sara-kini; he it is, brought the bolsheviks into your village, set fire to the houses, has broken my head and killed my brother, the schoolmaster. I have witnesses. You are the representative of the Turkish Government at Lycovrissi: I come to you, I stretch out my arms— justice, vengeance, Agha! Deliver up to me Manolios, that I may judge him; the whole village implores you through my voice!"

"Don't shout like that, you blessed priest; you're splitting my ears. Sit down; Martha will make you a cup of coffee, to set you up again, you poor old thing. It's nothing, don't worry; you're romnoi, you've romnios heads, they bang against each other like eggs and break, that's all; so don't shout!"

"Deliver up to me Manolios!" repeated the priest, leaning against the wall to prevent himself from falling.

Martha ran up, brought him a chair, helped him to sit down. The Agha meanwhile was slowly buckling on his yataghan, thrusting his silver pistols into his broad red sash and tucking his whip under his arm.

The door opened, and a little old man entered, barefoot, bent, with his hair and beard half-burned and with large burns on his cheeks and hands. He advanced hopping into the yard and collapsed at the feet of the Agha.

"Agha," he cried, "pity."

"Heavens, aren't you old Ladas?" said the Agha, giving him a

poke with his foot; "what's this carnival maslc? where did you dig it up?"

"They've my house on fire, Agha. They've broken my jars, my barrels, my coffers, my furniture, my heart!"

"Who? who? Did you see them?"

"Manolios! Manolios! the bolshevik!"

"We have witnesses, Agha," cried priest Grigoris triumphantly; "Panayotaros saw him, the beadle saw him. I saw him, too!"

"Bum him, Agha, bum him as he's burned me! Pity, Agha!" bleated the old miser. "We'll pile up wood in the middle of the square, soak it with pitch and bum him up!"

The Agha scratched his head and spat, perplexed.

"Trouble . . . trouble . . ." he grumbled. "Devil take you, Tomnoil"

He strode nervously up and down the yard, whipping the air, and the more he played with his whip the angrier he became.

"By the prophet Mahomet," he roared, "I'll catch the lot of you, priests, notables, bolsheviks, and I'll hang you one after the other from the plane tree!"

Hearing the door open, he turned. Panayotaros came in, hobbling, without fez and with only one pistol now in his belt; his clothes were torn, spotted with blood, covered with mud; and his face was bloated and quite purple.

The Agha could not help laughing.

"What's this poor devil with neither horns nor tail? What name am I to give you, eh? plucked bear, mangy camel, or Panayotaros?"

Panayotaros leaned against the wall, growled, but did not answer; his knee was hurting, he could not stand; he collapsed slowly and rolled on the stones of the courtyard.

The Agha gazed in turn at his three visitors: the priest, doubled up in his chair, was groaning, his hand was trembling, and he had upset his cup of coffee on his cassock; old Ladas, sunk at the Agha's feet, was wagging his head slowly, opening and closing his mouth, in a stupor; and Panayotaros was now only a heap of rags and mud.

"Well I never, what shipwrecked vessels are these!" cried the Agha jubilantly: "torn banners, admirals who've pissed in their bags! But it's the whole of Christendom that's infesting my courtyard! Come, old Martha, bring a dishcloth and wipe them!"

The priest felt the insult and raised his head:

"Agha," he said, "remember you will have to give account to your august Government! Here, to Lycovrissi, there has come an envoy of the Muscovite, his mission being to sack, to set blaze the Turkish Empire! Don't laugh, don't amuse yourself; raise your fist and strike! What does one do when a wolf gets into a sheepfold? One kills him! Deliver up to us Manolios! Don't get mixed up in it yourself, leave the dirty work to us Christians. The whole village will come before your door today crying out for justice. Voice of the people, voice of God! Listen, the people are crying out: 'You are Agha of the village, give justice!' "

The Agha fell into profound thought; his head was whirling; with it, the courtyard and the village. Panayotaros raised his head:

"Why are you hesitating, Agha?" he ventured; "decide. I saw Manolios with my own eyes smash in the schoolmaster's head with a huge stone. I saw him, saw him wdth these eyes, give the can of petrol to Yannakos; I heard him say to him: 'Set fire first of all, Yannakos, to the Agha's house; bum him too, the dog; let our village be set free from the yoke of the Turks!'"

"You swear it, eh, you swear it, Panayotaros?" roared the Agha, his eyes going bloodshot.

"I swear it, Agha!"

"Manolios is a dangerous bolshevik, Agha," priest Grigoris took him up, struggling to rise from his chair; "he has one aim only: to overthrow the Ottoman Empire. Behind him stands the Muscovite, pushing him on. If we let him live, he'll have us all!"

"Always back to that, you damned priest," retorted the Agha, scratching his head. "No, it isn't true," he muttered after a few moments. Nonetheless he had ended by becoming uneasy.

The priest had stood up; he gathered his strength and approached the Agha:

"It isn't true?" he whispered; "is that what you think, Agha? But the thing's clear, clear as daylight! Remember what Manolios was to begin with, in our village—a low shepherd, Patriarcheas's lackey, without a sheep to his name, without the least clod of land, a wretch, a lousy fellow. In a few months, by his tricks and with the help of the Muscovite, look what he's become: a monster! He has raised a banner of his own, he has killed men, he has broken up families, he has brought in from the other end of the world this rogue priest Fotis, with his ragged band, he has taken possession

of the Sarakina and begun to build, under our noses, a new village peopled by bolsheviks! He has sworn to bum down your house and to kill you, Agha, to sack our village and to call in the Muscovite to take possession of it. You are staking your neck, Agha; look out! The wolf has got into your sheepfold; kill him!"

"Kill him! Kill him!" cried the other two in unison. The Agha again scratched his head. Up to now he had taken the thing lightly. "These are romnoi manias," he had told himself, "let them shift for themselv^es; I smoke my chibouk, I sip my raki, and I don't care a fig! But now the Ottoman Empire's becoming mixed up in it, the Muscovite is there, things are getting out of hand. Yes, yes, if I let that abortion Manolios live, the Ottoman Empire is in danger. I've got myself saddled with a bad business! That goat-beard is right: the wolf's got into the sheepfold, and if I don't kill him, he'll kill me!"

He opened his mouth, exasperated:

"Get out, all three of you, leave me alone; the matter is grave, I shall think it over. Off with you, to blazes!"

He raised his whip and began to strike heads and backs.

Terrified, all three, with their heads sunk between their shoulders, dashed for the door, huddling against one another; behind them the whip whistled. With a kick the Agha slammed the door upon them, and was alone.

"Bring the bottle of raki," he shouted to Martha, "I have a decision to take!"

Priest Grigoris and father Ladas moved about the village and the beadle was ordered to ring the knell. The villagers at once assembled in the square; all cried vengeance; they could not get over the shame of having been beaten by those beggars. The priest stood up in the midst of them; he had recovered his strength, and shouted:

"My children, we have covered ourselves with shame, we must avenge ourselves! I've spoken with the Agha, and we are in agreement. Who is the cause of all our misfortunes? One person only, Manolios the excommunicated! But now his hour is come; the Agha is going to deliver him up to us, and we shall judge him, we shall condemn him, we shall drink his blood! Fall upon him, my children; arise and go, all of you, to the Agha's house, assemble before his door, raise your hands and shout: 'Manolios! Manolios! Give us Manolios!'—only that; the rest I will look after."

He made for the church, bent over the body of his brother, gave him the last kiss, read over him the prayers for the dead, hastily; his mind was on Manolios. The villagers lifted the body and bore it to the cemetery. The priest, as he saw his brother lowered into the grave, remembered their childhood years, and tears filled his eyes. The villagers threw each a handful of earth on the dead man; the beadle poured them out a glass of raki to drink to his memory, and distributed to each a piece of bread and a handful of olives; immediately all went back to the village in haste and took up their positions before the Agha's door.

Toward midday the Agha was completely drunk; he had come to a decision; he called Panayotaros, who had remained squatting outside on the threshold and was waiting like a beaten dog.

"Come here, you damned blusterer; can you still walk or are you a complete cripple, you poor fool?"

"If it's for Manolios I can walk."

"I can see that head of yours, but not your fez; what have you done with your fez, giaour?"

"I left it yesterday, Agha, at Saint Basil's Well; mother Manda-lenia's found it, I'm told; I'll send for it,"

"Put on your fez, choose two stout men from the village, if you can't manage alone, and go and get me Manolios. Off with you! Gallop!"

"Dead or alive?"

"Alive!"

Panayotaros, transported with delight, forgot that he was wounded in the knee; he set off running for all he was worth.

"Your hour is come, your hour is come, my Manolios!" he muttered, rubbing his hands. "Bravo, Judas Panayotaros, my gallant, you've got him!"

Manolios and his men had put up a hut in the big Patriarcheas garden, outside the village, near Lake Voidomata. Manolios had chosen those who were to keep watch, while he would go back into the village toward nightfall to see what was becoming of priest Fotis and to consult with him; he had heard the knell ringing and was worried.

Shortly after midday Kostandis arrived running, bearing news:

"Priest Grigoris is rousing the village afresh; he's running about the village with his head bandaged, exciting the villagers, urging them to assemble in front of the Agha's door and to shout: 'Give us Manolios! Give us Manolios! Death to Manolios!' They want to arrest you, my Manolios, shove everyone's crimes onto you and condemn you as robber, incendiary, murderer; and, above all, as bolshevik! Hide, take refuge on the Sarakina, or further away still; your life's at stake; they're all after you!"

"My post is here, with my brothers in danger!" replied Manolios; "flight would be desertion, my dear Kostandis. What's become of our other companions? Have you seen them?"

"Yannakos found his ass at my place and has hidden him in the big olive orchard; he's barricaded himself in there with his men. Priest Fotis is better; tomorrow, he declares he'll get up and go and see the Agha; 'He's a brute,' he says, Tjut not wicked at bottom; he'll recognize our right, all will come straight; Christ is with us!' All the same, I'm frightened, I am, my Manolios; they've all sworn to have your blood."

"God grant that all the crimes may fall on me, Kostandis, and that they may make an end of me; then our companions will be left in peace. To all their accusations I shall answer: 'Yes. It's I who robbed, I alone; it's I who killed, who set things on fire; yes, I am a bolshevik.' All, all, if only the community may be saved ... I shall go of my own accord and give myself up to the Agha; and at once."

Kostandis opened his eyes wide; the face of Manolios was sparkling; his stature seemed magnified; he stood in the midst of the trees of the garden like a column of light. Kostandis's eyes blinked; they were dazzled.

"Dear Manolios," he said, "it's not for me to give you advice. My soul can reach as far as Kostandis and his family; at the very most, as far as a few friends; farther she can't go; your soul stretches to a whole people. What you run to meet, I tremble as I see it coming. You can follow in the footsteps of Christ: do as God inspires you, my Manolios!"

"Come," said Manolios, making for the gate of the garden.

Kostandis followed him, with bent head.

They went out of the garden and skirted the lake; the sky was cloudless on that winter day, the air translucent. The dark green lake gleamed in the sun; all around it, reeds and a few willows

looked at themselves in it; a stork, standing on one leg, gazed impassively; two more, with their feet folded under their bellies, flew off noiselessly, staring into the water: they were hungry.

Manolios took a long look around, said farewell to the lake, to the trees now growing quite bare, to the Sarakina with its tender violet shade; his gaze descended into the plain and crossed the olives; the medlar trees were already in blossom, the lemons were shining among the dark leaves, an almond tree was foretelling the spring and its buds were on the point of bursting.

"How beautiful the world is . . ." murmured Manolios under his breath.

The human soul is even more beautiful, sometimes, thought Kostandis, but he said nothing.

They made for the village; the bell was still sounding the knell; in the distance a confused noise of voices and barking could be heard; a cock crowed.

"The weather's going to change," said Manolios; "listen to that cock crowing."

Kostandis compressed his lips; he was afraid he might burst out sobbing; he followed Manolios with his head bowed, silent.

Just as they were approaching Saint Basil's Well, they saw Pan-ayotaros and two other stalwarts dash out from a bush, brandishing huge clubs. Panayotaros was now wearing his fez. Kostandis blenched and recoiled.

They're going to lay hold of Manolios, he said to himself. His first impulse was to flee as fast as his legs would carry him; but he was ashamed; he stood still, transfixed with fear.

Panayotaros advanced in front of his two companions with an air of decision.

"Where are you going, curse you?" he bellowed, stretching out toward Manolios a threatening arm.

"I'm going to see the Agha, my poor Panayotaros; don't get excited; I heard he was looking for me, I'm going to give myself up."

Panayotaros stared at him, open-mouthed.

"Aren't you afraid? Aren't you afraid of the Agha, of priest Gri-goris, of the village? Might you be the Devil in person?"

"The man who's not afraid of death isn't afraid of anyone, Panayotaros; there's my secret. Let's go!"

"Walk in front, I don't want you to escape me!"

He turned toward his two stalwarts:

"Get along with you, you two, I'll manage this rogue by myself. Be off too, you, Kostandis, dirty bolshevik!"

Kostandis hesitated; he looked at Manolios.

"Go, my Kostandis," said Manolios; "go home, go to your children; leave me alone."

Kostandis did not need to be told twice; he went off at the run.

Manolios and Panayotaros were left alone; for a good while they walked in silence.

"Panayotaros," said Manolios at length in a calm voice, "do you then hate me so much that you want my death? Why? What have I done to you?"

"Don't talk to me in that tone of voice," growled Panayotaros; "you tore my heart to bits, you know very well."

The widow reappeared before his eyes, with her fresh laughter, her rouged mouth, her brilliant teeth, her hair fair as honey; Panayotaros felt a tearing of his entrails.

"When I've killed you, Manolios," he bellowed, "I shall kill myself afterward; I'm only living to kill you. Afterward what need'll I have of life? A pistol shot and I'm off to the Devil."

They were entering the village, the knell was still ringing, a great confused tumult was coming from the square with the plane tree; all the villagers were assembled in front of the Agha's door, howling.

"What is it they're shouting?" said Manolios, stopping to listen.

"You'll soon find out, curse you! Walk faster!"

The tumult grew louder, the words became more distinct; Manolios caught fragments; he guessed their meaning; he smiled bitterlv and quickened his step. I'm coming . . . I'm coming ... he murmured; don't shout so, I'm coming . . .

As soon as Manolios appeared in the square the crowd hurled itself upon him, in a frenzy; but Panayotaros advanced and stretched out his arms.

"No one's to touch him!" he bellowed; "he's mine!"

"Robber! Assassin! Bolshevik!" yelled the crowd, ready to tear him to pieces.

Priest Grigoris caught sight of him from a distance and rushed upon him, full of rage:

"Kill him, my children! Death to the excommunicated!"

But the Agha's door opened and Panayotaros with a kick had Manolios in the courtyard. The door closed again at once.

The Greek Passion

Cross-legged on a cushion of velvet, the Agha sat in his room; he was drinking in a stupor, his eyes fixed on the brazier's glowing coals; a mild warmth reigned in the room, the air smelled of raki and pork sausage, and the Agha blinked away, plunged in a profound beatitude. He listened to the villagers, who, gathered down below at his door, were shouting at the tops of their voices: "Man-olios! Manolios! Give us Manolios!" He listened and smiled with satisfaction.

Devil's own race, these Greeks, he thought; the foxes, the ruffians, the demons! Wolves don't eat one another; Greeks do. Here they are now, wanting, for all they're worth, to eat Manolios! Why? what's he done to them? He's innocent, poor fellow; a bit crazy, but he never did anyone any harm. And yet: Give us Manolios; we want to eat him! You'd play the saint, would you, scoundrel? Then take what's coming to you! Well, let them eat him, if that's what they've set their hearts on; I don't care. Defend him? What's the good? it'd mean trouble; let them leave me in peace. There he is, take him, you blessed romnoi, and enjoy your meal! I wash my hands of it; I drink my raki, I savor these succulent camel sausages. Besides, I've also got my Brahimaki. And then there's my whip. I've everything I want, Allah be praised!

Steps sounded in the corridor, and the Agha raised his head. The door opened, Panayotaros appeared. He closed the door, saluted the Agha and came forward, hobbling a little but with his face radiant.

"I've nabbed him, Agha. He was barricaded in the garden with his men, about twenty, armed to the teeth. The two who were with me got the wind up when they saw. 'Be off with you, cowards!' I told them, and I advanced by myself; 'Hands up, you swine! I'm Panayotaros!' Soon as they heard my name they ran in all directions. Manolios was left alone; to tell the truth, he never stirred. I caught him by the neck and I've brought him!"

"Bravo, my fire eater!" said the Agha, smiling into his mustache, which was freshly dyed black; "seems to me you've embellished the tale, but who cares? You're a Greek, and that means liar. Come, bring Manolios; we're going to have some fun!"

Panayotaros went out, seized Manolios by the arm, struck him with his fist and pushed him into the room. Manolios, with his

arms folded, remained standing very calmly in front of the Agha, and waited.

"Shut the door, Panayotaros, and stay behind it!" the Agha ordered.

He filled his cup and emptied it at one gulp; he filled his mouth with sausage and began slowly munching and savoring it; half-shutting his eyes, he gazed at Manolios and smiled; he was happy.

"Poor Manolios," he said at length, "this is the second time you've got into my clutches; but this time I think you'll have trouble in getting out. Great crimes are weighing on your back, poor fellow; you've been robbing, they say, you've been killing, you've been setting fire to the village. Is it true?"

"It's true, Agha."

The Agha flushed, and lost his temper.

"Listen," he shouted, "try your nonsense on others; don't do what you did last time, don't ape the saints, d'you hear? Otherwise the Devil's going to get you. Understand? A poor innocent like you, rob, kill, set fire to things? Try it on others, I tell you; you won't fool me, my dear, see? Even if the Devil were in it, I wouldn't believe you!"

"It's me, Agha, it is me all right; I do ape the saints, I play the innocent, I keep my eyes downcast, I don't look men in the face; I pretend to be timid, but inside I'm a devil."

In the square the cries redoubled.

"Manolios! Manolios! Death to Manolios!"

"Do you hear? They want me to give you up to them; you won't come out of their claws alive. Make up your mind."

"I've made it up, Agha; give me up. I've only one thing to ask: let no one else be touched. The Sarakini had right on their side, but things couldn't be fixed up peaceably; so then I wanted to seize it by force, and I did what I have done. I am the cause of all these misfortunes, no one else! The Sarakini are fine people, Agha: honest, peaceable, hard working."

"Come now! I tell you they're bolsheviks; they want to bring down the Ottoman Empire."

"Don't you believe that, Agha; that's a lot of clever lies. Really they are poor people who want to live in peace and have roots in the earth; that's all."

The Agha clutched his head in his hands; the room had begun to go around.

"You romnios make me lose my bearings! I listen to this one and he's right; I listen to that one and he's right, too; I don't understand any more. By Allah, I'll hang the lot of you one day, to get a little peace and quiet."

At the door below more fullbodied yells rang out.

"Death to Manolios! Death to Manolios!"

"What the devil am I to do?" growled the Agha. "I'm sorry for you really, you ppor innocent; I tell you once more, you're mad and a saint all in one; you want to cover all the villainies of the world with your wings, like a broody hen. I'm sorry for you, but what do you expect? If I don't do what they want I shall have trouble. After all, how do I know you're not a bolshevik? That devil of a priest, who excites the villagers to bawl themselves hoarse in front of my door, is quite capable of going and complaining before the pasha of Smyrna, and then—look out! Do you understand, my poor Manolios? Put yourself in my place; what would you do? Isn't it better I should give you up and let them do what they like with you, then that I should feel, day and night, the chill of the sword on the back of my neck?"

"You're right, Agha, give me up."

"But by all the devils, don't say it to me in that tone of voice; you're driving me mad! Come, admit that you're a bolshevik, so I can get in a rage and give you up without its breaking my heart. Otherwise I'm afraid of giving a lamb to the wolves. Will you ever understand what I want? I want my peace, that's all. For that, I've got to get rid of them and of you . . . Understand? If you confess you're a bolshevik, that's perfect."

"Well, I am a bolshevik, Agha," said Manolios; "now are you satisfied? I am dangerous to the Ottoman Empire; if I could, I would blow it sky high!"

"Go on, go on; confess, on your faith, that you have committed all the crimes; do all you can to set me in a rage!"

"This world is unjust and wicked, Agha; the best are hungry and suffer, the worst eat, drink and govern without faith, without shame, without love. Such a world must perish! I shall rush out into the street, I shall go up onto the house tops, I shall cry: 'Come, all who are starving and persecuted, let us unite, let us set

fire to it, that the earth may purify itself and rid itself of bishops, notables and aghas!' "

"Go on, go on, Manolios, damn you; that's the way, I'm beginning to flare up!"

"I should like, Agha, to proclaim revolution over the whole earth. To rouse all men, white, black, yellow; to form an immense all-powerful army and enter into the great rotten towms, into the shameless palaces, into the mosques of Constantinople, and set fire to them!"

"Go on, go on, harder still! That's the way!"

"But I'm only a poor devil, a mere lackey, vdthout power, lost in a village in the depths of Anatolia, and my voice can't make itself heard beyond Lycovrissi and the Sarakina. So I stand up between Lycovrissi and the Sarakina and I proclaim: 'Arise, starving brothers, my persecuted fellow beings; how long are we to remain slaves? How long are we to present our necks to the Agha's yataghan? Arise, the hour is come, liberty or death! They will not give us our rights peaceably, we will take them by war! Arm, downtrodden brothers, descend upon the replete village, kill those who resist you, set fire to the house of old Ladas, the dirty miser; Patriarcheas's house is yours, enter it and barticade yourselves in. When you have beaten the rich and the notables, arise again and strike the Agha: let him vanish from our lands, let him go to blazes! And then . . .' "

But Manolios had no time to finish; the Agha had leaped up, he was foaming at the mouth. He seized Manolios by the neck, shook him furiously, threw him to the ground, opened the door, and gave him a kick which sent him tumbling down the stairs, head first. He came down after him, caught hold of him again by the neck, dragged him into the courtyard and, with his foot, opened the entrance door wide.

The crowd recoiled, taken aback. The Agha, gasping and foaming at the mouth, was shaking Manolios by the scruff of the neck; behind him Panayotaros appeared and, with a grin on his blood-smeared face, signed to the villagers to draw near. Priest Grigoris was the first to rush forward, and advanced with his arms spread wide, ready to seize hold of Manolios.

The voice of the Agha rang out hoarsely, constricted by fury:

"Take him, kill him, tear him into a thousand pieces, the devil take you all!"

This said, he slammed the door.

The priest dashed forward; he was exultant. He clutched Manolios by one shoulder; Panayotaros took the other. The crowd threw itself upon him, howling, struck him, spat in his face. It bore him toward the church. Night had fallen; in the sky, not a star, nothing but great black clouds with, far-off toward the west, a noiseless flashing and extinguishing of lightning.

They passed the plane tree; the breathless crowd pawed Manolios; the shouting had ceased. The beadle ran up, pulled from his belt the enormous key of the church, and opened the door. The people surged in, behind the priest and Manolios. The three great silver lamps were lit, one before the icon of Christ, another before that of the Virgin Mary and the third before Saint John the Baptist. All the other martyrs and saints were drowned in darkness. Only, over the small doorway into the choir, there shone, phosphorescent, the two outspread wings of the Archangel Michael, the despoiler of souls. The church was fragrant with incense and wax.

The priest now held Manolios by the neck with both hands. He dragged him as far as the choir, threw him to the ground and set him on his knees before the archangel of death.

He was so delighted to have Manolios at his mercy, his vengeance was so certain, so sweet and so near, that he was unable to open his mouth and speak. The words tied themselves up in his throat, nothing came out but hoarse yells.

Panayotaros kicked Manolios who, with his head held erect, was gazing serenely at the feet of the archangel, shod in red lace-boots. Old Ladas pushed the crowd aside, approached breathlessly and spat on Manolios. Packed tight around the victim, the people waited in trembling eagerness for the moment when priest Grigoris would give the signal; they licked their lips in anticipation, seized suddenly by a burning thirst.

Priest Grigoris slipped his gold-embroidered stole round his neck and stood up before the icon of Christ; the three lamps above him threw their light upon his sweating face; the wound on his forehead had reopened and the priest's beard was red with blood.

He signed to Panayotaros, who caught Manolios under the arms and dragged him to the priest's feet; the crowd took another step forward, gasping.

"In the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Ghost," boomed the voice of the priest, solemnly.

"Amen!" answered the crowd, making the sign of the cross.

"Brethren," cried priest Grigoris, "kneel down, and let us pray that God may descend upon our church and do justice. Lord, here he is at Thy feet, the excommunicated; he is trembling and waiting for Thy sword to fall on him! He has robbed, killed, burned, sown discord among the brethren, separated the affianced, stirred to a blaze the hatred between father and son; he has roused the ragged and the outlaws to rebellion; he has introduced them into our village, he has put our goods to the sack!

"As long as this man remains alive, O Lord, religion and honor will be in danger; as long as this man remains alive, Christendom and the Greek race, those two great hopes of the earth, will be in danger. He is paid by the Muscovite, that son of Satan, to make Thy name, Lord, vanish from the surface of the earth. We have assembled this evening in Thy church to judge this criminal, this blasphemer; descend. Almighty, from the vault of the church and judge him; and guide our hands to the execution of Thy judgment. Lord!"

He placed his foot on Manolios's back and began again to cry:

"I have lost my daughter and my brother. He has killed them. The Antichrist, the Muscovite, has entered into our village; he it is, on whom I have placed my foot, who opened the gates to him. The Sarakina is riddled with wasp nests, and he it is who has brought against us that poisonous swarm. Christian brethren, voice of the people, voice of God, judge him!"

At these words the crowd growled with rage; under the three silver lamps there gleamed bloodshot eyes, teeth, hands and twisted mouths. Panayotaros squatted and stared at Manolios in the eves, as though afraid he would escape him; if Manolios moved slightly to the right, Panayotaros moved to the right; if Manolios moved to the left, he, too, moved to the left, ready at any moment to leap at his throat. Old Ladas, squatting on the stone flags of the church, remembered his burned-down house, his spilled oil and wine, and began to weep.

Priest Grigoris bent over Manolios.

"Accursed man," he shouted, "stand up! Have vou heard the tale of the misfortunes which you have heaped upon our village"?

Have you heard the tale of your crimesr* Have you anything to say in your defence;""

"Nothing," rephed Manohos tranquilly.

"You confess that you have robbed, burned, killed?"

"I confess that I am guilty of all the misfortunes."

"You confess that you are a bolshevik?"

"If bolshevik means what I have in my spirit, yes, I am a bolshevik, Father; Christ and I are bolsheviks."

The whole church rang with the howls of the crowd. Old Ladas stood up and began yelping:

"Let's kill him! Let's kill him! We have no need of other witnesses; he's confessed. Let's kill him!"

The crowd grew bold; all raised their fists. "Death! Death!" they howled.

Manolios freed himself from the grip of Panayotaros, and the people made way; he took a step forward and opened his arms: "Kill me," he said.

With his arms open, defenceless, unresisting: "Kill me," he repeated. He advanced in the lane opened for him by the surprised and silent crowd. The stupor of the crowd was such that if, at that moment, Manolios had opened the door and gone out, no one would have barred his way. But Manolios stopped in the middle of the church, just underneath the Pantocrator, the savage Almighty painted in the vault. He opened his arms again. "Kill me," he implored, the third time.

Priest Grigoris advanced and signed to Panayotaros to follow him.

"Bolt the door!" he ordered in a strangled voice; "bolt the door; he'll escape us!"

The beadle rushed to lock it and leaned his back against it.

The priest's voice had sent a shudder through the crowd; suddenly all were seized with fear at the idea that the quarry might escape them; in terror they crowded close around Manolios; their burning breath ringed his face.

For an instant Manolios's heart failed him: he turned to the door—it was closed; he looked at the three lit lamps and, under them, the icons loaded with ex-votos: Christ, red-cheeked, with carefully combed hair, was smiling; the Virgin Mary, bending over her child, was taking no interest in what was happening un-

der her eyes; Saint John the Baptist was preaching in the desert. He raised his eyes toward the vault of the church and made out in the half-hght the face of the Almighty, bending pitilessly over mankind. He looked at the crowd about him; it was as if in the darkness he saw the gleam of daggers.

The strident voice of old Ladas squeaked once more:

"Let's kill him!"

At the same moment, violent blows were struck upon the door; all fell silent and turned toward the entrance; furious voices could be heard distinctly:

"Open! Open!"

"That's the voice of priest Fotis!" cried someone.

"Yannakos's voice," said another; "the Sarakini have come to take him from us!"

The door was shaken violently, its hinges creaked; there could be heard a great tumult of men and women outside.

"Open, murderers! Have you no fear of God?" came the voice of priest Fotis, distinctly.

Priest Grigoris raised his hands.

"In the name of Christ," he cried, "I take the sin upon me! Do it, Panayotaros."

Panayotaros drew the dagger and turned to priest Grigoris.

"With your blessing. Father?" he asked.

"With my blessing, strike!"

Already the crowd had made a rush for Manolios; the blood spurted, sprinkled their faces; some drops fell, warm and salty, on the lips of priest Grigoris.

"Brothers . . ." rose the voice of Manolios, weak, mild, expiring; but he could not go on; he collapsed on the stone flags of the church and groaned sofdy.

The crowd, intoxicated, snuffed the blood and hurled itself upon the panting body; lips rose from it all blood; old Ladas bit the throat of Manolios with his broken-toothed mouth and tried to tear away a strip of flesh. Panayotaros wiped his dagger on his tawny hair; he anointed his ferocious jowl with blood and cried:

"You tore my heart, Manolios; I've killed you; we're quits!"

Priest Grigoris bent down, filled the hollow of his hand with blood and sprinkled the crowd with it:

"May his blood fall upon the heads of us all!"

The crowd received the drops of blood and shuddered.

"Open, murderers, open!" rumbled afresh the voices from outside.

Priest Grigoris made a sign to the beadle, who approached, staggering.

"Open the door," he ordered, "and come back and wash the stones quickly; don't forget that tonight, at midnight, we are celebrating the birth of Christ."

And, turning toward his flock:

"Let us go, Christians, my brothers," he said; "we have accomplished our duty, God is with us! Let priest Fotis come now and bury his friend!"

The beadle opened the door; threatening faces of men and women could be seen gleaming through the darkness.

"Where is Manoliosr"" shouted the breathless voice of Yannakos.

"Go and find him!" replied priest Grigoris; "draw aside, you others."

"If you have killed him," bellowed priest Fotis, "may his blood fall upon your heads and upon the heads of your children!"

"Go and find him!" repeated priest Grigoris.

"They've killed him!" roared Yannakos, and rushed into the church.

Toward midnight the bell began ringing, calling the Christians to the church to see Christ bom. One by one the doors opened and the Christians hastened toward the church, shivering with cold. The night was calm, icy, starless. Only the house of Patriarcheas had its doors closed, and a great rumor of men's voices and of piercing lamentations of women could be heard coming from it.

Manolios was stretched out on Patriarcheas's great bed, swathed like a new-born child in a silk sheet which came from the trousseau of Michelis's mother. About him his companions watched, pale and silent; Yannakos had rested his head on Manolios's feet and was weeping like a child; he had tired himself out with crying out and beating his breast and now, with his head resting on the feet of his friend, he was weeping softly. Kostandis had gone to the Sarakina to look for Michelis; two or three women, squatting in a corner with their faces to the wall, were wailing and beating their breasts.

Leaning over his friend, priest Fotis gazed by the hght of a lamp at Manolios's face, serene again and very pale; a knife blow had gashed it from the right temple to the chin. From time to time he stretched out his hand and arranged the hair of his dead companion; then he would withdraw again and plunge into his reflections: old Martha had just warned him that the Agha had already sent a messenger to the town with an urgent request for the aid of a regiment of infantry and horse; the bolsheviks have entered Lycovrissi, he had reported, and intend to kill him.

They will come with artillery, thought priest Fotis, clenching his fists; how can we resist them? They'll wipe us all out. Once more we must take to the road, and lose no time. How long, O Lord? Are You not good? Are You not just? I don't understand . . .

He extended his hand and tenderly caressed the face of Manolios.

Dear Manolios, you'll have given your life in vain, he murmured; they've killed you for having taken our sins upon you; you cried: "It was I who robbed, it was I who killed and set things on fire; I, nobody else!" So that they might let the rest of us take root peacefully in these lands ... In vain, Manolios, in vain will you have sacrificed yourself . . .

Priest Fotis listened to the bell pealing gaily, announcing that Christ was coming dov^m on earth to save the world. He shook his head and heaved a sigh: In vain, my Christ, in vain, he muttered; two thousand years have gone by and men crucify You still. When will You be born, my Christ, and not be crucified any more, but live among us for eternity.

At daybreak priest Fotis rested his head on the edge of the bed where Manolios lay stretched out, closed his eyes and fell, for a moment, into slumber. He had a dream: he had gone out in pursuit of a tiny yellow bird,, a canary, at the foot of a bushy tree. He was still quite a small child, so it seemed to him, when this pursuit of the bird began. The years went by. He grew, became a young man, then a grown-up man with black hair and mustache; the years kept flying and his hair had become gray, then white; he was now an old man and still he was pursuing, vainly, the yellow bird. Defying capture, the little canary flitted from branch to branch, from flower to flower and sang as if possessed.

Priest Fotis had only slept for the space of a flash; but as he woke up it seemed to him that he had lived for thousands and thousands

of years, that he had pursued a httle canary for thousands and thousands of years without ever getting tired, with an ever-renewed vigor, indefatigable. Was it really a bird? In the depths of his being, priest Fotis felt that it was not really a canary, that yellow bird which sometimes whistled as if it were making fun of him and sometimes, vsdth its head raised toward the sky, sang as if possessed.

"Whatever it may be, never mind, I shall pursue till my death," he murmured.

He stood up and gave a cry. He called his companions, men and women, assembled them in Patriarcheas's great courtyard; during the night those who had been dispersed over the gardens, vineyards and olive orchards had come in, and the courtyard was packed.

"My children," he cried, "take your heart in your two hands! Hard indeed is what I am going to announce to you, but we can bear anything and we shall bear this. Yesterday evening the news was brought to me that a Turkish army, horse and foot, with artillery, was marched out against us; arise, my children, quickly, let us not lose a minute, take away all you can on your backs, and let us be off! Let us leave Lycovrissi and Sarakina! We are no longer anything but a handful of Greeks on the earth; let us grit our teeth and go forward. No, they shall not get us; our race cannot die!"

"Don't worry, Father," cried Loukas, who had already seized up the banner of Saint George and was opening the door; "no, our race cannot die, Father!"

All rushed for the rich storerooms of Patriarcheas; Yannakos shared out the flour, oil and wine, priest Fotis the clothes, sheets and blankets; they took the door from its hinges and laid" out on it the body of Manolios; four sturdy young lads loaded it onto their shoulders; the old men took the icons, priest Fotis placed himself at their head and all, with rapid steps, made for the Sarakina.

"We'll go first by the Sarakina," cried priest Fotis, "and there we'll bury our Manolios; then we'll dig up the earth and take out the bones of our ancestors and we'll march out once more. Courage, my children, fear nothing, grit your teeth, we are immortal!"

They reached Saint Basil's Well; priest Fotis leaned against it for a moment:

"My children," he cried, "today Christ has come down on earth;

let US carry Him with us: we have here mothers who will give Him suck. Happy Christmas, my sons and daughters!"

Yannakos came at the tail of the procession; he had laden his ass heavily and walked beside him in silence. From time to time the world seemed to him to grow dark; Yannakos wiped his eyes and again the world shone with the pale brightness of that winter morning. Lightly, tenderly, he touched his ass on the rump, and the beloved animal wagged his tail joyfully, turned his head and looked at his companion of the road; he could not understand. What was the matter with master? Why didn't he talk? Why hadn't he today stroked his belly, his neck and his long ears?

They took the sheer path up the Sarakina and the climb began. At the head went Manolios, laid out on the door; behind, his companions, men and women; no one spoke. The day was crystalline, the little church of the Prophet Elijah was sparkling at the first rays of the sun; over there, in the far distance, the mountains gleamed, some rosy, others pale blue.

Kostandis was waiting for them in front of the caves; he came up to priest Fotis.

"Father," he said, "Michelis won't come down from the Prophet Elijah's peak; he's taken with him a bundle, his silver Gospel book and Mariori's tresses, and he's settled in the old ascetic's cell. 'I'm all right here,' he told me, 'I don't want to see men any more, the good no more than the wicked; no one! I'll live and I'll die here!*"

Priest Fotis shook his head pensively.

"Perhaps, my dear Kostandis," he said, "perhaps he is right; let us not trouble his serenity. That is his way; let us take ours."

"And what's my way. Father?" Kostandis asked anxiously.

"As soon as we have buried Manolios, go back home, Kostandis," replied the priest, laying his hand on his companion's head; "go back to your wife and children; that is your way."

They lowered Manolios to the ground in front of the grotto which had served them as a church. The priest put on his stole and began to chant the burial service. From time to time sobs broke out among the companions, or else the voice of priest Fotis came to a standstill, cut off suddenly, unable to keep back its sobs . . .

All bent over the beloved dead and embraced him lingeringly and wept. The grave was dug and the priest advanced to its edge and tried to pronounce a few words of farewell to Manolios. But

his throat was so tightened that the words could not come out, and suddenly priest Fotis burst out sobbing.

Then a little old woman grew bold, unknotted her white hair, gave a piercing cry and took farewell of Manolios:

The name of this fine young man was written on the

snow; The sun has risen, the snow has melted and has horne

away the nam.e wpon the waters.

A few moments later, priest Fotis raised his hand and gave the signal for departure:

"In the name of Christ," he cried, "the march begins again; courage, my children!"

And again they resumed their interminable march toward the east.

A Npte Ahout the Author

Nmos Kazantzakis was horn in Crete in 1885. He studied at the University of Athens where he received his Doctor of Laws degree, later in Paris under the fhilosofher Henri Bergson, and completed his studies in literature and art during four other years S'pent in Germany and Italy.

Before the last war, he spent a great deal of his time on the island of Aegina, where he devoted himself to his -philosofhical and literary work. In 1945 he was for a short while Minister of Education in Greece. He is President of the Greek Society of Men of Letters, hut lives for the greater 'part of the year in Paris. His works are numerous and varied — in the fields of philosophy, travel, the dram.a and fiction. Perhaps the most outstanding, apart from his magnificently conceived novels, is his long epic poem on the fortunes of Odysseus, which hegins where Homer's Odyssey ends. Mr. Kazantzakis' first hook to he published in America, Zorba the Greek, received instantaneous acclaim last year and continues to enchant an ever-growing audience.