The boat still moved a little from the impulse of my last stroke, and we floated slowly past Mouraki who stood, like some great sea-bird on the rock. To his cynical question—for it revealed shamelessly the use he had meant to make of his tool—I returned no answer. I could smile in amused bitterness but for the moment I could not speak. Phroso sat with downcast eyes, twisting one hand round the other; the Pasha was content to answer my smile with his own. The boat drew past the rock and, as we came round its elbow, I found across our path a larger boat, manned by four of Mouraki’s soldiers, who had laid down their oars and sat rifles in hand. In the coxswain’s place was Demetri. It seemed strange to find him in that company. One of the soldiers took hold of the nose of our boat and turned it round, impelling it towards the beach. A moment later we grated on the shingle, where the Pasha, who had leapt down nimbly from his perch, stood awaiting us. Thoughts had been running rapidly through my brain, wild thoughts of resistance, of a sudden rush, of emptying my revolver haphazard into the other boat, aye, even of assassinating Mouraki with an unexpected shot. All that was folly. I let it go, sprang from the boat, and, giving my hand to Phroso, helped her to land, and led her to a broad smooth ledge of rock, on which she seated herself, still silent, but giving me a look of grief and despair. Then I turned to the Pasha.

‘I think,’ said I, ‘that you’ll have to wait a day or two for Cousin Constantine. I’m told that bodies don’t find their way out so soon as living men.’

‘Ah, I thought that must be it! You threw him down into the pool?’ he asked.

‘No, not I. My friend Kortes.’

‘And Kortes?’

‘They fell together.’

‘How very dramatic,’ smiled the Pasha. ‘How came you to let Kortes have at him first?’

‘Believe me, it was unintentional. It was without any design of disappointing you, Pasha.’

‘And there’s an end of both of them!’ said he, smiling at my hit.

‘They must both be dead. Forgive me, Pasha, but I don’t understand your comedy. We were in your power at the house. Why play this farce? Why not have done then what I presume you will do now?’

‘My dear lord,’ said he, after a glance round to see that nobody listened, ‘the conventions must be observed. Yesterday you had not committed the offences of which I regret to say you have now been guilty.’

‘The offences? You amuse me, Pasha.’

‘I don’t grudge it you,’ said Mouraki. ‘Yes, the offences of aiding my prisoner—that lady—to escape, and—well, the death of Constantine is at least a matter for inquiry, isn’t it? You’ll admit that? The man was a rogue, of course, but we must observe the law, my dear Wheatley. Besides—’ He paused, then he added, ‘You mustn’t grudge me my amusement either. Believe me, your joy at finding that boat, which I caused to be placed there for your convenience, and the touching little scene which I interrupted, occasioned me infinite diversion.’

I made no answer, and he continued:

‘I was sure that if—well, if Constantine failed in perpetrating his last crime—you follow me, my dear lord?—you would make for the passage, so I obtained the guidance of that faithful fellow, Demetri, and he brought us round very comfortably. Indeed we’ve been waiting some little while for you. Of course Phroso delayed you.’

Mouraki’s sneers and jocularity had no power in themselves to anger me. Indeed I felt myself cool and calm, ready to bandy retorts and banter with him. But there was another characteristic of his conversation on which my mind fastened, finding in it matter for thought: this was his barefaced frankness. Plainly he told me that he had employed Constantine to assassinate me, plainly he exposed to me the trick by which he had obtained a handle against me. Now to whom, if to any one, does a man like Mouraki Pasha reveal such things as these? Why to men, and only to men, who will tell no tales. And there is a proverb which hints that only one class of men tells no tales. That was why I attached significance to the Governor’s frankness.

I believe the man followed my thoughts with his wonderfully acute intelligence and his power of penetrating the minds of others; for he smiled again as he said:

‘I don’t mind being frank with you, my dear Wheatley. I’m sure you won’t use the little admissions I may seem to make against me. How grieved you must be for your poor friend Kortes!’

‘We’ve both lost a friend this morning, Pasha.

‘Constantine? Ah, yes. Still—he’s as well where he is, just as well where he is.’

‘He won’t be able to use your little admissions either?’

‘How you catch my meaning, my dear lord! It’s a pleasure to talk to you.’ But he turned suddenly from me and called to his men. Three came up at once. ‘This gentleman,’ he said, indicating me, and speaking now in sharp authoritative tones, ‘is in your custody for the the present. Don’t let him move.’

I seated myself on a rock; the three men stood round me. The Pasha bowed slightly, walked down to where Phroso sat, and began to speak with her. So, at least, I supposed, but I did not hear anything that he said. His back was towards me, and he hid Phroso from my view. I took out my flask and had a pull at my brandy-and-water; it was a poor breakfast, but I was offered no other.

Up to this time the fourth soldier and Demetri had remained in the boat. They now landed and hauled their boat up on to the beach; then they turned to the smaller boat which the Pasha had provided in malicious sport for our more complete mortification. The soldier laid hold of its stern and prepared to haul it also out of the water; but Demetri said something—what I could not hear—and shrugged his shoulders. The soldier nodded in apparent assent, and they left the boat where it was, merely attaching it by a rope to the other. Then they walked to the rocks and sat down at a little distance from where I was, Demetri taking a hunch of bread and a large knife from his pocket and beginning to cut and munch. I looked at him, but he refused to meet my eye and glanced in every direction except at me.

Suddenly, while I was idly regarding Demetri, the three fellows sprang on me. One had me by each arm before I could so much as move. The third dashed his hand into the breast-pocket of my coat and seized my revolver. They leapt away again, caught up the rifles they had dropped, and held them levelled towards me. The thing was done in a moment, I sitting like a man paralysed. Then one of the ruffians cried:

‘Your Excellency, the gentleman moved his hand to his pocket, to his pistol.’

‘What?’ asked Mouraki, turning round. ‘Moved his hand to a pistol? Had he a pistol?’

My revolver was held up as damning evidence.

‘And he tried to use it?’ asked Mouraki, in mournful shocked tones.

‘It looked like it,’ said the fellow.

‘It’s a lie. I wasn’t thinking of it,’ said I. I was exasperated at the trick. I had made up my mind to fight it out sooner than give up the revolver.

‘I’m afraid it may have been so,’ said Mouraki, shaking his head. ‘Give the pistol to me, my man. I’ll keep it safe.’ His eye shot triumph at me as he took my revolver and turned again to Phroso. I was now powerless indeed.

Demetri finished his hunch of bread, and began to clean his knife, polishing its blade leisurely and lovingly on the palm of his hand, and feeling its point with the end of his thumb. During this operation he hummed softly and contentedly to himself. I could not help smiling when I recognised the tune; it was an old friend, the chant that One-eyed Alexander wrote on the death of Stefan Stefanopoulos two hundred years ago. Demetri polished, and Demetri hummed, and Demetri looked away across the blue water with a speculative eye. I did not choose to consider what might be in the mind of Demetri as he hummed and polished and gazed over the sea that girt his native island. Demetri’s thoughts were his own. Let Mouraki look to them, if they were worth his care.

There, I have made that confession as plainly as I mean to make it. I put out of my mind what Demetri might be planning as he polished his knife and hummed One-eyed Alexander’s chant.

Apparently Mouraki did not think the matter worth his care. He had approached very near to Phroso now, leaning down towards her as she sat on the rock. Suddenly I heard a low cry of terror, and ‘No, no,’ in horrified accents; but Mouraki, raising his voice a little, answered, ‘Yes, yes.’

I strained my ears to hear; nay, I half rose from where I sat, and sank back only under the pointed hint of a soldier’s bayonet. I could not hear the words, but a soft pleading murmur came from Phroso, a short relentless laugh from Mouraki, a silence, a shrug of Mouraki’s shoulders. Then he turned and came across to me.

‘Stand back a little,’ said he to the soldiers, ‘but keep your eyes on your prisoner, and if he attempts any movement—’ He did not finish the sentence, which indeed was plain enough without a formal ending. Then he began to speak to me in French.

‘A beautiful thing, my dear lord,’ said he, ‘is the devotion of women. Fortunate are you who have found two ladies to love you!’

‘You’ve been married twice yourself, I think you told me?’

‘It’s not exactly the same thing—not necessarily. I am very likely to be married a third time, but I fear I should flatter myself if I thought that much love would accompany the lady’s hand. However it was of you that I desired to speak. This lady here, my dear lord, is so attached to you that I believe she will marry me, purely to ensure your safety. Isn’t it a touching sacrifice?’

‘I hope she’ll do nothing of the sort,’ said I.

‘Well, it’s little more than a polite fiction,’ he conceded; ‘for she’ll be compelled to marry me anyhow. But it’s the sort of idea that comforts a woman.’

He fixed his eyes on me as he made this remark, enjoying the study of its effect on me.

‘Well,’ said I, ‘I never meant to marry her. I’m bound, you know. It was only another polite fiction designed to annoy you, my dear Pasha.’

‘Ah, is that so? Now, really, that’s amusing,’ and he chuckled. He did not appear annoyed at having been deceived. I wondered a little at that—then.

‘We have really,’ he continued, ‘been living in an atmosphere of polite fictions. For example, Lord Wheatley, there was a polite fiction that I was grieved at Constantine’s escape.’

‘And another that you were anxious to recapture him.’

‘And a third that you were not anxious to escape from my—hospitality.’

‘And a fourth that you were so solicitous for my friends’ enjoyment that you exerted yourself to find them good fishing.’

‘Ah, yes, yes,’ he laughed. ‘And there is to be one more polite fiction, my dear lord.’

‘I believe I can guess it,’ said I, meeting his eye.

‘You are always so acute,’ he observed admiringly.

‘Though the precise form of it I confess I don’t understand.’

‘Well, our lamented Constantine, who had much experience but rather wanted imagination, was in favour of a fever. He told me that it was the usual device in Neopalia.’

‘His wife died of it, I suppose?’ I believe I smiled as I put the question. Great as my peril was, I still found a pleasure in fencing with the Pasha.

‘Oh, no. Now that’s unworthy of you. Never have a fiction when the truth will serve! Since he’s dead, he murdered his wife. If he had lived, of course—’

‘Ah, then it would have been fever.’

‘Precisely. We must adapt ourselves to circumstances: that is the part of wise men. Now in your case—’ He bent down and looked hard in my face.

‘In my case,’ said I, ‘you can call it what you like, Pasha.’

‘Don’t you think that the outraged patriotism of Neopalia—?’ he suggested, with a smile. ‘You bought the island—you, a stranger! It was very rash. These islanders are desperate fellows.’

‘That would have served with Constantine alive; but he’s dead. Your patriot is gone, Pasha.’

‘Alas, yes, our good Constantine is dead. But there are others. There’s a fellow whom I ought to hang.’

‘Ah!’ My eye wandered towards where Demetri hummed and polished.

‘And who has certainly not earned his life merely by bringing me to meet you this morning, though I give him some credit for that.’

‘Demetri?’ I asked with a careless air.

‘Well, yes, Demetri,’ smiled the Pasha. ‘Demetri is very open to reason.’

Across the current of our talk came Demetri’s soft happy humming. The Pasha heard it.

‘I hanged his brother three years ago,’ he observed.

‘I know you did,’ said I. ‘You seem to have done some characteristic things three years ago.’

‘And he went to the gallows humming that tune. You know it?’

‘Very well indeed, Pasha. It was one of the first things I heard in Neopalia; it’s going to be one of the last, perhaps.’

‘That tune lends a great plausibility to my little fiction,’ said Mouraki.

‘It will no doubt be a very valuable confirmation of it,’ I rejoined.

The Pasha made no further remark for a moment. I looked past him and past the four soldiers—for the last had now joined his comrades—to Phroso. She was leaning against the cliff side; her head was thrown back and her face upturned, but her eyes were closed. I think she had swooned, or at least sunk into a half-unconscious state. Mouraki detected my glance.

‘Look at her well, use your time,’ he said in a savage tone. You’ve not long to enjoy the sight of her.’

‘I have as long as it may happen to please God,’ said I. ‘Neither you nor I know how long.’

‘I can make a guess,’ observed Mouraki, a quiet smile succeeding his frown.

‘Yes, you can make a guess.’

He stood looking at me a moment longer; then he turned away. As he passed the soldiers he spoke to them. I saw them smile. No doubt he had picked his men for this job and could rely on them.

The little bay in which we were was surrounded by steep and precipitous cliffs except in one place. Here there was a narrow cleft; the rocks did not rise abruptly; the ground sloped gradually upwards as it receded from the beach. Just on this spot of gently-rising ground Demetri sat, and the Pasha, having amused himself with me for as long as it pleased him, walked up to Demetri. The fellow sprang to his feet and saluted Mouraki with great respect. Mouraki beckoned to him to come nearer, and began to speak to him.

I sat still where I was, under the bayonets of the soldiers, who faced me and had their backs to their commander. My eyes were fixed steadily on the pair who stood conferring on the slope; and my mind was in a ferment. Scruples troubled me no more; Mouraki himself had made them absurd. I read my only chance of life in the choice or caprice of the wild passionate barbarian—he was little else—who stood with head meekly bowed and knife carelessly dangled in his hand. This man was he of whom Panayiota had spoken so mysteriously; he was the friend whom I had ‘more than I knew of.’ In his blood feud with the Pasha, in his revengeful wrath, lay my chance. It was only a chance, indeed, for the soldiers might kill me; but it was a chance, and there was no other; for if Mouraki won him over by promises or bribes, or intimidated him into doing his will, then Demetri would take the easier task, that which carried no risk and did not involve his own death, as an attack on the Pasha almost certainly would. Would he be prudent and turn his hand against the single helpless man? Or would his long-nursed rage stifle all care for himself and drive him against Mouraki? If so, if he chose that way, there was a glimmer of hope. I glanced at Phroso’s motionless figure and pallid face; I glanced at the little boat that floated on the water (why had Demetri not beached it?); I glanced at the rope which bound it to the other boat; I measured the distance between the boats and myself; I thrust my hand into the pocket of my coat and contrived to open the blade of my clasp-knife, which was now the only weapon left to me.

Mouraki spoke and smiled. He made no gesture but there was just a movement of his eyes towards me. Demetri’s eyes followed his for an instant, but would not dwell on my face. The Pasha spoke again. Demetri shook his head, and Mouraki’s face assumed a persuasive good-humoured expression. Demetri glanced round apprehensively. The Pasha took him by the arm, and they went a few paces further up the slope, so as to be more private in their talk—but was that the object with both of them? Still Demetri shook his head. The Pasha’s smile vanished, his mouth grew stern, his eyes cold, and he frowned. He spoke in short sharp sentences, the snap of his lips showing when his mind was spoken. Demetri seemed to plead. He looked uneasy, he shifted from foot to foot, he drew back from the imperious man, as though he shunned him and would fain escape from him. Mouraki would not let him go, but followed him in his retreat, step for step. Thus another ten yards were put between them and me. Anger and contempt blazed now on Mouraki’s face. He raised his hand and brought it down clenched on the palm of the other. Demetri held out his hand as though in protest or supplication. The Pasha stamped with his foot. There were no signs of relenting in his manner.

My eyes grew weary with intent watching. I felt like a man who has been staring at a bright white light, too fascinated by its intensity to blink or turn away, even though it pains him to look longer. The figures of the two seemed to become indistinct and blurred. I rubbed my knuckles into my eyes to clear my vision, and looked again. Yes; they were a little further off, even still a little further off than when I had looked before. It could not be by chance and unwittingly that Demetri always and always and always gave back a pace, luring the Pasha to follow him. No, there was a plan in his head; and in my heart suddenly came a great beat of savage joy—of joy at the chance Heaven gave, yes, and of lust for the blood of the man against whom I had so mighty a debt of wrong. And, as I gazed now, for an instant—a single, barely perceptible instant—came the swiftest message from Demetri’s eyes. I read it. I knew its meaning. I sat where I was, but every muscle of my body was tense and strung in readiness for that desperate leap, and every nerve of me quivered with a repressed excitement that seemed almost to kill. Now, now! Was it now? I was within an ace of crying ‘Strike!’ but I held the word in and still gazed. And the soldiers leant easily on their bayonets, exchanging a word or two now and again, yawning sometimes, weary of a dull job, wondering when his Excellency would let them get home again; of what was going on behind their backs, there on the slope of the cliff, they took no heed.

Ah, there was a change now! Demetri had ceased to protest, to deprecate and to retreat. Mouraki’s frowns had vanished, he smiled again in satisfaction and approval. Demetri threw a glance at me. Mouraki spoke. Demetri answered. For an instant I looked at the soldiers: they were more weary and inattentive than ever. Back went my eyes. Now Mouraki, with suave graciousness, in condescending recognition of a good servant, stepped right close up to Demetri and, raising his hand, reached round the fellow’s shoulder and patted him approvingly on the back.

‘It will be now!’ I thought; nay, I believe I whispered, and I drew my legs up under me and grasped the hidden knife in my pocket. ‘Yes, it must be now.’

Mouraki patted, laughed, evidently praised. Demetri bowed his head. But his long, lithe, bare, brown right arm that had hung so weary a time in idle waiting by his side—the arm whose hand held the great bright blade so lovingly polished, so carefully tested—the arm began slowly and cautiously to crawl up his side. It bent at the elbow, it rested a moment after its stealthy secret climb; then, quick as lightning, it flew above Demetri’s head, the blade sparkled in the sun, the hand swooped down, and the gleams of the sunlit steel were quenched in the body of Mouraki. With a sudden cry of amazement, of horror and of agony, the Pasha staggered and fell prone on the rocky ground; and Demetri cried, ‘At last, my God, at last!’ and laughed aloud.

“at last, my god, at last!”