‘Yes, Constantine Stefanopoulos,’ I cried. ‘Did he not stab the old man after he had yielded? Did he not—’
‘The old man sold the island,’ growled a dozen low fierce voices; but the priest’s rose high above them.
‘We are not here to judge my Lord Constantine,’ said he, ‘but this man here.’
‘We all had a hand in the business of the old man,’ said Demetri, who had picked himself up and was looking very vicious.
‘You lie, and you know it,’ said I hotly. ‘He had yielded, and the rest had left off attacking him; but Constantine stabbed him. Why did he stab him?’
There came no answer, and Constantine caught at this advantage.
‘Yes,’ he cried. ‘Why? Why should I stab him? He was stabbed by some one who did not know that he had yielded.’ Then I saw his eye fall suddenly on Vlacho. Dead men tell no tales and deny no accusations.
‘Since Vlacho is dead,’ Constantine went on with wonderful readiness, ‘my tongue is loosed. It was Vlacho who, in his hasty zeal, stabbed the old man.’
He had gained a point by this clever lie, and he made haste to press it to the full against me.
‘This man,’ he exclaimed, ‘will go to Rhodes and denounce me! But did I kill the old man alone? Did I besiege the Englishman alone? Will the Governor be content with one victim? Is it not one head in ten when he comes to punish? Men of the island, it is your lives and my life against this man’s life!’