‘Ay, Spiro or Vlacho, or whom you will,’ said Kortes with a shrug. ‘There was no poverty of lies in his mouth.’
But the old feeling was not dead, and one or two again murmured:
‘The old lord sold the island.’
‘Did he die for that?’ cried Francesca scornfully; ‘or was it not in truth I who brought him to death?’
There was a movement of surprised interest, and all bent their eyes on her.
‘Yes,’ she went on, ‘I think I doomed him to that death when I went and told him my story, seeking his protection. Constantine found me with him, and heard him greet me as his nephew’s wife, on the afternoon of the day that the deed was done. Can this man here deny it? Can he deny that the old lord was awaiting the return of the Lady Euphrosyne to tell her of the thing, when his mouth was shut for ever by the stroke?’
This disclosure, showing a new and vile motive for what Constantine had tried to play off as a pardonable excess of patriotism, robbed him of his last defenders. He seemed to recognise his plight; his eyes ceased to canvass possible favour, and dropped to the ground in dull despair. There was not a man now to raise a voice or a hand for him; their anger at having been made his dupes and his tools sharpened the edge of their hatred. To me his wife’s words caused no wonder, for I had from the first believed that some secret motive had nerved Constantine’s arm, and that he had taken advantage of the islanders’ mad folly for his own purposes. What that motive was stood out now clear and obvious. It explained his act, and abundantly justified the distrust and fear of him which I had perceived in his wife’s mind when first I talked with her on the hill. But she, having launched her fatal bolt, turned her eyes away again, and laying her hand in Phroso’s stood silent.
Kortes, appearing to take the lead now by general consent—for Phroso made no sign—looked round on his fellow-countrymen, seeking to gather their decision from their faces. He found the guidance and agreement that he sought.
‘We may not put any man to death on St Tryphon’s day,’ said he.
The sentence was easy to read, for all its indirectness. The islanders understood it, and approved in a deep stern murmur; the women followed it, and their faces grew pale and solemn. The criminal missed nothing of its implied doom and tottered under the strong hands that now rather supported than imprisoned him. ‘Not on this day, but to-morrow at break of day.’ The voice of the people had spoken by the mouth of Kortes, and none pleaded for mercy or delay.