I rose very early the next morning. The Pasha was not expected to appear for two or three hours, and he had not requested my presence till ten o’clock breakfast. I hastened off to the harbour, boarded the yacht, enjoyed a merry cup of coffee and a glorious bathe with Denny. Denny was anxious to know my plans—whether I meant to return or to stay. The idea of departure was odious to me. I enlarged on the beauties of the island, but Denny’s shrug insinuated a doubt of my candour. I declared that I saw no reason for going, but must be guided by the Pasha.
‘Where’s the girl?’ asked Denny abruptly.
‘She’s up at the house,’ I answered carelessly.
‘Hum. Heard anything about Constantine being hanged?’
‘Not a word; Mouraki has not touched on business.’
Denny had projected a sail, and was not turned from his purpose by my unwillingness to accompany him. Promising to meet him again in the evening, I took my way back up the street, where a day or two ago my life would have paid for my venturing, where now I was as safe as in Hyde Park. Women gave me civil greetings; the men did the like, or, at worst, ignored me. I saw the soldiers on guard at Constantine’s prison, and pursued my path to the house with a complacent smile. My island was beautiful that morning, and the blood flowed merrily in my veins. I thought of Phroso. Where was the remorse which I vainly summoned?
Suddenly I saw Kortes before me, walking along slowly. He was relieved of his duty then, and Constantine was no longer in his hands. Overtaking him, I began to talk. He listened for a little, and then raised his calm honest eyes to mine.
‘And the Lady Phroso?’ he said gently. ‘What of her?’
I told him what I knew, softening the story of Mouraki’s harshness.
‘You have not spoken to her yet?’ he asked. Then, coming a step nearer, he said, ‘She shuns you perhaps?’