“We shall gain nothing by trying to. If a murder has been committed, we may come upon the corpse. If it is something else, we are already in the trap.”
Before I had time to ask him what he meant by this, a shot was fired over our heads, and, simultaneously, a number of forms emerged from the forest.
We were surrounded, and several dark lanterns flashed upon us.
“Halt! Hands up!”
“All right!” said my brother.
Five men glided close to us, and I saw three pistols pointing at us. I could now see our captors distinctly. They had on the Greek foustanella, white, accordion-pleated skirts, stiff-starched, reaching to the knees. Below they wore gaiters ending in the tsarouchia, or soft-pointed shoes. Their graceful little jackets were worn like capes, with the empty sleeves flapping. The Greek fez with its long black tassel completed their picturesque costume.
I do not know whether Greek brigands are really any better than Bulgarian or Turkish ones, but the sight of their Hellenic costume lessened my fears considerably. It sounds very silly, but my warm and uncritical patriotism embraced all Greeks—even brigands. Impulsively I cried out:
“Yassas, pallikaria!” (Health to you, men!)
The brigand next me, whose large brown hand was on the neck of my horse, laughed.
“Yassu, kera mou!” (Health to thee, my lady!)