"Mitsos!" said Yanni, looking at him without fear or anger, but stung intolerably.
For a moment or two Mitsos sat still, but then the blessed relief of tears came.
"What have I said to you, Yanni?" he sobbed. "O God, forgive me, for I know not what I said; yet—yet how can I do this? Oh, of course you are right, and I—I—Yanni, is it not hard? What was it I said to you? Something devilish, I know. Don't give me up, Yanni; there is none—there will soon be none who loves me as you do."
Yanni's great black eyes grew soft with tears, and he put his arm round Mitsos' neck as his head lay on the table.
"Oh, Mitsos! poor little Mitsos!" he said again. "What is to be done? If only Nicholas or my father knew; and yet you could not and cannot tell them. Perhaps she is not on the ship, you know."
"Perhaps, perhaps—oh, perhaps she is!" cried Mitsos.
The two sat there in silence for a time, stricken almost out of consciousness by this appalling thing. At last Mitsos raised his head.
"There is nothing more to be said," he muttered. "I have no idea what I shall do. Either to do the thing or not to do it is impossible, and yet by to-morrow it will be done or left undone. But, Yanni, just tell me you forgive me for what I said just now and make indulgence, for this is a hard, weary day for me."
Yanni smiled.
"Forgiveness is no word from me to you, dear Mitsos," he said. "There is nothing you could do or say to me for which you need ask that."