Ferende had gone to free Panayota. Bounding up the dark narrow stairs, she muttered to herself:
"It's my only chance. I'll be a drudge all my life else."
She did not stop to reason concerning Kostakes' anger or his possible vengeance. There would be time enough to devise some story. The thing that was certain, the situation that she must face, was "the Christians are all being killed, and even the girl upstairs will see that Mohammedanism is triumphant. If I get rid of her, I shall live like a queen the rest of my days."
Panayota was lying on the bed with her face in the pillow, shuddering and whispering to the Virgin. At the first sound of the guns, nature had given way, and she had fallen fainting to the floor.
Recovering consciousness, she had found herself too weak to rise, and had crept to her couch, where she lay, moaning.
Sometimes there would be a few moments of quiet, when she would raise her head and listen, hoping against hope that something had happened, and that the dreadful sound had ceased forever. But no, they always commenced again; one report, another, and then several following in quick succession, or else a general crash, and she would again bury her head in the pillow.
Thus Ferende found her, and, shaking her by the shoulders, cried:
"Quick, Panayota, run, run! They are killing all the Christians in the world!"
"I want to die," cried the Cretan.
"They won't kill you—Kostakes' woman. And he may be here any minute."