"Come away, sister—the Turks! the Turks!"
But the woman shook her off and shrank from her and motioned her back with outstretched arms and uplifted palms, saying:
"Do not touch me!"
"But the Turks are upon you!"
"We who live in this village are not afraid of the Turks. Who comes here runs a greater danger than that of the knife."
"Yes, I know. Violence," whispered Panayota, turning her face toward the door and listening.
"Who would offer violence to a leper?"
If there is any horror in a Cretan girl's mind equal to that of dishonor it is the horror of leprosy—that hideous sore on the body of the loveliest siren isle that floats in any sea. Panayota, in her vigorous and life-giving mountain home, had heard leprosy spoken of as a curse of God. She had always classed it with the punishments of hell—something to be shuddered at even when mentioned; but the possibility of coming into contact with it had never entered her mind.
She turned to flee again into the darkness, when she heard in the street, almost before the door, the sound of footsteps, and husky, gargling voices talking Turkish. Panayota sank to the floor senseless. Two Mohammedan lepers, who lived farther down the street, passed by on their way home. They did not look in because Aglaia, stepping quietly over the prostrate form, had closed the door.