"No, I am a Sphakiote maiden. I was taken prisoner by the Turks, but now, thank God, I am escaping."
"You wouldn't happen to know Yussuf Effendi by sight, then?"
"No."
"Did any old Turk with a white beard pass here on a mule?"
"Not a soul; but I've only been on the road about half an hour. Why, who are you? What has Yussuf done? Where does he——"
"We're arresting the ringleaders in the massacre. Yussuf is one of them. I'm an interpreter with the English army. You can go back to Canea or anywhere you wish, sister, in perfect safety. It isn't healthy to be a Turk these days. Adio, and many thanks."
"Adio."
They were gone, and Panayota resumed her way. After an hour's walk through gardens and vineyards inclosed in low mud fences overgrown with vines, she came to the foot of a tiny hill. Climbing this, she saw plainly the triangular little village of the lepers, with its suburb of tombs—houses for the dying and the dead. The huts were all neatly whitewashed, and looked very peaceful and pretty against the foreground of green trees and vines. Farther away were the round Turkish mosques, the Christian bell towers of Canea, and the tops of high buildings rising above the gray walls. Two or three thin columns of smoke rose to a great height and bent lazily landwards.
Toward noon Panayota came to a mountain stream, beside which grew several fig trees. She climbed into one of these that forked near the ground and succeeded in finding half a dozen purple figs among the cool green leaves. Then she washed her face and hands in the brook and took the bread from the bag.
"Poor Aglaia! Poor Aglaia!" she said, shuddering. "Heavenly Virgin comfort her!"