They seized his hand and kissed it. Women sobbed in an exaltation of faith. Mothers pressed the cross to the lips and foreheads of their wondering babes.
"The Virgin is our helper," they said.
"Christ and the Virgin be with you," responded the priest.
So he stood, his left hand lifted in blessing, his right extending the cross; stately in his flowing robes, calm in the dignity of his exalted message.
"Have courage, my children," he repeated, smiling benignly. "It came to me there in the mountains, like a voice from God. 'Ye are Christians; why do ye not call upon the God of hosts?'"
"Papa-Maleko!"
In an instant the whole congregation had turned and were looking towards the door. There stood a tall shepherd with a rifle in his hand. His face was blackened with powder and he seemed covered with blood.
"What is it? what is it?" shrieked a dozen voices.
"There is a terrible fight. Loukas and Spiro are killed—"
The words of the priest rang out clear and strong: