“I don’t know,” he said, miserably.
She looked at him with eyes of compassion, took him in her arms and kissed him.
A few days later she called again, and passed the money into his pocket, unobserved.
“Don’t get yourself into worse trouble than you are in now, mon p’tit,” she said, her eyes full of tears.
He took the notes to Aristides, retaining five hundred drachmæ for himself, of which he told Aristides nothing.
“I have brought you the money,” he said.
Aristides’ small eyes almost disappeared into his head with greed and cunning.
“Do not give me it now,” he said; “many eyes are upon us. That swine of a sentry is looking. Wait until we go to bed.”
And he turned on his heel and began walking disdainfully to and fro.
Now, at the time of which I am writing, the sentry on duty over the prisoners in the Citadel was relieved every two hours. By day there was only one sentry; by night there were two—one in the “compound,” one on the gallery above. Against one of these men Aristides nursed a fanatical hatred. They had known each other for a long time; indeed, they were both from the same mountain village; but they had not met for many years. Critias had married the girl Aristides loved, and though she was now dead and Critias had come down in the world, nevertheless Aristides’ hatred had flamed anew at sight of his old enemy. Nor had Critias wished for a reconciliation; on the contrary, he had sought every opportunity to revile and taunt Aristides in his state of bondage. Aristides had sworn to have revenge on the sentry before he left the prison, and so near was his hatred and so dear was the thought of vengeance, that he could not persuade himself to attempt to escape until he had done his worst against his old enemy.