They rose and walked together through the village until they reached its outskirts, where, coming upon a detached, terraced house where the old man lived, they parted. The old man closed the door behind him. The room into which he stepped straight from the street was large, but badly lit; it smelt stuffily of leeks. Lurching across the tiled floor, he reached a little stool on which he sat, his hands clasped in front of him, his head bent low. His lips moved, and he trembled with the ague of age.
Presently, feeling intolerably tired, he rose and shambled to a rug lying in a corner. Casting himself upon this, he was soon asleep; dreams came trooping to him, dreams of hatred of Stephanie Miniati who was taking his dear son from him. How he loved Orosdi of the lazy smile, Orosdi whose shoulders were so strong, Orosdi who could be as tender as a woman, and as faithless.
* * *
The sun had already set when Orosdi went forth from Langaza to see his love at Ajvatli, and he pulled his body together sensually as he trod the long, white road. Frogs splashed and croaked in the ditches, nightingales sang, a big moon stared. But he cared for none of these things. The world to him was one woman: a woman whose kisses were fierce, and whose clasp would not let him go.
His mood was a little bitter and cruel. Stephanie had played with him too long. She would not marry him and she would not let him.... What was the use of a love like that? It was not that she was virtuous: she was simply afraid? After all, why shouldn’t she marry him? Her old lover had been dead these years, and there was no reason for her ridiculous clinging to his memory. It was true, she had been the cause of his death, for he had given his life to Langaza Lake in attempting to save her from drowning. But that was an accident: a happy accident.... He smiled grimly.
But to-night he would bring the business of his passionate courting to a head. The thing was wearing him out. His robust body was failing him. To clasp and kiss ... to clasp and kiss and never really love! That was play for children.
He quickened his pace and passed through the outskirts of Ajvatli. The crooked village was full of black shadows, and even to him who was familiar with them, the twisting, inconsequent streets were like a maze; nevertheless, Orosdi could without difficulty have found his way blindfolded to Stephanie’s house. His nearest way there lay past the central inn, outside which many men were sitting, drinking. For a moment the young farmer hesitated; then, calling for a bottle of mavrodaphne, he flung himself down in a chair and peered around him to see if he could discern the face of Stephanie’s father by the light of the one lamp that hung outside the inn. Several acquaintances greeted him: he replied to them curtly, almost insolently. Miniati was away, they told him. He had set out for Seres in the afternoon, and would not return for nearly a week.
He grunted his satisfaction, uncorked his bottle, poured out a glass of wine, and slowly drank the sweet intoxicant. Almost at once he felt its stimulating effect; it fired him and his passion, and, with a gesture of impatience, he rose and made his way to Stephanie’s house. Having arrived there, he knocked, but there was no reply. He tapped with a stick on the high window, but no one came.
“Blast!” he whispered between his teeth.
“And don’t you know where she is?” asked a voice behind him.