The man on the couch rose totteringly, his hand on his servant’s shoulder. He was ghastly white, but his eye flashed and burned as it turned on those semi-barbaric invaders.
Gordon began to speak—not in the broader Romaic, but in their own mountain patois, a tongue he had not recalled since long years. The uncouth vocabulary, learned in his youthful adventurous journey for very lack of mental pabulum, had lain in some brain-corner to spring up now with the spontaneity of inspiration. At the first words they started, looked from one to another, their hands dropped from their weapons. His voice proceeded, gathering steel, holding them like bayonets.
“Am I then to abandon your land to its enemies, because of you, heads of clans, warriors born with arms in your hands, because you yourselves bring all effort to naught? For what do you look? Is it gold? The money I brought has purchased cannon and ammunition. It has furnished a fleet. It has cared for your sick and set rations before your men. Do you demand preferment? You are already chiefs, by birth and by election. Have I taken that away? Rank shall be yours—but do you hope to earn it idly in camp, or fighting as your fathers fought, like your own Botzaris, who fell for his country? Is it for yourselves you ask these things now, or is it for Greece?”
Of the staff-officers there gathered none knew the tongue in which he spoke. But they could guess what he was saying. They saw the rude chieftains cower before his challenge. Then, as he went on, under that magnetic gaze they saw the savage brows lighten, the fierce eyes soften and fall.
Gordon’s tone had lost its lash. His words dropped gently. He was speaking of those old days when he had slept beneath a Suliote tent and written songs of the freedom for which they now strove. The handful beside him had put up their swords. For a moment not only individual lives, but the fate of Greece itself had hung in the balance. They watched with curious intentness.
As the speaker paused, a burly chieftain, built like a tower, thrust up his hand and turned to the rest, speaking rapidly and with many gesticulations. He pointed to the rough couch, to the coarse fare on the table. The others answered with guttural ejaculations.
All at once he bared his breast, slashed it with his dagger, and touched knee to ground before Gordon’s feet. The rest followed his example. Each as he rose, saluted and passed out. Before a dozen had knelt, the rumble of wheels in the courtyard announced that the cannon were being dragged back to their places.
The last Suliote chief retired and Gordon’s hand fell from Fletcher’s shoulder. The headquarters’ surgeon broke the tension:
“His lordship must have quiet!” he warned.
The whiteness had been growing upon Gordon’s face. As the officers retired, he sank back upon the couch. Mavrocordato held brandy to his lips, but he shook his head.