"Differences of opinion are found even in such small hamlets as ours," he said, with a trace of sadness. "Those are here—those who might carry word ahead of your coming."
"You know best, I guess," said Fenton, endeavouring to accept the priest's dictum with as little impatience as possible. "But how can I stay here when I know she is in danger—that every minute counts?"
"It's common sense, though, Fenton," broke in Crane. "I've lived in the country long enough to know that you've got to keep your business strictly to yourself. In a matter of this kind you can't be too cautious. If you want to be of real assistance in this matter you'll have to keep cool for a few hours."
Fenton, who had risen during the discussion, sat down again. The kindly priest laid a wrinkled hand on his arm with a gesture that was almost a benediction.
"Listen, my son," he said. "By this time she whose safety we all wish above everything else in the world far away has been carried. A man of God who has brought the message to our people for fifty years, has baptised the children, married the young people and shriven the dying, knows much that goes on of which he cannot speak. A guide I know who will take you where the Princess Olga is, and also he will lead you to where is found Take Larescu."
"Larescu!" cried Crane in so loud a tone that the priest glanced anxiously around and laid a warning finger on his lips. "You mean the famous leader of the brigands, the king of the hills, the man who defies any authority but his own, but who volunteered under another name and fought in the Ironian army as a private all through the Turkish War?"
The priest answered him in guarded tones, but with an inflection of pride that no need for caution could subdue.
"Take Larescu is great patriot, great warrior, great friend of my people, the poor peasants," he said. "Larescu has fought the rich nobles, he has robbed and, God forgive him, has killed. He has sinned much, but his good deeds are as the trees in the great forest. When the war for the lost land comes Larescu will be at the front of battle. He is wise, he knows much of the great world. He can save our princess, young sir. To Larescu must you go first."
"The people who live in the mountains are almost a different race from the rest of the people of Ironia," explained Crane to Fenton. "They're a wild lot, with a gipsy strain in them. The government of Ironia has completely failed to impose any legal restraints on them. They have their own customs, their own laws, and a chief who rules them as absolutely as any king that ever lived. But if war breaks out they'll go and fight for Ironia to a man. And, Lord, how they can fight! Their chief, Take Larescu, is a giant who can take on any three ordinary men. I've heard stories of the wonderful things he has done that you wouldn't believe, but which I know are more than half true. Larescu is a combination of Theseus and Robin Hood, with a dash of D'Artagnan thrown in. If our host can enlist his sympathies the rescue of the lost princess will develop into a pleasant little picnic party."
The three men sat around the table and conversed in low tones as the shades of evening settled down, the priest chaining the interest of his guests with tales of Ironia's turbulent history, stories of Turkish oppression, of wars fought for liberty, of feudal strife and internecine struggle. In broken phrases that somehow embraced a graphic power of vivid portrayal, he told the life story of a down-trodden people only now groping on the threshold of nationhood.