"They are killing him," she said. And then, "What are you doing here?"
Louis put down his pencil, and leaning out of the window, which was on a level with the street, he watched the scene a little while in silence.
"By God!" he cried at last; "they're singeing the old man's beard. Listen to that."
They listened and heard a harrowing sound, neither cry nor scream, but the wail as of a cat mewing. Twenty Turks had "Old Pop" in their midst; they had torn his clothes from his back and cut off his nose. Now some of them brought naphtha and poured it on his head, and instantly he became a vomit of flame. [1] Every feature of the wretched man could be seen with horrid distinctness, clarified by the fire. The flesh withered up before their eyes. He stood for a long minute plucking at his own flesh with hands of which but the bones were left. Then, all his cries ceased, and he fell forward in a ghastly heap, while the Turks howled derisively and thrust scimitars into the fire. They had burned many a priest these latter days, but this fellow was famous, and had fought many a good fight for Ranovica. His death stimulated a frenzy of lust and madness, and they rushed away to enter the houses and drive out the women. All the make-believe of a military occupation had been put aside by this time. Alussein had led them across the mountains to teach these Christians a lesson, and they were good masters.
[ [1] The incident here described is taken almost unchanged from the recent story of Macedonia.
Maryska heard the priest's cries, but she did not see the manner of his death. Had it not happened so swiftly and with such dramatic finality, the men would have made some stir to save him; but, as though guessing their intention, a group of soldiers with rifles across their arms pressed about the window, and made it very clear that they would shoot upon next to no provocation at all. Alussein Pasha had ridden on at this time to the lower road overlooking Scutari, and would return when the good work was done. He would declare that the villagers had brought it all on themselves, and his report would be a model of tearful orthodoxy. Meanwhile, there were very few of the male inhabitants to bring anything upon anybody; the women alone remained, and they were dragged from their houses, some by the hair of their heads, some forced by thrust of swords, a few going without protest, as though they dreamed. Of the latter were the younger girls, mere children of fourteen or fifteen years, who stood in a little group before the priest's house, and looked at the soldiers, uncertain—nay, ignorant—of their meaning. Maryska saw these anon; and Louis also. He had been chewing his cigarette very busily since the priest died, and there were few lines upon the paper. As for Faber, he merely stood motionless by the window. The scene held him spellbound with an influence he knew to be evil.
"What have they done with the priest? Why do you not answer me, Mr. Faber?"
She touched him upon the arm, and he looked down upon a child's face from which a woman's eyes stared up at him wonderingly. What answer could he make to her?
"You must just run away and think nothing about it, Maryska," he said quietly. "We can none of us do anything. I wish to God we could."
"Are you not going to speak for the children, then?"