Zoe had heard this, and it was with something of unholy satisfaction that she witnessed Eirene’s unavailing struggles to conceal the agony the boy’s voice and movements caused her. He should have a treat to-day, she told herself, and be a real child for once, not the unconscious inheritor of strife-provoking dynastic claims.
“Such a big bastick, Auntie Zoe!” he exclaimed, dragging towards her one of the baskets used by the lay-brethren of the monastery when they made foraging expeditions down to Skandalo; “and steward has given me a lot of little cakes, all tied up in leaves.”
“Paper havin’ run short, ma’am,” said the cook, appearing from his sanctum at the end of the gallery; “but I thought maybe you’d like to take some lunch with you.”
“Thank you, steward; it’s a very good idea. Oh, Con, what a lovely walk we will have! Now gently, so as not to wake poor mamma.”
They crept down the steps and out at the gate, Constantine saluting the monk who kept watch there in his own tongue, and receiving a blessing in return, then out along the rocky path. There was no need for a guard to-day, as the walk lay within the region constantly patrolled by the insurgents, and Zoe felt extraordinarily free and happy, in marked contrast with the gloom that had oppressed her the night before. She carried the basket, and Constantine was absolutely obedient, holding her hand and walking on the inside when the path was narrow. As she answered his endless questions she scoffed mentally at Eirene’s fears. What harm could befall the child on such a day?
Descending the hills in the direction of the sea, they came in sight of the bay of Ephestilo, with Wylie and his motley force hard at work. Zoe and her nephew stood for some time watching, fascinated, the stealthy entrance of a boat through the opening in the reef, and its reception by riflemen posted at various points. Wylie was marking the different ranges covered by the course the boat must take, and was so deeply occupied that Zoe would not allow Constantine to run down and disturb him, even to ask what was that funny thing he had in his hand? why did the boat come in so slowly? why did the men only pretend to fire? and a score of other whats and whys. They tore themselves away at last, and walked on over the short turf of the cliffs to the next bay, which presented a very different aspect from that of Ephestilo, with its village of fishermen’s huts clustered on the slope, and boats drawn up on the shore. Here there was only one hut, built of rough limestone blocks and sods of turf, and looking as uninviting as the reputed character of its occupant, a solitary man who had once been a fisherman of Ephestilo. He had done, or been suspected of doing, something that cut him off for ever from the society of his kind. What it was Zoe had never been able to find out exactly, but she gathered that it was some service to the Roumi authorities, who had been able to protect him from the vengeance of his fellows until it gradually became clear that his lonely and blasted existence was a stronger deterrent against following his example than even his death would have been. No smoke rose from the roof of Janni’s abode as Zoe and the child went by it at a distance, Constantine holding tightly to his aunt’s hand, for he had somehow picked up the prevalent idea of the ill-omened nature of the spot. But the cottage once passed, all was enchantment, for the face of this cliff was broken away in the most fascinating manner, hollows full of rich grass and flowers alternating with bare faces of limestone rock. From here the sea looked so close that one might have believed the gradual slope extended to the beach itself, but Zoe knew well that about half-way down it broke off suddenly, encircling the bay with sheer cliffs and isolated needles of rock.
“Don’t run on in front, Con. Wait for me!” she called, noticing that the space of turf they were treading was crossed in various directions by footmarks, as if it was trodden not infrequently by some one who was yet careful not to make a path. It seemed as though Janni must have some eyrie in the cliffs, some look-out post where he spent his solitary days, and she was by no means anxious to come upon him suddenly. Constantine came back at her call, and in another moment she was able to reward him by showing him that what he had acclaimed as an insect was in reality a flower. Thenceforward she had no more anxiety as to his wandering in advance. His patience was admirable, and his method thorough. Every hollow to which they came must be absolutely cleared of orchises before he would consent to go on to another, and all the while his little tongue kept up a dropping fire of questions on the natural history of flowers and bees. Working their way steadily downwards, they came at length to a spot so thick with blossoms that even Constantine’s energy flagged in contemplating it, and he suggested sitting down to consider where it would be best to begin. This seemed a suitable moment for bringing out the steward’s provision of cakes, and when they had been consumed Constantine set to work like a giant refreshed. Zoe was glad to see him happily occupied, for she had caught sight of a ledge a little way farther down, on which the flowers seemed to be of quite a different variety. It was easy for her to reach it, but the descent would not be very safe for her nephew, and she meant to attempt it alone.
Scrambling down, and tearing her gown in the process, she was rather disgusted to find that the flowers were merely overblown specimens of the kind she had been picking all morning, but when she sat down to pin up the hanging braid, she found that she was rewarded for her trouble by an exquisite view of the entrance to the bay. The water was very blue in the noontide stillness, and the cliffs rose straight from it with a curious effect of being painted in different shades of white. She was mentally cataloguing them when her attention was attracted by something moving at the base of the headland on the left—the one remote from the direction of Ephestilo. Scarcely able to believe her eyes, she watched narrowly, and saw that it was a boat—a boat creeping into the bay, as close under the cliffs as the depth of water would allow. The evident wish of the occupants for secrecy, and the curious fact that they should be rowing hard at a time of day when all the fisher population were enjoying their siesta, struck her as suspicious, and she ran over the probabilities hastily in her mind. It could hardly be a Roumi raid, for what could one boatful of men do? Perhaps it was a boat from the fleet, examining the bay to see if it afforded any landing-place that would need to be watched in view of the blockade. Secure in her conviction of the inaccessibility of her perch, she sat watching the boat, until she saw a glass turned upon her, and realised that her white gown must be clearly visible against the grass on which she was sitting. Then astonishment seized her, for she distinctly saw a man in the boat take up a gun and aim it in her direction, but it was pushed down by another, and he did not fire.
Zoe was very angry. Whether the people in the boat were fishermen, as their caps seemed to show, or sailors from the fleet in some attempt at disguise, they had no right to try and frighten inoffensive females who were merely looking at them. Well, she was not going to be frightened. She would remain where she was, and do her best to find out who these intruders might be. When the boat passed beneath her, she must hear their voices, for even at this distance the sound of the oars was audible in the clear air, and it would be hard if she could not distinguish what language they were speaking. It was out of sight now, and she sat and waited, fixing her eyes on a tall needle of rock which rose up close to her platform, and looked as though it had once formed part of it, but was now, as she found by crawling to the edge and looking over, separated from it right down to the water-level, as if by one straight, clean cut. The sound of voices was so long in coming that at last she grew tired of waiting, and, taking off her hat lest it should be seen, she lay down and peered through the grass that fringed the edge of the hollow—then drew back with a feeling of absolute suffocation, as if the blood had all ebbed from her heart and rushed to her throat. The men had landed, landed there below her, where no landing-place existed, and one of them was beginning to work his way up between the needle and the cliff, as though the fissure was a “chimney” in the Alps. The boat, with two men in it, one of whom had a gun, was rowing out again, evidently to keep her in sight, lest she should escape before the climber reached her.
Zoe drew back, sat up, and mechanically pinned on her hat again. Her lips were saying hurriedly, “I must be calm. I must keep cool,” even while voices seemed to fill the air, crying “Constantine! Constantine!” She had brought him into danger, and she must save him, even if it cost her own life. “Con!” she called gently, for fear of attracting the attention of the men below; “Con, can you hear me?”