THE VINTAGE
a moment looking after him, and then turned to go home.
Five minutes more brought Nicholas to the edge of the village where the three men whom Demetri had sent were waiting for him. One of them was a Greek servant, who held Nicholas's horse while he dismounted and changed his Albanian costume for a Turkish dress; the others were leaders of local movements against the Turks, and were going with him to Corinth. Like Nicholas himself, they all spoke Turkish.
Nicholas dressed himself quickly, but then stopped for a moment irresolute. Then—
"Take the horse on," he said to the servant. "I will go on foot awhile."
Mitsos meantime was walking quickly along the road back towards Argos. He would scarcely acknowledge to himself how very much he disliked the thought of taking that bridle-path through the woods, for the recollection he retained of that end of rope dangling from the tree, with the fragment of tunic fluttering in the breeze, and that heap of white stones glimmering among the bushes, was too vivid for his liking. Even his pony would have been companionable; but his pony, as he hoped, was near home by this time.
Once or twice he thought he heard movements and whispered rustlings in the bushes, which made his heart beat rather quicker than its wont. Ordinarily he would not have noticed such things, but the scene at the crossroad still twanged some string of horror within him.
However, the road must be trod, and keeping his eyes steadily averted—for like his race he held ghosts in aceredited horror—he marched with a show of courago past the spot, and began making his way down the rough bridle-path.
50
