"Courage, courage, my children," he says; "when God is with us who can be against us? Christ is fighting for us and the Holy Virgin and all the saints. Courage, courage." They seized his hand and kissed it. Women sobbed in an exaltation of faith. Mothers pressed the cross to the lips and foreheads of their wondering babes. "The Virgin is our helper," they said. "Christ and the Virgin be with you," responded the priest. So he stood, his left hand lifted in blessing, his right extending the cross; stately in his flowing robes, calm in the dignity of his exalted message. "Have courage, my children," he repeated, smiling benignly. "It came to me there in the mountains, like a voice from God. 'Ye are Christians; why do ye not call upon the God of hosts?'" "Papa-Maleko!" In an instant the whole congregation had turned and were looking towards the door. There stood a tall shepherd with a rifle in his hand. His face was blackened with powder and he seemed covered with blood. "What is it? what is it?" shrieked a dozen voices. "There is a terrible fight. Loukas and Spiro are killed--" The words of the priest rang out clear and strong: "Our God is a very present help--courage, my children!" "My left arm is broken. The Turks got on top of the hill, where the girls were, but the girls all jumped off, laughing. All killed, Paraskeve, Elene, Maria--" The speaker's voice was drowned in a pandemonium of shrieks and sobs. But again the priest was heard, reverently, distinctly, firmly, like the voice of Christ calming the waters. "They are with Christ in paradise. Still I say unto you, courage. Since God is with us who shall stand against us?" "Panayota was with them, but her dress caught in a thorn bush, and before she could tear herself loose the Turks had her." Every eye in the church was riveted upon the priest. The cross rattled to the floor, and his arm dropped to his side. His lips were white and there was a terrible look in the large brown eyes. "Panayota! Panayota!" he called hoarsely. His voice sounded far away now. Suddenly he tore off his sacred vestments and flung them in a heap on the floor. Striding to the wounded shepherd, he snatched the gun from his hand. Looking from the window, Curtis saw him running toward the hills, his long hair streaming on the wind. The flock poured out after him and the American was sitting in the deserted house of God, gazing at a pile of sacred robes and muttering stupidly: "Panayota! Panayota!" CHAPTER XIII THE BRAVE THING TO DO "Hark!" said Curtis, who was sitting in the door of the parsonage. "What's that?" "I didn't hear anything," replied Michali. "I did. I believe it was a gun. It was a faint throb in the air. There it goes again. There they go!" No mistake was possible this time. "They're coming through," said Michali, rising upon his elbow. "The Turks will be here pretty quick, now, I think."