"Na!" said Souleima, unscrewing the top of the mill and looking inside, "that will be enough, I think. We'll have a cup of coffee first, and then some dinner, out here under the tree. Look at those fish. Did you ever see finer _barbounia_? What do you think I paid an _oke_ for them?" "Ninety _paradhes_," suggested Ayesha. "Only eighty. I bought them of a Greek. Ferende, clean them, that's a good girl, while I make a cup of coffee." "Clean them yourself. I shall tell the Effendi of these insults when he comes, and he will make you suffer for them." "Poor Ferende!" cackled Souleima. "He will take off those silk trousers and put them on Panayota. But you shouldn't complain now that your turn has come. Better people than you have been through the same thing." "If you ever went through it," snapped Ferende, "it was so long ago you can't remember it," and rising disdainfully, she walked into the house. Souleima raised the coffee mill as though to hurl it after her, and then thinking better of the act, let her hand fall to her side. "Maybe she'll be able to warm Kostakes over again," she reflected aloud. "I don't believe it," replied Ayesha. "He's crazy about this Greek. I never saw him like this before." "Then why does he----" "I don't know. Perhaps he wants the girl to love him." "Bah! She'll love him fast enough after he breaks her spirit." Souleima filled a long-handled brass dipper from the hydrant and put into the water the coffee, ground fine as dust, together with four teaspoonfuls of sugar. Then, screening her face with her left hand, she kneeled in front of the fire and held the dipper in the coals until its contents boiled over. Ayesha lifted the smoking cylinder from the crotches and, shaking it violently for a moment, set it up against the side of the house. "Shall I bring two cups or three?" she called from the door of the kitchen. "Only two. Let Ferende make her own coffee." "Hadn't I better call her?" "You'll only get insulted if you do. The nasty cat!" CHAPTER XXVI A HOPELESS PRISONER Panayota was walking to and fro in a room whose one window looked straight against the blank wall of a house not ten feet distant. A grating of iron bars prevented her escape in that direction and the door was locked. She was very pale and there were deep circles under her eyes. She was muttering as one distracted. Occasionally she raised her eyes and hands to heaven. "Dear little Virgin, all Holy One, save me from this infamy, from the pollution of the Turk. Save me in any way, help me to escape or to die!" After each prayer she stood listening, as though waiting for an immediate response--some miraculous intervention in her behalf. Often seized by utter despair, she sank her fingers deep into her thick brown locks, and cried: "No help, no help, O God! O God!"