"And--" she began; but now she glanced, seemingly for the first time, at my friends below. "You must come and tell me," she said; and with that she turned and disappeared from our gaze behind the battlements. I listened intently. No sound came from the wood that rose gray in the new light behind us. "What have you been doing?" demanded Denny, surlily; he had not enjoyed Euphrosyne's scornful attitude. "I have been running for my life," said I, "from the biggest scoundrels unhanged. Denny, make a guess who lives in that cottage." "Constantine?" "I don't mean him." "Not Vlacho--he's at the inn." "No, I don't mean Vlacho." "Who, then, man?" "Some one you've seen." "Oh, I give it up. It's not the time of day for riddles." "The lady who dined at the next table to us at the Optimum," said I. Denny jumped back in amazement, with a long, low whistle. "What, the one who was with Constantine?" he cried. "Yes," said I. "The one who was with Constantine." They were all three round me now; and, thinking that it would be better that they should know what I knew, and four lives instead of one stand between a ruffian and the impunity he hoped for, I raised my voice and went on in an emphatic tone: "Yes. She's there, and she's his wife." A moment's astonished silence greeted my announcement. It was broken by none of our party. But there came from the battlemented roof above us a low, long, mournful moan that made its way straight to my heart, armed with its dart of outraged pride and trust betrayed. It was not thus, boldly and abruptly, that I should have told my news. But I did not know that Euphrosyne was still above us, hidden by the battlements; nor had I known that she understood English. We all looked up. The moan was not repeated. Presently we heard slow steps retreating with a faltering tread across the roof; and we also went into the house in silence and sorrow. For a thing like that gets hold of a man; and when he has heard it, it's hard for him to sit down and be merry till the fellow that caused it has paid his reckoning--as I swore then and there that Constantine Stefanopoulos should pay his. CHAPTER VI. THE POEM OF ONE-EYED ALEXANDER.